Julia, page 28
Both Louisette and Simca agreed.
“We can tell them we’ll deliver it next summer. In June?” Julia asked. “Can we all commit to that?”
“Of course,” Simca said.
“I can do that too,” Louisette added.
“In the meantime, I’m going to write to Paul’s nephew, Paul Sheeline. He works for the law firm of Sullivan & Cromwell. Maybe he can help us with the contract?”
No one argued, and Julia realized she really was the boss for this project. Once her friends left, Julia sat down to write her letters—including one to Avis DeVoto, detailing the new updates. At the last minute, she included some pages from French Home Cooking, telling her to please be frank and brutal in her critique.
While Julia was waiting for replies to her letters on how to manage this publishing relationship, US Representative Fred Busbey visited one of Paul’s art exhibits in Paris. The exhibit was comprised of fifty-six contemporary American artists whose work was on loan from the Museum of Modern Art. Busbey criticized the exhibit and called it Communist art. Which was ridiculous because some of the art was abstract, and that was banned in the Soviet Union. Regardless, this accusation caused a huge headache for Paul, and now the USIS was the target for all the Red-baiting going on in DC.
Not only that, but Paul was also saying that leaving Paris might be a good thing—at least a fresh start and a separation from Busbey’s accusations. Julia hoped the whole thing would blow over soon.
When she received a reply from Avis, Julia felt overwhelmed with the positivity of the letter. Avis absolutely loved the pages and said the recipes and format were revolutionary.
“Look at what Avis says,” Julia told Paul the moment he returned from work. She didn’t miss the violet circles beneath his eyes—neither of them had been sleeping well.
Paul took the letter and scanned the words, his expression brightening. “She believes your cookbook will be a classic and sell forever.” He laughed a genuine laugh, and Julia felt pleased to hear it. “This is incredible,” he said, his fond gaze upon Julia. “Avis is outside of all this”—he waved a hand, indicating Roo de Loo and all of Paris—“yet her opinion is to be respected.”
“I think so,” Julia said. “At least I hope so.” She couldn’t help but grin.
“Wait . . .” Paul continued reading. “She wants you to submit to other publishers?” When he finished reading, he looked up, his brows furrowed.
“She says that Ives Washburn is small-time, and we need a bigger publisher,” Julia hedged. “Is this just a best friend complimenting me?”
“It wouldn’t hurt to try,” Paul said. “But you also don’t want to burn bridges.”
“Right,” she agreed. “Avis is partial to Houghton Mifflin because they publish her husband. She says that Dione Lucas, who is one of their leading editors, was the first female graduate of Le Cordon Bleu. What are the chances?”
“Small world indeed.” Paul crossed into the living room and sat on the couch.
Julia settled next to him. “According to Avis’s husband, Bernard, there’s no such thing as a moral obligation to a publisher.”
“Hmm.” Paul reached for her hand. “Louisette is the one with the personal relationship with Ives Washburn, correct?”
Julia released a sigh. “Correct. Even if I wanted to submit to Houghton Mifflin, I’d have to convince Simca and Louisette as well.”
“Cowriting is a bit complicated.”
Julia leaned her head against his shoulder. “Yes, but I love it. I love my friends, and sometimes I marvel at how I got to this moment in the first place. Here I am, in discussions about publishing contracts for a cookbook when a few years ago, I couldn’t even roast a chicken.”
Paul wrapped his arms about her and pulled her close. “From the moment I met you, I knew you were special. I didn’t know at the time how you’d become my whole world.” He kissed the top of her head. “I think you should go for it. Pitch to the bigger publisher. I’ll help you talk to Louisette and Simca. I’m sure they’ll come around.”
Chapter 27
Marseille, France
February 1953
“At 11:30 this morning, I had just come home from the markets, dishes unwashed, beds unmade, and Paul called up to say he was bringing six GIs home for lunch, members of the American Fencing team. So I made them a Soupe au Pistou, Larousse P. 871, with a few embellishments. I just thought it would be interesting if the most typical guys would like it. And they did, ate it all up and said it was a ‘very wonderful soup,’ and want me to give them the recipe. Interesting to see if and how these foreign methods appeal to the average American.”
