Julia, page 33
June–October 1961
“In many ways I hate to leave Oslo, as we are, after a bit over a year and a half, really beginning to get acquainted and feel at home. I really love it here. The city is just the right size, there are some nifty people about, and having free open spaces and beauty all around are all lovely. We have made quite a few good friends here among the Norwegians—not any, so to speak, among the American government types, but that is normal for us, it seems. And I can just feel more good friendships around the corner. Ah well, at least this will be the last time we shall spend 2 years making a life, and then have to leave it all again.”
—Letter from Julia to Avis DeVoto
Julia and Paul had returned to the States in June 1961, but they’d barely had time to sleep in their own bed—their new bed, that was, on 103 Irving Street, Cambridge, Massachusetts. They’d visited Charlie and Freddie in Lumberville, and they’d spent time with Avis while she’d been in Vermont.
In all their visits, the most talked about topic was the erection of a wall built in Berlin, meant to divide Soviet-occupied East Berlin from West Berlin. But even more concerning was the purpose behind the wall—to keep East Berliners from leaving. The wall had gone up overnight, and citizens of the city had awakened on August 13 to discover the barbed-wire barricade. Over the next weeks, it had been reinforced, and families had found themselves hopelessly divided.
Julia could only hope that the wall would be temporary while a better political solution could be worked out. And to think that she’d lived in Germany herself.
To make their move to the States feel more permanent and homelike, Paul insisted that they renovate their kitchen to Julia’s standards and needs. So they hired an architect to discuss the renovation, deciding on details for a large square center island and extra deep counters.
Always at the back of her mind, morning and night, Julia was counting down the days until the cookbook’s release on October 16. In the meantime, since their return to the States, she’d also consulted with a few doctors about some of her nagging health symptoms, and it was recommended that she have a hysterectomy. She wasn’t pleased with the diagnosis, but she’d set a surgery date for the beginning of the year at Beth Israel Hospital, after the book launched.
While the clock ticked closer to the release date, they were finally taking a reprieve from traveling. Julia marked another day off on her calendar—today was September 28—and it was proving to be a productive one. Paul was bustling about, making measurements and plans for the wine cellar in the basement, and their hired carpenters were working on the kitchen renovation.
Julia felt antsy, but she didn’t want to get in the way of the carpenters or Paul. There was still plenty of unpacking to do, she noted as she surveyed the stacked boxes that lined the hallway and crowded the living room. Some were from their storage out of Washington, DC, and some were from Oslo. With each box opened, it was like traveling back in time to previous memories. The nostalgia hit hard when she came across a box from their Paris years—photographs, Paul’s paintings, a French poetry book by Charles Baudelaire, and small souvenirs. When the doorbell rang, it jolted her from her thoughts.
“Who’s that?” she mused to her cat. Yes, Julia already had a cat.
The cat meowed but stayed in her sunspot near the living room window.
Julia opened the front door to the postman standing on the porch. “A delivery, Mrs. Child.”
“Oh, thank you.” She took the wrapped square package. “It’s rather heavy.”
“Yes, ma’am. I hope you have a good day and stay out of the heat.” The early autumn day was already warm and muggy.
Julia wished him a good day as well, then stepped back into the hallway. The return address read Alfred Knopf publishing. Her heart rate tripped. Could this be . . . ? She ran her hand over the heavy postal brown wrapping.
“Paul?” she called, then realized he wouldn’t be able to hear her from downstairs with all the clamor in the kitchen. She headed to the top of the basement stairs, her mind feeling like it was floating somewhere in the sky. “Paul?”
He appeared a few moments later and took one look at the package she was holding against her chest. “Is that it?” he asked, as if he knew too.
“I think so.”
Paul grinned as he headed up the steps. “Well, let’s have a look.”
Julia dragged in a breath. “All right.” She walked into the living room, away from the construction noise, and found an empty space on the couch to sit down.
Paul shifted aside a couple of boxes and joined her.
The cat became curious and rubbed against Julia’s leg before proceeding to preen herself.
Julia smoothed her hand once again over the wrapping, then she tugged at a corner. She meant to open it carefully, but in seconds, she was ripping the paper. She’d held the galleys in her hands many times, but this . . . this was different. The turquoise blue of the front cover jacket looked so bright and cheerful. The lettering on the cover alternated between black and red, and the publisher had included a colored illustration of a roast-and-vegetable dish.
“Oh, it’s beautiful,” she whispered.
“Mastering the Art of French Cooking,” Paul read aloud. “The only cookbook that explains how to create authentic French dishes in American kitchens with American foods. By Julia Child, Louisette Bertholle, and Simone Beck. Drawings by Sidonie Coryn.”
“Is this real?” Julia said with a half laugh. She turned the hefty book to look at the spine. “Mastering the Art of French Cooking. Child, Bertholle, Beck. Alfred A. Knopf.” Then she turned to the back-cover jacket, and her eyes immediately filled with tears.
Against the dark peach of the back cover was a black-and-white photo that Paul had taken in France—of Julia with Louisette, Simca, and Chef Max Bugnard. She wiped at her eyes, her throat too tight to speak for a moment.
