JuPaul loved playing host to Jim and other foodies, friends, and family at la Peetch. They took everyone around to their favorite restaurants for a taste of authentic Provençal fare and to lively local festivals. Every spring the Fête de Roses in Grasse celebrated the rose harvest, the sweet-smelling mainstay of the local economy, where visitors sniffed and swooned over three thousand varieties of blooms. One year the organizers decided to combine the flower show with another wildly popular event, the annual cat show. Well. Julia and Paul thought that was a brilliant idea. Since their first pilgrimage to the Cat Club de Paris expo, they rarely passed one up.
At the “Cat and Roses Show,” they hurried past the flowers to get to the real attraction: “The roses were superb, but we were so drawn to those mysterious and fascinating creatures, the cats, that we did only a token walk-past of the roses.”
They strolled up and down the aisles, stopping at each cage so Julia could fuss over the competing kitties. In this temple of cat worship, Julia was like every other acolyte, blending into the crowd, until an American couple recognized the tall woman with the famous falsetto. It was hard to tell who was more agog—the Williamses when they spotted her, or Julia when they introduced her to their magnificent Persian puss. The couple had come a long way to enter him in the show, but now it didn’t matter if they won a blue ribbon or not. Running into the Julia Child was the prize they’d never forget.
Responding to Julia’s breathy oohs and aahs, the bedazzled owners pulled the fluffy cat with the outsize name “Lewishof’s Michael” out of his cage so Julia could stroke and hug him. Paul immediately sensed this was a mistake: “I thought for a few minutes I was going to have to use my bullwhip to force her to give it back to Williams, but by an act of immeasurable will-power and renunciation, she returned it.”
A few days later they were delighted to read in the local paper that Julia’s main squeeze took one of two top prizes at the show. Julia ripped the picture from the paper and tucked it into a letter home, so their Minouche would never find out about her cat-show dalliance with the dashing Persian.
STILL LIFE WITH CAT
AFTER A FIVE-YEAR absence from TV, in 1977 Julia agreed to a new series, Julia Child & Company. She’d put on some pounds and vowed to lose them before the camera added even more. Paul was watching the scale too, and lamented that he had to cut back on wine and settle for Château de Pompe, as the French call plain tap water, even when they dined at their friend Roger Vergé’s three-star restaurant. As for Minouche, JuPaul’s attempted loss was his gain, and he grew plump on the leftovers and nibbles the three would normally share.
Paul’s letters home focused on bigger losses—not just the pounds, but his physical limitations and changes to their peaceful corner of Provence. Paradise was being spoiled by Hollywood-style mansions. The influx of people meant more roads and the blight of transmission lines crisscrossing the hills. On a trip to Nice they were almost run down by American-style rolling carts in a huge new supermarket.
Julia was always more open to the new, especially when it came to gadgets that took the drudgery out of cooking, like the food processor. In a few spins, it could turn out quenelles de brochet, those scrumptious poufs that once had her pounding fish until she thought her arms would drop off. But she grumped along with Paul that the French seemed to be turning into convenience cooks. The supermarket was just the latest sign of a creeping Americanization of food.
One of the new things Paul did embrace was a Polaroid camera, despite his purist’s disdain for the “point the box and push the button” school of photography. Julia enjoyed the instant gratification of the new camera and got a kick out of taking snapshots of friends, furry and otherwise, who grinned as she sang out, “Smile, and say ‘Soufflé’!”
Julia loved to go along on Paul’s photo expeditions through the steep limestone hills and sleepy villages. He bragged that she was getting better at picture-taking herself, and it was probably Julia’s idea to rope Minouche into an experiment. Why not try to capture the cat as he leaped through his special kitty window? But she grossly underestimated the degree of difficulty. First, catch a wary cat. Second, try to hold on to the squirming, scratching, miaouing thing while Paul gets into position and checks his light meter. Third, persuade him to vault through the window on cue. Fourth, spend a half hour calling “Here MinoucheMinoucheMinouche” every time he manages to wriggle free and take off after a lizard or bunny or anything else that moves.
