Julia, page 26
“Where did you buy all this?” Simca asked with awe.
“I brought some things from America,” Julia said, “but the rest I acquired here.”
Simca nodded and took a few more steps into the kitchen, then examined one of the shelves double-stacked with cookbooks. “Wonderful,” she murmured, then turned to face Julia, her eyes bright. “Let’s sit; I have much to say.”
Julia served drinks and dished up the chocolate mousse.
Simca took one bite and said, “Excellent.”
Julia soon learned that Simca was friendly, direct, and full of ideas—much like herself—and she was pleased to feel such comradeship with this woman.
“Now, our cookbook that failed in America received very little promotion. Nevertheless, we have great hopes for our newly expanded cookbook. It even has a title.”
Julia felt like she was breathlessly waiting for the secret of life to be revealed.
“French Cooking for All,” Simca said. “What do you think?”
Not exactly unique, but Julia smiled. “It’s definitely inclusive.”
“Oh.” Simca grasped Julia’s arm. “And we’re self-publishing our own cookbook in a couple of months called What’s Cuisine in France, which contains fifty recipes for Americans. But we need it translated into English.”
Julia nodded.
“Perhaps you could help? Not with the translation but with reading it through after the translation . . .” Simca paused. “Since you’re an American who is equally passionate and talented in French cooking. But mostly, we’d like to run some recipes by you for our cookbook with Ives Washburn.”
Julia’s heart felt like it would gallop out of her chest. Imagine! She had never thought of helping with a cookbook, but here was an opportunity to do just that. And with two Frenchwomen who were experts.
“You must meet Louisette, my . . . how would you say it? Sidekick?” Simca said. “She travels to America often and stays in Georgia with her uncle. She loves all things American.”
“I’d love to meet Louisette,” Julia said immediately. “After our trip, I’ll come to the next Gourmette luncheon.”
“Wonderful. And you must tell your husband that while we Gourmettes are meeting for lunch, the husbands also gather.” Simca took a sip of her drink. “They call themselves les Princes Consorts Abandonés.”
Julia had to laugh at that, and she knew Paul would be equally delighted.
The next couple of months sped by as they traveled to the States, visited friends and family, and attended Dort’s wedding. All the while, Julia thought about Simca’s invitation to help with a cookbook. She didn’t know if it would go so far as getting her name on the cover, but she wasn’t too worried about that. She was just thrilled to be invited.
Once they returned to Paris, it was an odd realization, feeling like she’d returned home. She very much looked forward to her first Gourmettes luncheon. Simca greeted her warmly, and introduced her around, most specifically to Louisette. Julia’s first impression of Louisette was that the woman was vivacious and warm. She seemed overjoyed to meet Julia, and she gushed about American sports, citing statistics that Paul probably didn’t even know. She spoke excellent English.
“Oh, don’t look so surprised at my fluent English,” Louisette said. “I had an English governess as a child. Now, what’s this about Simca saying you might help us with our cookbook?”
“I’m very interested,” Julia said truthfully.
“That is indeed good news,” Louisette said. “There’s no reason a French cookbook can’t sell well in America. You know that after the war, all of your American soldiers returned home from France spoiled with our food.”
Julia understood completely. “My own husband was spoiled when he lived here in the twenties. He shared some memories about French food while we were working for the OSS in China.”
Louisette gave a knowing nod, adjusting one of her earrings. “French food is impossible to forget, so why shouldn’t the best food in the world be available in America too?”
“I don’t see any reason why that shouldn’t be the case.” Julia sobered then. “I have to be honest, I didn’t know food could taste so wonderful until I came to France. The fresh markets add to the experience because I can shop daily for fresh ingredients. In America, I ate vegetables from a can.”
Both Louisette and Simca shuddered, then they all laughed.
Louisette looked at Simca. “Have you told her about the cooking class idea?”
Julia’s brows popped up.
Simca’s smile remained in place. “We want to open a cooking school. Nothing too formal—it will be held at one of our houses. Teaching Americans how to cook French food. None of the stuffy lessons found at Le Cordon Bleu.”
“And you think I should be an instructor?” Julia asked, feeling both flattered and intimidated.
“You’re wonderful with people, and your cooking reputation is excellent,” Simca gushed. “We’d all teach together. The students will get the best of all three of our viewpoints.”
“And you can keep Simca on track,” Louisette said. “She might claim she’s following a recipe, but I’ve never seen her actually do it. Once she’s finished, who knows what she put into her tournedos sautés chasseur?”
Simca gave a good-natured sigh. “Fine. You will both keep me in check.”
“Now,” Louisette said, linking arms with Julia. “We will meet several times a week and discuss the recipes we want for our cooking class.”
Julia blinked. “I haven’t exactly agreed yet.”
Both women looked at her expectantly.
“All right. I will teach classes with you. Do you know when you want to start?”
Louisette waved a hand in dismissal. “We’ll figure that out together.”
“Let’s meet tomorrow,” Simca said. “Is that too soon? We’ll cook up a storm for our husbands. See how we all get along in the kitchen while we make plans.”
“Where should we meet?” Julia asked immediately.
