Julia, page 27
“Was it successful from the beginning?” Simca asked.
“It took about a year to get the first 2,000 copies sold,” Irma said with nonchalance. “My daughter Marion helped get copies into bookstores and gift shops. It seemed the number-one compliment was not the recipes themselves but my style of adding advice and anecdotes throughout the book.”
“That’s what I enjoy too,” Julia burst out, “in addition to the recipes,” she corrected.
Everyone laughed.
“It makes cooking feel more friendly,” Louisette said. “Most of us are alone in the kitchen when preparing a meal, so having the cookbook written in such a personable way makes me feel like I’m cooking with a friend.”
“You are a dear.” Irma reached over and patted Louisette’s hand. “Now you know why I stopped over in Paris to visit on my way to Germany.”
Julia came away from her meeting with Irma feeling inspired—inspired to be a better instructor at their cooking school.
Chapter 26
Paris, France
August–November 1952
“I had been wrestling with the subject of butter in sauces when Paul took me to a little bistro way over on the Right Bank, off the Avenue Wagram, called Chez la Mère Michel. The Michels were extremely friendly and forthcoming, and during a lull, the chef invited us into her kitchen to show us how she made her famous sauce in a brown enameled saucepan on an old household-type stove. I paid careful attention to how she boiled the acidic base down to a syrupy glaze, then creamed tablespoon-sized lumps of cold butter into it over very low heat. When we sat down to eat a carefully poached turbot crowned with a generous dollop of beurre blanc we found it stunningly delicious.”
—Julia Child
“Our editor has left the publishing company,” Simca announced one day in late August before their next cooking class. The number of students had doubled, and the three instructors now had a new name for their school: L’École des Trois Gourmandes. They all wore white chef coats with an official logo of a red number 3 in a circle.
Julia took the letter from Simca and scanned through the explanation from editor Sumner Putnam of how Helmut Ripperger had left Ives Washburn Publishing. Julia looked up and met Simca’s and Louisette’s frustrated gazes. Louisette had been the primary contact point with the publisher.
“Ripperger’s been dillydallying on the pages I’ve sent him, so I don’t even know what state the recipes are in right now.” Louisette folded her arms. “Our publishing deal might be off completely, so we have 600 pages typed for nothing. We don’t have an American as an editor or writer anymore.”
Julia didn’t have any direct connections to any publishers, so she didn’t know what advice to give. She could reach out to Avis DeVoto just to get her opinion, she supposed. Avis’s husband had plenty of publishing experience.
Julia had become so lost in her thoughts about writing a letter to Avis that she hadn’t realized her two friends were staring at her.
“Well?” Simca asked. “Do you want to be our coauthor?”
Julia stared at both of them. “Me?”
Both of them nodded.
There was only one answer Julia could give. “I’d be delighted to.”
Louisette and Simca both hugged her, then Louisette headed out of the kitchen, saying she’d be back in a moment. When she returned, she carried a copy of the 600-page cookbook.
“Here it is,” Louisette said with breathless excitement, plopping it onto the table.
“This is the original?” Julia asked, thumbing through the manuscript pages.
“Ripperger never sent us anything he edited,” Louisette said. “We were trusting that he was doing the work—but obviously, we’re starting over now.”
Julia continued leafing through pages. She could easily see that the tome needed a lot of work. She sank onto one of the kitchen chairs and paused to read the introduction to the sauces section. The writing wasn’t even professional . . . Was it like this throughout the entire book?
Her throat tightened, feeling like someone was squeezing as hard as they could. She’d already agreed though . . . Besides, she’d love to publish a cookbook. This one though . . . needed to be wholly rewritten.
By the time she saw Paul in the evening, she’d made up her mind. Simca and Louisette were wonderful cooks, and it would be terrible to let this project disappear. She remembered her heavenly introduction to French food, and now she’d gained so much knowledge living four years in France. It would be a shame to keep that from the general American population.
She found Paul cleaning the kitchen. For a moment, she stood there watching him.
“What’s wrong?” he asked, wiping his hands on a towel.
She exhaled slowly, then told him everything. About the letter from Ives Washburn Publishing and about her agreement to coauthor the cookbook. Paul sat next to her at the kitchen table, and they looked through the chapters of the hefty manuscript.
“They said it’s 600 pages?” Paul asked, his tone tight.
“Yes.”
“This job will be colossal, Julie,” he continued. “Are you sure you want to commit?”
Julia was sure, but the weight of responsibility was feeling heavier and heavier. “It will be a challenge, sure, but the outcome could be amazing.”
Paul leaned close and kissed her. “It will be amazing.” He paused, and she sensed what he’d say next. “You know we’re going to be transferred at the beginning of next year. It’s only a few months away. Will this . . . be able to progress?”
Julia stiffened. If she didn’t have easy access to her friends, the lack of communication would slow everything down. They saw each other almost daily. “There’s no way to stay in Paris?”
“No,” Paul said. “Four years is policy, and we’re almost to four years now. I’m hoping for Bordeaux or Marseille since I’m French speaking. But there are also openings coming up in Madrid and Rome.”
