Julia, page 34
“Don’t worry, Simca,” she told her friend, resting her hand on Simca’s shoulder. “I’ll take the lead if you want. And you can fill in wherever you feel comfortable.”
Simca nodded but still said nothing.
After meeting John Chancellor, they were quickly ushered into their places and set up for the demonstration. Julia spotted Paul in the audience, smiled at him, then surveyed the rest of the audience. Everyone looked friendly and welcoming. Interested.
“See, it will be all right,” Julia told Simca.
But her friend looked like she’d swallowed lime juice.
As the cameras started rolling, Julia and Simca made their introduction, but when John Chancellor asked questions, Julia was the one to answer. Somehow, she was able to speak coherently—or at least she thought so since her stomach felt tight, her voice pitched too high, and her breathing seemed erratic. She didn’t mind the audience or the cameras so much, but the thought of doing this live and not having any retakes made her hyperaware of the bright lights, the mute Simca by her side, and the pressure of making such a public debut with her cookbook. She wanted to make her publisher proud. She tried to focus her thoughts on the steps of cooking the omelet and to tell herself this wasn’t that much different from other cooking classes she’d taught, save for the shortened time.
Everything was over much too quickly, but they’d made the omelet, and the audience had seemed receptive. They hurried off the set, where Paul and Rachel waited.
“You were perfect,” Paul said, his whole face beaming. “If I didn’t already have a copy of the cookbook at home, I’d be rushing to get one now.”
Julia hugged him. “I’m sure you’re being nice. I don’t remember a thing I said.”
“You were a natural in front of the camera,” Rachel added. “Like you’ve been doing it all your life.”
Julia scoffed. “It was all a blur. I must have been on autopilot. Did it really happen? Should you pinch me?”
Rachel laughed. “No pinching necessary. It really happened, and you were wonderful.”
Chapter 33
New York City
October–December 1961
“As a way to earn money and get a class going I gave cooking lessons at a friend’s house for her friends. I would give them a great lunch, such as poached egg on mushroom and leek salad, a little pastry thing with béarnaise sauce, and chocolate cake. I did not have to worry about buying the food or getting the friends; I only charged $50 dollars; sometimes I would buy the food and give them the bill. They provided the wine. Then I would leave them with the dishes. I would leave with $200. I would not have made money in my own home. For all that work, you should make some money.”
—Julia Child, in an interview with food writer Barbara Sims-Bell
The day after the Today show appearance, Julia and Simca were scheduled to do a cooking demonstration at Bloomingdale’s. Judith Jones had warned them that there might only be a few shoppers in attendance.
“What’s the line for?” Julia asked as their taxi pulled up to the front of the building, its towering presence and multiple floors sending a thrill through Julia.
Everyone inside the car craned their necks to get a better view.
“I think . . . they’re here for the cookbook,” Paul said. “Look, a few of them are holding the book.”
It was true, Julia realized. The line extended down the sidewalk, and several women held the 700-plus-page cookbook.
“Do you think they all read the Times article?” Simca asked.
“That or watched us on the Today show,” Julia said.
“The show does have four million viewers,” Paul said.
After the taxi stopped, Paul hopped out and opened their doors with a flourish. Julia and Simca stepped out into the crisp fall weather. Overhead, the sky was cloudless, and the sun seemed to be smiling down on them. Julia nodded toward the line of people, giving them a smile. The women stared back at her, curiosity in their gazes.
Paul grabbed the box of their equipment and groceries, and they all walked into the department store, with its black-and-white checkered floors. Inside, they were greeted and fussed over by the employees, who directed them where to set up.
Once they were ready, Bloomingdale’s doors were officially opened, and the customers poured in. Those who didn’t already have the cookbook bought one at the registers. Julia and Simca were outfitted with microphones, and they began their demonstration. Simca seemed more at ease with this type of audience since there were no rolling cameras, and she even answered several questions. Paul and Rachel sat in the back row, smiling the entire time.
The day was a whirlwind, and they spent hours signing the cookbook, even though the store employees said that they could leave because the allotted book-signing time had ended. But Julia decided that if these women, and a few men, had made the effort to come all this way to buy her book, she’d sign every last one of them, making sure she spoke to each person.
When Julia and Paul returned to their home in Cambridge at the end of the week, Judith had good news for them. “We’re ordering another print run of 10,000 copies.”
“Are we a best seller, then?” Julia asked, half joking.
“It has potential,” Judith said. “We can’t make any guarantees, but we’re hoping to maintain steady sales. It doesn’t hurt that our new US president loves French food. Did you know that he frequents Chambord and Lutèce as well as La Carvelle? He also has a French chef in the White House. This is all creating the perfect scenario since Americans are reviving their interest in French food. We thought it would take a year to sell out of the first print run, but it’s moving quicker than we thought. And we’re still waiting for more bookstore orders.”
“Send us the updated list,” Julia said. “We leave in a few days for our trek across the country.”