—Letter from Julia to Avis DeVoto
Julia had known this day would eventually come. They’d been transferred to Marseille. Somehow, though, the past four years in Paris had sped by quicker than lightning during a thunderstorm. Paul’s new position was the cultural affairs officer for southern France, and his office was in the American Consulate at 5, Place de Rome.
Everything was changing. Not only would Julia be working on the cookbook long distance, but she’d also miss all her Paris friends and have to rehome her cat once again. They couldn’t have a pet in their sublet apartment at 28, Quai de Rive Neuve, which they were subleasing from the Swedish consul, who was on leave for six months. Julia finally found a new home for Minette with a family who owned the charcuterie on the rue de Bourgogne.
Julia and Paul’s farewell dinner had been epic and had included their twelve closest friends. Curnonsky surprised them by showing up. Paul had brought his camera and taken pictures of Julia, Simca, and Louisette and plenty that had included Curnonsky.
“You will get a break from the rich cream sauces of Paris, no?” Simca said, looping her arm through Julia’s. “In Marseille, you’ll be inundated with Provençal dishes with tomatoes, onions, garlic, pepper.”
“I’ll be reporting every day on my recipe testing,” Julia said, squeezing her friend. “Besides, I’ll be coming to Paris often.”
“Yes,” Simca said. “We can also rendezvous in Nice at our summer farmhouse. Now that we’re officially under contract, we have more motivation than ever.”
They’d signed with Houghton Mifflin, and the acquiring editor, Dorothy de Santillana, had been nothing but encouraging. They’d even received an advance of seven hundred fifty dollars. The cookbook finally had legs.
“Your farmhouse in Nice sounds perfect.” It would all be fine and wonderful, Julia had to tell herself. Paul’s orders had been marked as “temporary duty” since they still had to receive the transfer papers from the State Department. This meant they couldn’t lease out their Paris apartment, and they couldn’t sign a new lease in Marseille. They were, in essence, in limbo but were required to live in Marseille.
Julia certainly felt homesick, but there was also a lot to distract her and to learn. The only way she could describe the coastal city was a cacophony of movement and sound. The streets were crowded, the markets overflowing, the people always talking, laughing, and calling out to each other. The seaport was a melting pot of cultures and merchants and mariners. There was never a quiet moment, and Julia only had to step outside to be swept into another spectacular world. Despite her homesickness, she fell in love immediately.
And, of course, she threw herself into cooking and testing recipes, adding her mountains of kitchen gadgets to the very sparse kitchen. She grew to appreciate the sun-filled railroad flat on the fifth floor because just steps from her front door was the fish market, La Criée au Poissons.
“I need to know my fish,” she told Paul one evening when he returned home after a long day. She’d prepared a watercress soup and crisp salad for their meal.
“You love fish, so what’s to know other than that?” Paul teased.
Julia smiled and glanced out the tall window that overlooked the harbor and its neat rows of fishing boats. “Did you know there are more than two hundred recipes for fillet of sole in Répertoire de la cuisine?”
“I thought you were focusing on soups next,” Paul said, taking another bite of his soup, as if for emphasis.
Julia pointed toward the seaport beyond their windows. “When in Rome . . .”
Paul chuckled. “All right, so what’s your plan of action?”
“One of the hurdles is that many types of fish here don’t exist in the States,” she said. “So I’ll need to find comparisons or substitutes. For instance, here we have lotte, which you’ll find on every restaurant menu, but in the States, it’s called monkfish—which is rarely served. And what about rascasse?” Julia sighed. “Maybe sculpin would work as a stand-in?”
Paul shrugged. “Possibly. When’s your deadline with the new publisher?”