“Photograph by Paul Child,” Paul read. “Authors left to right: Julia Child, Louisette Bertholle, and Simone Beck working with their maître, Chef Max Bugnard, over a final flavoring.”
Julia leaned her head against Paul’s shoulder, and he slipped an arm about her.
“It’s so heavy,” she said in a rasp.
“Well, it is over 700 pages,” Paul said, a smile in his tone.
“I don’t dare open it,” Julia said. “I don’t want to crack the spine.”
“The book is made to be opened,” Paul said with a chuckle. “It’s made to be used every day.”
Julia nodded and wiped at her cheeks. Then she opened the book, her heart drumming, both nervous and excited. Nervous that she might find an errant typo and excited to have the product of nine years of work finally a tangible thing. For a long while, she and Paul looked through the pages. The chapters were organized by recipe types—Chapter One: Soups, Chapter Two: Sauces, and so on. The French recipe names were translated into English in brackets, then the dish was explained, followed by the listing of ingredients and measurements in addition to the instructions.
The typeset of the book was innovative because Julia had insisted that there be two columns in each recipe to reduce page turning back and forth while following the recipe. The ingredients were listed in the left column, while the instructions were listed on the right-hand side, correlating when they were needed. The detailed line drawings also helped explain the intricate steps of creating French dishes.
“They waterproofed the cover,” Paul said. “And I like how the book lays flat no matter which page it’s open to.”
“Simca and Louisette will love this, don’t you think?” Julia asked.
“How could they not?” Paul knew full well the debates and disagreements that had happened over the years. “It’s something to be proud of, even if there is more than one way to write a recipe.”
Julia elbowed him. “Don’t say that in this house again. It’s blasphemous.”
Paul laughed and wrapped both arms around her. “I think from here on out, I’ll be forever known as Julia Child’s husband. People will ask, Who’s Paul?”
“That’s not true.” Julia leaned her forehead against his. “I wouldn’t be here, sitting on this couch with my own cookbook in hand, if it hadn’t been for meeting you.”
“That’s one way to simplify everything,” he teased. “You would have found something else to be spectacular at.”
The cat decided she wanted attention and leaped onto the couch next to them and head bumped Julia’s arm with a meow. “All right. I think I have a cat to feed, and then I’m calling Avis and Dort. Today, the long-distance telephone charges will be worth it.”
“You’d better call Judith too,” Paul said.
“Of course.”
The phone rang then, and Paul rose to answer it. “Yes, yes, she’s here. Of course.” He mouthed to Julia before handing over the receiver. “Speaking of the devil.”
Julia answered and immediately thanked Judith for sending the book early.
“What do you think?” Judith asked.
“I can’t even describe how beautiful it is, dearie,” Julia said. “It took my breath away, quite literally. I don’t know how I’m so lucky to have you as an editor and to have Knopf believe in the book and create such a wonderful product. It weighs a ton!”
“I’m happy you love the final product,” Judith said. “I’m also calling with good news. I don’t know how it will all turn out, but things are positive for now.”
“What are you talking about?” Julia gave Paul a meaningful glance.
“Well, I was wracking my brain, trying to figure out whose hands we could get this cookbook into to give us some credentials,” Judith said. “So I called up Craig Claiborne and told him about your remarkable book.”
Julia’s pulse skittered. Craig Claiborne was the esteemed food editor of The New York Times. He was considered reining authority on cookbooks.
“We met for lunch,” Judith continued. “This was about a month ago, and I waited to tell you because I didn’t know if anything would come of it. Anyway, we went to a French café near his office, and I talked to him about your book. He was gracious but didn’t seem all that interested.”
Julia felt like she was on a boat careening up and down huge waves. Did this story have a good outcome or not?
“I told him about how my husband and I love to cook together, grilling on our penthouse terrace. That caught his attention.”
Julia frowned. Where was this all going?
“Claiborne said that if I’d invite him to one of my husband’s grilled dinners and we let him write about us cooking together, he’d look at your book.”
Julia was holding her breath. Had he looked at it? If not, when would he look at it?
“So, he came for dinner in August—it was blazing hot—and Evan grilled up lamb. We chatted and had a great time, and Claiborne wrote his article.”
Julia remembered reading that article now. She’d even told Judith she enjoyed it . . . but, at the time, hadn’t realized there’d been strings attached.
“To get to my point,” Judith said with a laugh, “I heard from Claiborne. He’s read your cookbook and says it will be a classic.”
Julia’s heart thudded, and she reached for Paul’s hand. He’d heard enough of the conversation to know that this was good news.
“Do you think he’ll write about it in the Times?” Julia asked, hardly daring to hope.
“I think he will,” Judith said. “I don’t know when, but I replied back to him with a thank-you and a reminder of the publication date.”
“Two weeks . . .” Julia sighed. “I guess we’ll know soon enough.”
“An article will be excellent but won’t necessarily sell books,” Judith said, a warning note in her voice.
Julia straightened at this. “Why not? I thought press would sell books—articles, interviews, and the like.”