Julia knew this, but the reminder drove everything home. She wished they could stay in Paris one more year—that was all she’d need to get this cookbook into shape.
“There’s always the possibility of returning to the States too,” Paul said.
It had to be said, and although Julia would love to be back in Washington, DC, among their roots and closer to Freddie and Charlie, her heart was currently in France. Besides, the State Department was on a rampage and investigating every corner for possible Communist sympathizers, including some of their OSS friends in their suspicions. Washington, DC was thrumming with accusations and investigations, everyone pointing a finger at someone else.
Staying away from DC might be wise at this point.
“I’ll start right away and see how far I can get before we’re relocated,” Julia said. It was all she could do. Work on this an hour at a time, a day at a time.
By the following morning, she had a plan in place. She determined that the recipes had to be absolutely accurate, forward and backward, and for that to happen, she needed to test all the recipes. The recipes had to meet several requirements, including being a traditional French dish, usable in the States, and frugal with ingredients—meaning no ingredients were wasted because they could be used for other recipes in the book.
She began with the soups and, each day, focused on a new recipe. She’d consult with Louisette and Simca concerning questions she had but also referred to the classic cookbooks she had in her kitchen: Ali-Bab’s, Curnonsky’s, Flammarion’s, Carême’s, and Larousse gastronomiuqe.
She hit barriers from the very first day as she experimented, cooked, made notes, then started over. Measurements of “spoonful” or “medium carrot” weren’t specific enough, and Julia had to rectify that for her cookbook. When she consulted the American cookbooks for any French recipes, such as her favorite Joy of Cooking, she found that some of the recipes weren’t accurate at all. She made béchamel from the book but found that the measurements weren’t precise.
“Sorry, Irma,” she muttered as she worked, tediously weighing American butter and flour on a scale until she had the exact measurements tried and tested.
Paul came and went, pitching in during the evenings, and half the time, Julia hardly remembered him heading off to bed.
One night, Paul found her hunched over the kitchen table long after midnight. She had begun to make a list, a long, depressing list, of which ingredients they’d have to leave out of the cookbook recipes. When she finished, she’d break the news to Simca and Louisette.
“What’s wrong?” Paul asked, shuffling into the kitchen.
She looked up, having been so lost in her thoughts, she barely registered that he’d come in.
He bent to kiss her, but when she didn’t even smile, he pulled a chair next to hers and grasped her hand.
“Julie? Has something happened? Did you receive bad news? Is it your family?”
She blinked, then wiped at her cheeks. “Oh, no, nothing like that.” She sniffled, not even sure when she’d started crying. “I’ve done so much work already on testing the recipes, and now . . .” She dragged in a breath. “Now we have to change some recipes.”
Paul’s brows pinched together. “What do you mean?”
She explained some of her cooking mishaps, especially when trying out different types of flour.
Paul’s expression cleared. “The flour makes that much of a difference?”
“Oh yes,” Julia confirmed. “And now I’ve realized that we can’t have anything in our cookbook that’s not available in America.”
“Well, that does make perfect sense,” Paul said, scratching at his stubbled chin. “What’s on your list so far?”
She turned her notebook so that he could read along with her.
“Crème fraîche,” Paul read aloud. “You’re right, that’s not in America. And . . . shallots, chanterelles, and leeks . . . also not in America. At least not yet.”
“You understand my dilemma now?”
“I do.” He rubbed at his jaw again.
“What is it?” Julia asked, feeling wary all over again. She’d had a pit in her stomach for hours now . . .
“The butter,” Paul said. “I remember your first meal in France—sole meunière. You were in raptures, and that’s where you fell in love with French food.”
“Yes,” she murmured, her mind racing. “You told me the butter was from Normandy, and Normandy cream is unpasteurized and churned by hand.” Julia dropped her head into her hands. “We’ll have to redo almost every recipe. Start testing all over again.”
Paul rubbed her shoulder. “I’ve never met a group of women who have been so determined and so talented at the same time. If you really want to bring French cooking to America, you’ll find a way to adjust the recipes and still keep them authentic.”
Julia lifted her head and gazed at her husband. “That’s why it hasn’t been done successfully yet.” She straightened, squaring her shoulders. “We’ll do it, and do it right.”
“You will, my dearest Julie. If anyone can, it’s you.” He leaned close and kissed her.
She let him linger for a moment, then drew away, her mind back to business. “Since we’re not sleeping anyway, help me with this list. I’ve just thought of Gruyère cheese. It won’t be on America’s shelves either.”
“Which is too bad,” he said. “American cooks use things like ketchup and margarine and Crisco.”
Julia winced. “That’s right. And what about the cuts of meat? That’s one thing I’ve learned over here—the French butchers prepare different types of meat that aren’t found in America. When I used to shop with Freddie, we never came across lardons for barding veal.” She exhaled. “How could we expect to have recipes like chateaubriand, entrecôtes, kidneys, or tripe translate to American soil? It’s impossible.”