It was a marketing plan that Julia and Simca had been working on for months. They’d contacted friends and family across the States, asking for a place to stay and requesting introductions to places where they could do a cooking demo and have it announced in the local paper. Paul would be the one in charge of equipment, set up, and clean up. He had retired just in time. So far, they’d scheduled stops in Washington, DC, Detroit, Chicago, San Francisco, and Los Angeles. They’d reach Pasadena by Thanksgiving, and they planned to share the holiday with her father and Phila.
Knopf had nothing in place that would reimburse them—that would all have to be made in the sales of books. So Julia and Simca were footing the travel expenses, and they hoped to earn out their royalty advance and start making a profit.
“Excellent,” Judith said on the other end of the phone call. “You two are going above and beyond any of our other authors. Oh, by the way, James Beard wants to meet you, as well as some other food editors from the ladies’ magazines. They might have ignored you over the years, but now they can’t anymore. I also want you to visit with Dione Lucas—she’ll be a big help in preparing you for all the cooking demonstrations you have planned.”
Julia felt elation float through her. Dione Lucas ran a combined restaurant and cooking school called the Egg Basket, on Fifty-Ninth Street. She’d be an excellent resource. But Julia was most excited to meet the larger-than-life James Beard. He had multiple cookbooks published, wrote monthly articles for Gourmet, had done numerous television appearances, and had developed menus for some of New York’s upscale restaurants. He was a culinary legend, but more importantly, Julia respected his cooking techniques.
The following week, Judith coordinated a meeting with James Beard at his townhouse on Tenth Street in Greenwich Village.
Julia was instantly charmed by James, who welcomed them to his home with warmth.
The man was both large in size and personality. “I’ve laid out a small spread,” he told them. “Smithfield ham sliced so thinly you can breathe through it, and Italian mustard fruits that will make your eyes cross.”
Julia couldn’t help but laugh.
“And if anyone wants a nibble of puree of spinach, help yourself.” He offered them drinks as well, then said, “Now, tell me all about yourselves and your cookbook.”
They spent a relaxed afternoon with James, and at the end of it all, he told them he’d introduce them to the culinary world of New York. “You’ve got to meet everyone now that you’ve become one of us. I’ll introduce you to the food professionals, the top chefs, and the most influential food editors. A few of us will get together and host a launch party for your book. You say you’ll be traveling to do cooking demonstrations for a couple of months?”
Julia could barely edge a word in. “Yes, we’ll be back in December.”
“It’s settled, then,” James said. “We’ll hold the party mid-December.”
Julia didn’t know what to say, just that her mind was spinning with all that James told them. He either seemed impressed with their cookbook or just wanted to celebrate it; she wasn’t sure which. Regardless, James seemed to know everyone in the culinary world, and Julia wouldn’t mind the introductions. This was a new world for her, and any guidance would be welcome.
The first stop on their promotional tour was Gross Pointe, Michigan. Upon arrival, they discovered that the bookstores had sold out of their cookbook, and women showed up in droves to their cooking demonstrations.
Julia and Simca fell into a comfortable rhythm in their demonstrations. Julia did most of the talking, but everyone seemed to hang on Simca’s words when she added in tidbits. As they signed books after their demonstrations, sometimes two or three hundred books in a sitting, Julia made it a point to visit with each person, albeit briefly. She would often ask the women, “What are you serving for dinner tonight, dearie?” Or sometimes, she’d ask them what their favorite dish was.
Once in a while, the women would ask for advice on a particular technique, and Julia had to come up with an answer on the spot.
“You are so talented,” one woman gushed to Julia.
“My days are so routine,” another woman said. “Doing the same chores day in and day out, but this cookbook makes me feel like I can be creative again.”
“I didn’t know I loved cooking until I tried the duck à l’orange,” another woman said. “You should have seen my husband’s expression. Now he wants to invite his boss over for dinner.”
“My daughter wants to try the recipes with me,” a woman told Julia. “She spent most of her teenage years hardly saying a word to me, and now we’re in the kitchen every day together.”
From city to city, they traveled, Julia and Simca focusing on their shared loves and ignoring their differences, Paul doing the brunt of the physical work. Most of the days were long and tiring but, oh, how rewarding.
“You absolutely shine when you’re around all these people, my dear,” Paul told her one evening when they were staying in the guest room of a friend’s house. “You’re earning one loyal fan at a time. They’re not going to ever forget you, and they’ll be scooping up your next cookbook like butterscotch candy.”
“Hold on,” Julia said, sitting on the corner of the bed to take off her shoes. “Another cookbook?”
“Have you forgotten? French bread? You need a book for that recipe.” Paul’s smile was teasing.
“I did want to do that,” she said. “But every attempt I’ve made, I’ve failed.”
Paul sat next to her on the bed, taking off his own shoes. “That’s because you’ve always been caught up in volume 1.”
Julia looked over at her husband and saw his clear gaze, his wry smile. “You think I should really write another cookbook? With Simone?”
“I think you should finish what you started—what you originally envisioned,” he said. “I’ll stay retired. Heaven knows that I’m busier on this promotional tour than I’ve ever been at any job. You have me working sunup to sundown.”