When Julia’s arms looked like pincushions, Paul took a turn clutching the writhing cat while she snapped the picture, but he had even less luck keeping their hyperactive star calm.
After countless futile shutter clicks, they gave up on the action shot and decided on a simpler pose, Minouche’s head framed in the cat window. Julia doled out bits of raw liver and murmured in his ear to keep him from escaping before Paul was ready. They eventually got the shot, but Minouche got all the liver Julia had planned to grind into a luncheon pâté.
When Minouche waddled off for a post–photo session nap, Paul suggested Julia’s next subject should be a still life. In a letter to Charlie explaining his picture-taking philosophy, Paul referred to the cat-window episode with droll understatement: “A struggling cat is anything but simple to photograph.”
A DANGEROUS RIVAL
ONE MORNING A big black cat with a nasty disposition shattered the peace and quiet of la Peetch. This “monster Beeko” belonged to one of Simca’s cooking school students, who stayed in the house down the hill. Soon a feline turf war was on. Beeko crept up to the patio where Minouche lay napping and let fly a barrage of howls and screeches. Since Paul was at his outdoor easel and Julia in the kitchen nearby, Minouche stood his ground—from under a lawn chair, to be sure.
Minouche’s calm gaze infuriated Beeko even more. Paul imagined the aggressor’s rant: “I’m going to take over! Also all the food around here, and the next time ‘I’ll beat the beejeesus outa youze!’”
Beeko finally got his chance—Minouche, dozing in the sun all by himself. When the bully lunged at their kitten, Julia rushed out shrieking and waving her whisk. Paul too came running, a dripping paintbrush in one hand and palette knife in the other. Beeko tumbled backward into the thorny rosebushes and whimpered all the way home.
But it wasn’t over. Next time, the brute wised up and sneaked in under the radar before Minouche could summon the swat team. The little tiger showed spunk but got the worst of it, a nasty bite on his paw, and had to be quickly bundled off to the vet, who by now knew almost the entire la Peetch kitty corps.
The feisty Minouche had to endure house arrest while his wound healed. He paced and miaoued, and the minute his bandage came off, he leaped out his window into a driving rainstorm, oblivious to the whereabouts of his rival. Bonne chance! A lucky break for Minouche. Beeko and his owner had bid adieu to Bramafam.
Soon Julia and Paul were packing up too, heartbroken at leaving their new favorite behind. “Our poussiequette is adorable, and we simply hate to give him up—but shall return him regretfully to Bramafam Saturday evening. How can we thank you enough—comment vous dire à quel point—we have appreciated this priceless loan! Merci, merci!”
Paul worried for Minouche. What would he do without Julia, “who feeds him and talks to him and pats him, and strokes him, and kisses his head’s top-knot … if the closed kitchen window (the pussy’s exit and entrance-system) is unfriendly, and firmly shut, poor puss!” He scribbled a unique solution next to a photo of their kitty and sent it to Charlie—they could put a stamp on him and send him by airmail to Cambridge.
But mailing Minouche was wishful thinking. He’d have to settle for Simca’s warm kitchen, kisses, and cuisine until he heard JuPaulski’s Peugeot rumble up the dusty road to la Peetch once again.
“BOUTEZ EN AVANT!”
JULIA’S RESPITES AT la Peetch energized her, and after several weeks of R and R, she was ready for action, merrily plunging into the next TV or writing project. For Paul, it was g
etting harder to pick up and move across the ocean as often as they once did. With age he became less tolerant of the Provençal heat, but New England winters were hardly more attractive. Even though France would always exert a strong pull, the sunny shores of California beckoned. So in 1981 they bought a condo on the coast near Santa Barbara where they could spend the winter months and one day retire.
For Julia, it was a kind of homecoming. Their new place was near the spot where the McWilliams family had rented a summerhouse and Julia spent carefree days on the beach. The sea breezes and rolling hills covered with olive groves, lavender, and roses felt like paradise—Provence without the hassles of overseas travel and separation from family. Paul made his last trip to la Peetch in 1986 and, with his health failing, entered a nursing home a few years later. Julia returned to their hillside hideaway several more times, but it wasn’t the same without her Paulski, and she always hurried home to be near him.