“Your place,” Louisette said. “You have everything a cook would ever need, and I’m planning a renovation for mine.”
“I do have everything,” Julia said. “Oh, by the way, I’ve officially graduated from Le Cordon Bleu. I received my diploma in the mail.”
Simca gasped. “I thought you failed the exam?”
“I thought I had, too, but the date on the diploma is stated before I even took the exam,” Julia said. “I suppose Madame Brassart wanted me to stop patronizing her school.”
Louisette’s eyes lit up. “She wanted to be rid of you?”
“Something like that,” Julia mused.
“Perhaps that is true,” Simca said. “But she also couldn’t deny your talent, so she gave you what you earned.”
The following days and weeks were like a dream for Julia. She’d entered into back-and-forth letter writing with a woman named Avis DeVoto, who lived in Cambridge, Massachusetts. Her husband was Bernard DeVoto, who’d written those diatribes on dull knives, but Avis had been the one to respond to Julia’s letters. Julia had been so impressed and charmed by the woman’s reply, which had not only thanked her for the knife but also reminisced about the time she’d spent in Paris, that Julia had written again. Avis was fascinating and wasn’t afraid to state her opinion or become involved in causes important to her. Julia considered her a true Renaissance woman.
Also, Julia was tickled with her growing friendship with Louisette and Simca. A few times a week, the women arrived at her place with groceries in hand, and they spent hours together creating meals and adjusting recipes. They all agreed that they didn’t want their class recipes to be full of the classic French food served in restaurants, but their recipes would be more reminiscent of family dishes one would prepare in the home, although still refined and excellent.
“We’ll use my kitchen for the classes,” Louisette said one afternoon as they sat together in a salon overlooking rue de l’Université. “The kitchen renovation is coming along, and it will be more spacious.”
“Excellent,” Julia said. “We should teach the class in English to set us apart from Le Cordon Bleu.”
When Simca began to protest, Julia said, “We’re teaching Americans, and we’ll have more students if we offer the classes in English.”
Simca and Louisette exchanged glances, but both agreed.
“I’ll post an ad in the Embassy News,” Julia continued. “The families of the government employees will all see it—and we should get students that way.”
“Excellent idea,” Simca said, adjusting her glasses.
“Paul has access to an army discount on food staples,” Julia added, “so we can get some things for a lower price than at the markets. What do you think?”
“I like it,” Louisette said. “What should we charge for the classes?”
After some discussion, they agreed on 600 francs per lesson, which included eating what was prepared during the lesson.
The months of autumn sped past as the three women continued putting together their class curriculum. Small irritations crept in when the women had differences of opinion on measurements or ingredients, but Julia was able to hash them out with her co-cooks. Simca was an expert in desserts and pastries. And Julia would have to say she was most confident in fish, sauces, and meats—like she’d been taught by Chef Bugnard.
Their first class took place on January 23, 1952, and ended up in Julia’s kitchen at Roo de Loo after all. The renovation on Louisette’s kitchen continued dragging out. They’d decided on two sessions a week for two hours each, and they’d finish it with a lunch at 1:00 p.m. By that time, Paul would join them and educate everyone in the art of pairing wine with a meal. He carried out his one culinary duty with a flourish. And, of course, he was also on cleanup duty.
Julia soon learned that although Louisette was a wonderful cook and could pull anything off beautifully, she never used exact measurements. She was what Julia considered a “romantic” cook, whereas Julia and Simca were more organized and wanted to get details correct so that other cooks could accurately duplicate recipes. But Louisette was the originator of the idea to teach Americans how to cook French dishes, and she had an extensive network of social contacts.
“Come in, come in,” Julia said, ushering the students into her apartment on a winter-cold day. The three American women, Mrs. Martha Gibson, Mrs. Mary Ward, and Mrs. Gertrude Allison bustled into the space and then ooh-ed and ahh-ed over the kitchen setup. Everyone was introduced all around, and Julia began to explain what was on the menu. Then she planned to start with some of the basics—just as Chef Bugnard had done at Le Cordon Bleu.
But Simca had other ideas, followed by Louisette jumping in and taking over.
Julia realized they’d never actually planned out who would instruct which portions, and now they were talking over each other. It wasn’t like each of them couldn’t teach on their own, but they all had different emphasis and order of what they did when. Was it really necessary to learn how to properly slice vegetables in the first hour? Julia thought so, but her friends didn’t.
Somehow, they were able to hobble through the first lesson, and after their students left and Paul returned to his office, Simca faced both of them, hands on her hips.
“Something is wrong with your oven, Julia,” Simca announced, her voice tight with frustration. “It’s too large and bulky—it’s like a monster. I put in my perfect pie, and the crust crumbles like a stack of pebbles knocked over by a toddler.”
Julia winced. That had been a letdown during the class. Simca had made hundreds of pies—and Julia had been a witness and taste-tester of many of them. They’d all been more than perfect, except for today.
“The temperature was regulated,” Julia defended. “We checked it constantly.” She looked to Louisette for help, who thankfully nodded.
“We did check the temperature,” Louisette said. “It must be something else.”