“It will all help toward the sum total, but the Times readership is upscale. We need to get you in front of the general population—readers—buyers.”
“As you know, I have cooking demonstrations already set up,” Julia said.
“And those will all be excellent,” Judith said. “I’m working on a television spot with the Today show. You and Simone can do a cooking demonstration.”
Julia blinked. She didn’t watch a lot of television. In fact, they had yet to own one. But everyone knew what the Today show was. Her mind buzzed with questions and scenarios. If they got the spot, what would they cook? What would they wear? What would they say? “When will you find out?” Julia asked.
“Soon, I hope,” Judith said. “I told them about Simone’s arrival date and the book release date. So hopefully, it will be either launch day or soon after. Your host will be John Chancellor, who replaced Dave Garroway.”
After hanging up with Judith, Julia turned to Paul. “Did you hear that? We might be on the Today show, and Claiborne might be writing an article about the book.” She laughed. “We might be selling books after all.”
“I heard it,” Paul said, his smile growing. “You’ll definitely be selling books.”
On October 18, two days after the official and somewhat anticlimactic release of the book, The New York Times ran an article written by Claiborne, which was full of praise.
Julia couldn’t read the article fast enough, looking for anything negative.
This is the most comprehensive, laudable, and monumental work . . .
It will probably remain as the definitive work for nonprofessionals . . .
For those who take fundamental delight in the pleasures of cuisine . . .
It is written in the simplest terms possible and without compromise or condescension . . .
The recipes are glorious . . .
Claiborne pointed out that although the cassoulet recipe was nearly six pages long, there wasn’t a wasted syllable. She handed the article over to Paul, who read it aloud. By the time he finished, they were both wiping their eyes.
“His only complaint was that he doesn’t like our use of the garlic press, and he noticed we didn’t have any recipes for croissants or puff pastry.” Relief jolted through Julia. “But he liked the book, truly liked it. I couldn’t ask for a better review.”
“He loved the book,” Paul said, leaning close to kiss her. “Now, you should wake up Simca and tell her.”
Simca had arrived and was staying with them, but she was dealing with jet lag. Later today, they’d be heading to New York and staying with Julia and Paul’s niece Rachel Child, who had an apartment on the Upper West Side. There, in Rachel’s kitchen, they’d practice for the Today show appearance.
After telling Simca the good news, they set to packing. They’d had plenty of debates over what to cook on the show, but since they wouldn’t have a stove, only an electric burner, they’d settled on demonstrating an omelet.
“You’ll have two minutes for everything,” Paul told Simca as they set up the kitchen in Rachel’s apartment.
“Two minutes?” Simca protested. “We can’t cook anything in two minutes.”
“That’s why we’re making an omelet,” Julia reminded her friend. Of course Simca knew that, but it seemed that the more flustered she grew, the more stubborn she became. Her accent was much thicker, too, when she was upset.
“Ready for another round?” Paul asked, holding up his camera as if he were filming them.
Rachel took her place next to him, where they were sitting on garbage cans on the opposite side of the counter from Julia and Simca.
Julia smiled directly at Paul’s camera—this wasn’t their first run-through—and she was feeling more natural. But Simca was looking everywhere but the camera.
“Hello, I’m Julia Child, and I’m here with my coauthor . . .” She paused for Simca to speak.
Simca cleared her throat and gripped her hands together in front of her. “I am Simone Beck, and I am from Paris, France.”
Julia understood her friend perfectly, but Paul raised a hand. “Again. I can’t understand Simca.”
Simca threw him a dark look, then said, “I’m Simone Beck, and I’m from Paris, France.”
She practically spat out the words, and Julia decided to just move on, hoping Paul wouldn’t keep stopping them. It was only irking Simca more.
Julia said, “We’re the authors of the new cookbook called Mastering the Art of French Cooking.” She paused again.
“We’re demonstrating how to cook a French omelet,” Simca said, rushing through the words so that not even Julia could decipher what she said.
“Speak more slowly and clearly,” Paul interrupted.
Julia gave the faux camera a friendly smile. “First, turn on the burner and get the pan warming with a dab of butter, then we’ll crack the eggs.” She paused again, but Simca didn’t say anything, although she picked up two eggs and cracked them at the same time on the edge of a metal bowl.
Well then. “We’ll blend the eggs right in the pan as they are heating up,” Julia said.
The afternoon continued on, with more practicing and Simca becoming quieter. Julia reminded her to stay calm and not to worry about the time—they’d get the omelet done.
The following morning, Julia wasn’t sure if she’d slept more than a few hours, because they were on their way to the RCA building on West Forty-Ninth Street at the first sign of dawn.
As they headed up the elevator to Studio 3K, Paul said, “Think of yourself in your own kitchen. Look at Rachel and me in the audience and talk to us like we’re in the kitchen together. Don’t worry about all the other people.”
Julia could do that, she knew it. She didn’t really have any other choice at this point. But what about Simca? Her back was straighter than a flagpole, her shoulders stiff, and her hands clenched tight.