Paul once wrote, “Due to Julia’s temperament she believes that everything will always be OK everywhere, at all times.” Far from a Pollyanna, she was deeply pained by Paul’s long, slow decline but kept her sorrow to herself. She made sure he was included in her cooking demonstrations and guest appearances for as long as possible, and when he could no longer keep up, she visited, often twice a day, and faithfully phoned when she was traveling. Paul died in May 1994, and she blew a kiss as she scattered his ashes into the Atlantic near their Maine cabin.
She composed her best tribute to Paul in the 1968 French Chef Cookbook: “Paul Child, the man who is always there: porter, dishwasher, official photographer, mushroom dicer and onion chopper, editor, fish illustrator, manager, taster, idea man, resident poet, and husband.”
Though she grieved the loss of her soul mate, Julia was never one to look back. Her gaze was firmly set on the horizon, and in time she embraced a busy bicoastal life. There were more cooking shows with new partners like Jacques Pépin, books to write and promote, and galas for pet projects like the American Institute of Wine and Food, an organization born at her dinner table. She was constantly looking for new ways to spread the gospel of good food, the life mission she discovered with Paul and Minette in Paris all those years ago. In her last decades, Julia lived her favorite motto: “Boutez en avant!” (Charge ahead!)
Julia and her kitchen Graces
LIGHTS, CAMERA … CATS!
A TRIO OF cats in a field of bright green asparagus peered out from a painting in Julia’s Cambridge kitchen. One friend thought they represented the Greek goddesses of Joy, Beauty, and Good Cheer, the three Graces whose dancing charms enlivened temple feasts. While Julia’s “Graces” couldn’t link paws and cavort around her kitchen, their bright-eyed gaze never failed to make her smile as she cooked a lovely meal for friends and served it with a jaunty “Bon appétit!”
The artist was Rosemary Manell, one of Julia’s dearest friends, who was equally nutty about cats. They met when their Foreign Service husbands took them to France, where they bonded over French cooking and champagne. Both were tall California girls who shared a taste for adventure and an earthy sense of humor. While Julia’s career in food blossomed, Rosie lived an artist’s life in California. But when Julia needed an all-around kitchen helper, Rosie was at her side, her indispensable right hand, bringing artistic flair to food design for her TV shows and books. The Cats with Asparagus painting may have been inspired by Blooper, Rosie’s gray chat de gouttière, who loved to eat asparagus, but only, she claimed, if it was perfectly cooked. A French foodie cat to the core.
Since a live-in cat was still out of the question for the globe-trotting Julia, she filled the house with faux felines. Kitty magnets clung to the refrigerator door, a neon-orange cat stared from a shopping bag, and pot holders in various feline poses collected near the stove. The Kliban cartoon cat crooning “Love to eat them mousies.…” shared wall space with a pensive photo by Paul of a silhouetted Minou. A sinuous glass cat reclined on a shelf, and Julia’s muse, the wooden marmalade cat she carted around to TV kitchens, leaned against the window, ready for duty.
It didn’t have far to travel. The rambling Colonial often doubled as a studio for photo shoots and TV shows, like the series In Julia’s Kitchen with Master Chefs. Now in her eighties, Julia liked to work at home. When she called, some of the biggest names in the culinary world showed up at her door, thrilled to be invited into the inner sanctum. Energized by cooking with new friends, Julia wasn’t ready to limit her role to host-observer, an “Alistair Cookie.” To the delight of her fans, she more than kept pace with chefs half her age.
If they expected to be wowed by acres of granite and high-end cooking gear, they were in for a surprise. Her kitchen was like Julia herself, unpretentious and welcoming. Shooting in the smallish room proved a challenge, but it was handy for Julia, who could go up to her room—not to nap, but to type book notes between takes.