The three women fell into a tense silence. Finally, Julia began to rummage through the ingredients, examining each one that had gone into the pie. She didn’t want to criticize Simca’s method of not measuring in advance. Sure, she’d made hundreds of successful pies, but she had the habit of not following her own recipes.
Julia picked up the flour sack—Gold Medal flour—from the States that they’d bought in bulk with the army discount. Then her gaze shifted to the flour she’d bought the week before at the market—the flour she usually used when cooking for her own personal use. “It’s the flour,” Julia said in a thoughtful tone.
“What about the flour?” Simca asked, her voice strained.
Julia held up the sack. “American flour contains additives to extend its shelf life. The natural fats are processed out so that weevils can’t survive.”
“You’re right,” Louisette said, turning her gaze to Simca. “I’ve had many pastry fails in America when not using my French flour.”
The women all stared at each other, then Simca clapped her hands. “Then I have not lost my touch and forgotten my roots?”
“Not at all,” Julia said.
“I need to make a pie, right now,” Simca said, reaching for her apron again. “Whatever else you have planned, change it. I need to prove that your theory is right.”
The women settled around the table while Simca began making another crust, this time with French flour. It was a joy to watch her work, although more concerns plagued Julia’s mind. While it was wonderful to have discovered the problem with Simca’s piecrust, it also revealed that all their pastry recipes they’d tested with French flour for Simca’s and Louisette’s cookbook would now need to be altered and recalibrated for American cooks.
Simca’s pie turned out perfect—a delicious, golden-brown crust that flaked and melted in their mouths.
“Oh, here’s something that will cheer us up more,” Louisette said, smiling like a satisfied cat. “Irma Rombauer will be visiting in July.”
“Oh.” Julia was truly surprised. Irma Rombauer was the author of Joy of Cooking, the cookbook Julia had relied upon when she’d been newly married. “Can I meet her?”
Louisette tilted her head, eyes bright. “Bien sûr. I want my best friends with me. She’ll be delighted to hear all about our class. But first, you must meet Maurice Edmond Sailland.”
Julia didn’t know if she could take more good news. “Oh, I would love to.”
Maurice Sailland, or known by his pen name, Prince Curnonsky, was an icon in France. As the coauthor of the thirteen-volume La France Gastronomique, he had encyclopedic knowledge of the history of French cooking. He’d taught one of the demonstration afternoon sessions at Le Cordon Bleu as a guest chef, and Julia had been awed by his skill.
When the meeting was agreed upon, Julia went with Louisette and Simca to Curnonsky’s home at 14 Place Henri Bergson, and to Julia’s surprise, Curnonsky greeted them wearing his pajamas and bathrobe. He made no apologies or excuses but simply ushered them in.
Julia was taller than his six-foot frame, which had grown rounded with the years. His pale-blue gaze was sharp—almost bird-like—which only matched his intellect. Julia knew she should feel intimidated to be personally meeting Curnonsky, a well-known reporter and food critic as well as a prolific author, but he was immediately welcoming.
His personality filled the entire flat, and he regaled them with story after story—some of them very fantastical. But he had them all laughing until Julia’s sides ached. When he told them about his cookbook that would be coming out in January 1953, which he called Cuisine et Vins de France, the conversation turned to Simca’s and Louisette’s publishing endeavors.
“Bring me a copy of your cookbook,” Curnonsky boomed. “I’d love to read it.”
“Of course,” Simca said, her eyes dancing with excitement.
Curnonsky shifted his bulk and leaned forward. “We all must agree that good cooking is when things taste of what they are.”
“Yes,” Julia said. “I’ve had to learn that the simpler the recipe, the better it tastes.”
Curnonsky slapped his knee. “Exactly. I knew that’s why I liked you.”
Julia laughed, and Curnonsky joined in. She liked this spirited elderly man very much. She’d never thought that the world of cooking would bring her into such circles of wonderful people who became good friends. But here she was, a front-seat witness.
Another highlight came when, on July 4, Julia met Irma Rombauer. Julia’s first impression was that she was a very personable, no-frills woman in her seventies.
When the discussion turned to the cookbook that Simca and Louisette had published in America, Irma said, “You have to be careful of publishers. They’ll try to weasel you out of royalties. Did you know that my publisher owes me royalties for over 50,000 copies? They keep giving me the runaround.”
She turned a stern gaze to Louisette. “Don’t let that happen with Ives Washburn. Make sure you demand a complete breakdown of book sales.”
“We will.”
The talk turned to royalties and advances, something that Julia realized she had a lot to learn about.
“You know, I self-published Joy of Cooking in 1931,” Irma said. “I was desperate at the time to do something with my life. My husband died by suicide in February 1930.” She drew in a breath, her eyes reddening with tears. “The stock market had crashed a few months before, and I was now a widow at fifty-two years old, with no job.”
Louisette handed over a tissue to their new friend.
“I decided to write a cookbook, and I used some of my savings to print 3,000 copies. The original title was Joy of Cooking: A Compilation of Reliable Recipes, with a Casual Culinary Chat.” She lifted her brows. “A. C. Clayton Company printed the book, even though they’d never printed a book before.”