Julia laughed—a bit hysterically—then sobered. “I don’t dare ask.” She drew in a breath. “I do know I can’t take Simca’s or Louisette’s word for things. I have to know for myself.”
“That makes sense,” he mused. “If you don’t know the ins and outs, then the cookbook won’t be transparent.”
“Exactly.” Julia moved to her feet and fetched a couple of cookbooks. “Look,” she said, placing The Art of Fish Cookery by Milo Miloradovich and The Gold Cookbook by Louis Pullig De Gouy, on the table in front of Paul. “The Gold Cookbook contains a twenty-six-page index on French fish and the American equivalents.”
“Ah, so the work has been done already?” Paul asked.
“Not exactly. If I don’t understand it, then I can’t be an authority on the matter, and I shouldn’t be authoring a cookbook.”
Paul tilted his head, scratching at his jaw. “I gather more is coming.”
“I need to be the expert, Paul, and not rely on others’ research or claims. So I’m about to become best friends with the deputy fish coordinator of the Department of Fisheries.”
Paul’s brows popped up. “There’s such a thing?”
Julia grinned. “I’ve already sent him a letter.”
He reached for his wine glass and winked. “Mr. Deputy Fish Coordinator certainly won’t know what hit him.”
“Let’s hope he’s up to the task of answering my questions.” She flipped open one of the cookbooks. “I want to change American minds about fish. Few of them eat fresh local fish. Most, if they do eat fish, buy frozen cod or flounder. But here we are in Marseille, surrounded by delectable fish, which are made into masterpiece meals.”
Julia hadn’t needed to worry, because when the reply came from the deputy, it contained page after page of details. It was like walking straight into a gold mine with gold already lying at the surface. None of her questions had been overlooked, and she read with delight the details on freshwater and saltwater fish, the description of how firm or flimsy their flesh, and so much more.
This inspired her to write similar questions about meat and poultry to the Department of Agriculture. She didn’t know if she was more excited each day to pick up her mail or to visit one of the fish markets, where she’d made several friends.
Over the next weeks, she typed up her newly tested recipes and sent them to her friends and relatives, who would also test the recipes and send back their notes. Paul often went to bed before she finished typing everything each night.
“Good night, my woodpecker,” he said, bending to kiss the top of her head. “How many copies are you typing up tonight?”
Julia paused to answer him. She had seven pages of onion skin, interspersed with carbon paper, stuffed into the typewriter so that she didn’t have to type a recipe more than once. “Let’s see, Simca and Louisette . . . Dort, Freddie, and Rachel, and I’m sending them to Katy Gates in Pasadena as well.”
“That’s quite the muddle of guinea pigs you have,” Paul said in a dry tone, his hands massaging her shoulders. “Are they all trustworthy to keep everything top secret?”
Julia laughed. She’d recently told Paul how everyone was instructed not to share anything about the recipes with anyone else. “They all understand secrecy. And each of my recipe testers is essential—each and every one. Now, stop distracting me. If I make an error, it’s a beast to fix through all seven pages. I need about ten more minutes.”
“Which means thirty,” Paul said. “I’ll be waiting up.”
Julia smirked. “With your eyes closed.”
With Paul out of the room, she continued to type, making sure she hit the keys hard enough to go through all the carbon copies. When she pulled out the finished pages, she handwrote “Top Secret” across the top and bottom of each page. It might be overkill, but she didn’t want anything to leak.
This was her bouillabaisse recipe, at least one version of it. Throughout the entire week, she’d been researching the origin of bouillabaisse soup—which was in Marseille itself. She’d had more than one entertaining conversation with fishermen, each who claimed their recipe was the only authentic one. Julia knew this couldn’t be the case since she’d personally witnessed it being made, and it was made differently each time. The recipe was never made the same way twice since it contained a combination of the leftovers from whatever the day’s catch was mixed with the Provençal soup base of tomatoes, onions, garlic, olive oil, bay leaf, saffron, and thyme. Or sometimes, potatoes replaced the tomatoes, or some used pepper rouille instead of saffron.