“You are a very good assistant, dearie,” Julia said. “Who knew that all your cultural attaché training would prepare you to manage the microphones, stage lights, tables, schedules, and scrubbing dirty bowls out?”
“Always had the makings of a stage manager, it seems.” He leaned close to kiss her, and she looped her arms about his neck.
“Have I told you how much I appreciate you and love you?”
“Occasionally.” He grinned. “Now, remember that when we’re at your father’s home and he’s throwing out barbs left and right.”
Pop was eighty-two now, and Julia knew the old man still hadn’t changed his caustic viewpoint of life. “Maybe his recent illness has mellowed him out.” She linked her hand with Paul’s. They’d both been worried when they’d received the news about Pop contracting some sort of virus that had kept him bedridden for weeks. But now he was on the mend.
Paul squeezed her hand.
“Read to me,” Julia said. “Unless you’re too tired.”
“I’ll read to you.”
They settled into bed, and Julia listened to Paul’s mellow tone as he read a chapter of The City in History by Lewis Mumford.
The next days raced by as they attended one demonstration after another, cooking dishes like soufflé de turbot, quiche a Roquefort, and Reine de Saba cake. Their audience was growing, and at a theater in San Marino, California, three hundred fifty women attended.
Their Thanksgiving spent in Pasadena was full of the usual—walking on eggshells, and not ones that Julia had cracked herself. Her elderly father had fully recovered from his illness, and he didn’t seem too interested in Paul’s or Simca’s stories about the promotional tour. A cookbook was a cookbook, in Pop’s opinion. Phila was much more welcoming and positive. And it was wonderful to spend time with Dort and her little family. But overall, Julia was more than happy to return back to the East Coast and her cozy home and life she’d established with Paul.
James Beard made good on his word, and the culinary community welcomed Julia and Simca with open arms at a book launch party at the Egg Basket. Everyone was friendly, and when Julia told James about their on-the-road events, he seemed duly impressed.
“You’re very likeable, Julia,” he told her. “Have you ever thought about television?”
Julia had to laugh at that, remembering all the stress and work for a two-minute spot on the Today show. Imagine doing longer demonstrations on a regular basis in front of rolling cameras. Not that she minded the cameras so much, but there was really no flexibility or much room for error. She glanced over to where Simca was chatting with another group of people. “I think it would give my coauthor a heart attack.”
James chuckled. “She’s returning to France soon, right? It makes more sense for you to do the cooking show—you’re American, and the show will be for American cooks. Maybe on your next cookbook you can adjust royalties.”
Julia had never talked to James about her publishing contract, but she also had quickly learned that the publishing world was very, very small and gossip moved like a brushfire.
“Aren’t there enough cooking shows on television?” she asked.
“There are plenty, but they’re only getting more popular,” James said. “And there’s room for a French cook like yourself. My attempts have flopped. I’m not a warm and fuzzy personality—which is what’s needed to connect to an audience.”
“And I’m that type?”
James lifted his glass in a sort of salute. “You are. You’re one of us, sure, but you’re also one of them: a housewife, a woman of a certain age, a woman who learned to cook when she first married—these are all things that many people can relate to.”
Julia tried not to bristle at James’s pigeonholing her book into the housewife category. “My cookbook isn’t geared toward housewives specifically.”
“Oh, I know that.” James dipped his chin. “We can’t fool ourselves into thinking they aren’t our bread and butter.”
“You may be right,” Julia said. “But I think you’ve put too much confidence in me.”
Chapter 34
Cambridge, Massachusetts
February–April 1962
“Julia and Paul appeared with copper bowl, whip, apron, and a dozen eggs for her interview. ‘It was my idea to bring on the whisk and bowl and hot plate. Educational television was just talking heads, and I did not know what we could talk about for that long, so I brought the eggs,’ said Julia. The interview and demonstration were not taped, as usual, because of the expense of tape ($220 to $300) and the difficulty of storing it.”
—Julia Child
After Julia’s recovery from her hysterectomy, she was notified that she’d been invited to appear on the television show I’ve Been Reading by the assistant producer, Miffy Goodhart, who apparently was a fan of her book. Julia would appear alone since Simca had returned to France. Professor Albert Duhamel of Boston College was the host of the show, interviewing authors about their books. Since there was no budget for appearance or travel fees, most of the authors were from the Boston area.
Julia accepted the invitation, after all she was an author living in the Boston area, but she didn’t want to sit on a chair and answer interview questions. She wanted to do a cooking demonstration, so she called up the WGBH-TV phone number. A man answered, and after determining the man’s name as Russ Morash, she said, “I’d like to put in a request for a hot plate for my appearance on Professor Duhamel’s program.”
The man didn’t answer for a moment, and when Julia was about to repeat her request, he said, “You want . . . what?”
“A hot plate, dearie, so I can make an omelet. I’ll bring all the ingredients.”
Another long pause, then Russ Morash said, “From my experience, this is a first, but I’ll pass it on to our assistant producer, Miffy Goodheart.”