Paul nodded, his gaze somber. “Add tournedos and sweetbreads to your list too.”
Julia scribbled down the names, hating to think of all the work this would take in adjusting the recipes. Would they still even be French recipes when all was said and done? She had to make this work—had to. Determination simmered inside her. If she did the legwork in these beginning stages, Americans—an entire country—would benefit. She had to keep her perspective on the end results and not get discouraged by the bumpy road to get there.
“I’m going to write to Freddie,” she told her husband, “and request that she send me photos of meat cuts in butcher-shop cases. Everything I do now for the cookbook must focus on the fact of teaching Americans to cook French dishes.”
The next months were filled day and night with Julia’s testing recipes. She took a full day off when she received a letter from Dort that Dort was pregnant with her first child. Julia was happy for her, truly, but it just reminded her that she hadn’t been able to have children—and that opportunity had probably passed her by for good. She had a good cry, with Paul telling her that she was perfect in every way and he wouldn’t change anything about their life together. Then she wrote Dort a congratulatory note and was done with it. Mostly. She determined to celebrate every accomplishment and good news Dort shared with her.
That weekend, she and Paul took time off to visit sites and locations they’d dearly miss once their transfer came in. But Julia was back in the kitchen early Monday morning. She learned firsthand, over and over, to both keep things simple and not cut corners. When she made onion soup, her experiments produced either bland broth or a burned taste. Finally, she discovered that the onions needed to be caramelized through slow cooking in butter and oil, and only then was the robust flavor of the onion soup brought out.
Simca joined her most mornings, and they cooked side by side in the kitchen. They mostly complemented each other since they both approached the project with professionalism, but Simca was also not happy to have her family recipes altered. They had many vigorous discussions about what “Americanizing” actually meant.
Louisette joined them when she could, but her marriage was falling apart, and her emotional bandwidth was strung tight. She confessed more than once that cooking wasn’t joyful when other parts of her life were in shambles.
By October, they had a well-oiled system in place. By day, Simca and Julia reworked recipes, and in the evenings, Julia typed up the newly revised version along with some handwritten notes in the margins. Finally, they completed the sauces chapter, except for one recipe that seemed to elude her. The white sauce, beurre blanc Nantais, which was commonly used on fish, never turned out well.
She kept thinking about the place where she’d had a perfect beurre blanc Nantais. “Paul, do you remember when we ate at the bistro Chez la Mère Michel?”
Paul paused in his nightly cleanup, which freed Julia to type up the day’s recipe. “On the Right Bank? I remember it. We haven’t been there for . . . a couple of years?”
“Three years,” Julia said. “I still remember their fish sauce. Let’s go tonight. I want to try it again and find out what I’m missing.”
Paul didn’t have to be asked twice. They were out the door, coats on, within minutes and walking to the bistro. They lingered over their most excellent meal, and when Julia spotted the owner, Mère Michel herself, she said, “I’m going to ask her and find out what her recipe is.”
“I don’t think she will give that up,” Paul began.
But Julia was already on her feet, napkin and pen in hand. She introduced herself to the woman and explained the troubles she was having with beurre blanc. Before she knew it, Mère Michel invited her into the kitchen and instructed one of the cooks to demonstrate the white sauce. Julia jotted notes down on her napkin, then stuffed it into her purse.
“I don’t believe it,” Paul said as they walked back home. “You have their actual recipe?”
“I do,” Julia said in triumph. “I’ll have to alter it a little for the American audience, but now I have a place to start.”
Paul slipped his arm about her waist. “Bravo, my dear. You have a way of hypnotizing people when you talk to them so they do whatever you want.”
She laughed. “Is that why you married me?”
“If it was, I’m still hypnotized.”
The beurre blanc sauce couldn’t have been a more integral part of the sauces chapter, and in November, things shifted once again. Ives Washburn Publishing sent back the original manuscript that had some notes from Ripperger.
Louisette and Simca met Julia to show her the letter from the publisher.
Julia read, “The big job now rests on your shoulders, and you must be the absolute boss of what goes into the book and what stays out. Now that you, Mrs. Child, have taken over the helm, I am more confident than ever that a fine book can be made of this.”
Julia looked up from the letter. “I’m the boss? When did that happen?”
Louisette gave Julia an innocent smile. “You are the boss, no? Look what you’ve done so far.” She motioned toward the stacked recipes starting to indeed resemble a cookbook. “We don’t even need to look at Ripperger’s revisions.”
Julia agreed with that.
“It seems they still want the book,” Simca added with lilting confidence. “That’s good news.”
“Very good news,” Julia said, although the conversation they’d had with Irma Rombauer about contracts and royalties and advances made Julia a little worried. “We’ve all put so much time into this book already, and we haven’t even added up the costs of ingredients. Shouldn’t we get an advance?”
“We should ask for one,” Louisette said.
Julia’s mind raced. She was out of her depth here. “I’m going to write to the publisher and explain our vision for the book. I’ll send some sample pages as well.”