Not far from the kitchen, the living room floor was a tangle of black cables tethered to hefty video cameras. Monitors and audio decks teetered on tables as a dozen staffers murmured into headsets, while Julia coordinated her assistants—literally sous chefs, down below in the basement prep kitchen. Her trusty aides performed with the precision of a drill team under the direction of their cheery drum major: “That looks just yummy, dearies!” From dawn till dusk, the kitchen elves prepared the recipes in stages, then sent them up to the kitchen “studio,” where Julia and her master chef du jour finished the lesson for the cameras.
Famous chefs weren’t the only ones vying to be invited into Julia’s kitchen—neighborhood cats were always trying to get into the act. On an unusually hectic production day, one of the furry Irving Street habitués, drawn by delectable smells but denied his customary access, paced furiously outside the kitchen window. The guest chef, Leah Chase, the “Queen of Creole Cooking,” was preparing Southern fried chicken that called for very hot oil and split-second timing. The director fretted about overtime and the cost of multiple takes, so each step had to be precisely choreographed, building to the climactic moment when chicken leg hits smoking oil.
Ready for my close-up, Mrs. Child
The director finally barked, “Quiet on the set. Cameras rolling.” Then, with a broad smile into the camera’s red light, America’s beloved kitchen guru began her umpteenth show. “Hel-lo, I’m Joo-lya Child!” Everything was going according to plan, until she picked up a flour-dredged drumstick and dropped it into the bubbling oil. At that moment, the hungry cat pawing at the window let out such an ear-splitting yowl even the basement crew froze. Had there been a terrible accident? Boiling oil spilled? Fingers burned? Julia realized the wailing came from the outraged pussycat on the sill. Everything came to a halt until she got her gasping whoops under control, fished the soggy drumstick from the pot, and reheated the oil.
Take two: coat the chicken leg, shake off excess flour, and drop it into the smoking fat. On cue, the frantic cat did another take of his own, scratching at the windowpane and growling when the chicken hit the oil. “Cut!” Do it again. And again, until they were almost out of drumsticks.
Finally Julia saw that her team didn’t think the cat’s antics were as hilarious as she did. They were stymied—no one wanted to confront the testy, hungry feline. Julia came up with a surefire plan for relocating the demanding heckler. Send someone down the alley toting a steaming bucket of outtakes—extra-crispy, paw-lickin’ good, Southern fried, master chef carryout.
AN ALARMING POUSSIEQUETTE
WHEN THE TV crews cleared out, life on Irving Street resumed a quieter pace. Friends were still in and out, and Julia’s nephew David stayed in the guest room during graduate school, keeping her company, especially at dinnertime. But with no Paul around to share a laugh and lift a postproduction flute of champagne, Julia’s housekeeper thought the place needed more than cat tchotchkes to liven things up. One day she arrived for work with a surprise tucked in her cleaning supplies.
The scene was eerily similar to that fateful day forty years earl
ier when Julia’s Parisian femme de ménage presented her with something she didn’t know she needed until she laid eyes on Minette. Julia plucked a buff-colored Persian kitten out of the bucket and beamed. Before she picked a name, she recalled Paul’s astute anatomy lesson. This poussiequette was definitely a Minou, not a Minette.
The rambunctious kitten loved to tear up and down the stairs and defy gravity, soaring from the newel post to the top of the bookcase. It wasn’t long before the little acrobat ran afoul of the burglar alarm. Julia tried her best to train Minou to pussyfoot around the sensors that would trigger an alert, but it was useless to reason with this highflier in the throes of a kitty-fit.
When the phone rang in the middle of the night, a groggy Julia had to reassure worried security guards she was in no danger. It was just an irrepressible kitten making his nocturnal rounds. After multiple midnight alarms, Julia reluctantly called her sister in California. Would Dort be a dear and adopt the lively kitten? He’s so much like that Roo de Loo rascal, Minette. The sisters reminisced about those long-ago French lessons punctuated by kitty love bites and telltale potatoes that turned up amid the lingerie. Dort, the lifelong animal lover, immediately said “Oui!” Minou felt right at home with someone who looked and sounded so much like Julia, but Julia sorely missed the fluffy troublemaker. When the sisters held their frequent gabfests, Julia always asked Dort to put her on speakerphone so Minou wouldn’t forget her.
Julia’s Cats Page 8