Julia had chatted with fishwives, buying their catch of the day, and spoke to restaurant owners as well. No one used the same fish—most common was the rascasse, conger, and grodin. She also tried bouillabaisse with mussels, red mullet, and hake. There were no rules, although everyone claimed there were. Something Julia might have believed if she weren’t actually walking through the fish market and asking questions.
Avis had already warned Julia that it was impossible to write a bouillabaisse recipe for the American cook, but Julia wanted to prove her wrong. Everyone needed bouillabaisse in their recipe arsenal.
She experimented with various methods of bouillabaisse, careful to pay attention to what was available in America and which substitution recommendations she could give. In the meantime, Simca wrote long, detailed letters about the recipes Julia was sending over. Any recipes that Simca sent back, Julia would have to test inside and out, then send along the revision to her guinea pigs in the States.
Anytime Julia sent a new variation of French bread to the States, the recipes always failed. Julia hadn’t had much success either, or there were too many other things that had to be tested. She finally told Paul she was axing French bread from the cookbook altogether—it would have to wait for a second volume. And right now, she had other issues to deal with. Like Louisette. She replied only occasionally, not much interested in testing and retesting recipes.
“Louisette must think this is another little book of fifty recipes,” she complained to Paul one weekend as they took a stroll through a lively marketplace. Julia was introducing him to some of her new friends. “Simca and I don’t always see eye-to-eye, but we are at least hashing things out. We’re both equally committed, yet Louisette treats it more like a social project.”
“Do you want her off the project?” Paul asked in all seriousness.
“Don’t think I haven’t considered it, but I know that Louisette is good for the networking of this book,” Julia said. “She knows everyone influential in the cooking world, and she’s the iconic Frenchwoman—whose image will sell copies.”
Paul nodded. “Then keep her on, but also keep your expectations in check so you aren’t frustrated with every communication with her. Or lack thereof.”
“Yes, wise advice,” Julia said, chewing on her lip.
“There’s more?”
Julia paused in her step just before they reached a market stall selling fresh mussels. “I want this cookbook to be as professional as possible. That means not letting any pitfalls through. Simca and I cook quite differently. She improvises all the time, which is fine, but the cookbook needs to be more precise. I think I’m going to set up some rules for us to follow.”
Paul’s brows lifted at this. “Will Simca be put off by that?”
Julia shrugged. “If her feelings are bruised a little, she’ll have to get over it. I’m the ‘boss’ over this project, so to speak, and we need some rules.”
His smile appeared. “Like what?”
“This is no lighthearted matter,” she said, but she was smiling too. “First, we should all be able to state our opinions without worry of offending the other person.”
Paul nodded. “Very professional approach.”
Julia continued, “Keep the book French.”
“Very wise.”
She nudged him. “Don’t tease. Next, we must all follow the scientific method respecting our own exact findings. This, after we’ve studied the findings of each other and other authorities. From there, we work with exact measurements and exact temperatures. Once we have our established and agreed-upon method, that is what must hold up to rigorous testing.”
“Excellent,” Paul said. “I think I agree with Avis, my dear.”
“How so? She has a lot of opinions.”
Paul slipped his arm about Julia’s shoulders and pulled her close. “This cookbook is going to be revolutionary.”
Julia sighed and leaned into him. “If only it weren’t taking so long. Maybe someday, I’ll look back on all this testing and letter writing and debating with fishwives and know it was all worth it.”
Paul rubbed her arm. “It will be worth it. In the meantime, we’ll enjoy all the good food France has to offer. How about I treat you to dinner tonight? Get you off your feet and out of the kitchen.”
“As always, let’s play that by ear. I might become inspired today to tweak a recipe.”
Paul glanced around them. “I think there’s a good chance of that. I mean, you’re just starting on the fish chapter, or are you still in the soup chapter?”
