Backstage with Julia

by Nancy Verde Barr

  Although she would have thought it odd, I've always regretted that I didn't have a tape recorder running during that drive. I only recall bits and pieces of our conversation, but I do remember how richly colorful her stories were. In his wonderful book The Italians, Luigi Barzini, Jr. wrote that over centuries, artists credited sojourns in Italy for inspiring the color and light of their paintings. When a person feels and not just sees Italy, Barzini's observation about inspiration applies to many aspects of life. Our trip was all about food, and to Italians, food means so much more than eating. It is about the joys of gathering around the table with family and friends, about making fruit and vegetables grow, about tradition and memories. When our television family sat down for meals together, we felt Italy. Julia's conversation during that ride reflected that feeling because she spoke of food memories and of growing up in California. She told us how captivated her family had been when her father bought an avocado tree in Mexico and planted it in their backyard. "It was the first avocado anyone in our neighborhood had ever seen, and we all thought it was exotic." In those days, it was.

  She told us about a trip her family had taken to Tijuana when she was not yet a teenager and how Caesar Cardini himself made them his latest creation, the Caesar salad, right next to their table. Years after her family's trip, she conversed at length with Caesar's daughter, Rosa Cardini, and then wrote the story and published the recipe for the authentic version of the salad in her book From Julia Child's Kitchen. But the written word could not compare with her description during our ride. With a storytelling performance worthy of Scheherazade, she told and pantomimed how the man himself carefully, systematically, and with deliberate drama seasoned the romaine with garlic, olive oil, lemon, salt, coddled eggs, Parmesan cheese, homemade croutons, six drops of Worcestershire sauce, and eight grinds from the peppermill. Slowly and gracefully, she demonstrated how Cardini had gently "scooped under the leaves to make them turn like a large wave breaking toward him" to prevent the tender lettuce from bruising.

  "What about the anchovies?" I asked, breaking the spell.

  "No," she said emphatically with her index finger raised. "There were no anchovies in his recipe. Worcestershire has a little anchovy in it, and that's how anchovies crept into the salad."

  Julia's memories of the family meals at home were more about the fun of being together than the creativity of the food. "My mother didn't cook," she told us. "All she knew how to make were baking powder biscuits, Welsh rarebit, and codfish balls with egg sauce." Otherwise, hired cooks prepared the food, and it was standard meat-and-potatoes fare—average but ample, which was what was important to Julia, who said that as a child she was "always hungry."

  Other than relating her mother's limited kitchen skills, Julia spoke of her with great affection. Caro died when Julia was only twenty-five. She was a fun-loving, spirited nonconformist who was tall for her generation and had a high-pitched voice. Julia's mother, like Julia, graduated from Smith, where she excelled in sports and mischief. As Julia described her mother, I thought how similar she sounded to Julia. "She was a free spirit," Julia said, and I have no doubt she was.

  Julia spoke about her father with less affection. John McWilliams, a well-to-do real estate investor and successful businessman, was an extremely conservative man, and he did not consider the artsy—I think he said "bohemian"—Paul Child a suitable match for his daughter. "I couldn't believe he would just dismiss the man I loved," she told us. She never really forgave him for that. I found it hard to forgive Mr. McWilliams, never even knowing him, when Julia told us he'd said that she would probably never marry since she was so tall and unlikely to find a man who wanted such an ungainly woman.

  I already knew the story of Julia's culinary awakening, but Sonya asked and Julia told us how Paul had introduced her to the art and finesse of fine cooking in China, shortly after they met. "I thought Paul and his friends were terribly worldly and sophisticated, and when they suggested going out to real Chinese restaurants, I was happy to go along. The food was just delicious—like nothing I ever tasted. And everyone at the table talked about the food. What was in the dishes. How they were cooked. That's when I became interested in food."

  Then she told the story of that day in November 1948 when, as a thirty-seven-year-old newlywed, on her first day in France, she had the culinary experience that she said was "an opening up of the soul and spirit for me." As many times as I heard and would hear her tell the story of the life-altering lunch she and Paul ate at the restaurant La Couronne in Rouen, I never tired of hearing it. Her face would take on a lover's glow, her eyes glistened with a wistful look, and her speech slowed so she could tenderly illustrate how she savored each dish. "We began with oysters portugaises and a bottle of Pouilly-Fuissé," she cooed, describing how the wine was chilled perfectly and how the briny, craggy-shelled oysters tasted like none she had known growing up. She told us how each Christmas her father ordered oysters from Massachusetts. "They arrived packed in straw in a large wooden barrel. We ate them for months, and I did not particularly like them." Those oysters portugaises were life-altering not just because they began the meal that made Julia vow to learn to cook but because they converted Julia into an oyster fanatic. At the countless restaurant meals I shared with her, she always suggested we begin by sharing a large order of oysters on the half shell when they were on the menu. When a restaurant offered multiple varieties, she asked for a few of each. The Oyster Bar at Grand Central Station was one of her first choices when we left the GMA studios and wanted lunch before returning to Boston. I didn't like raw oysters much when I met Julia; I love them now.

  At that meal in Rouen, Paul and Julia followed the oysters with sole meunière. "It was Dover sole," she said, and neither British-born Sonya nor I needed to hear more to understand that it was the sole prized above all others for its flavor and texture. "He brought it to the table whole." She pantomimed and described how he flawlessly lifted the delicate fish from the bones with a knife and a large fork and presented them each with a perfectly browned fillet, then spooned over the fish "a delicious, simple sauce of browned Normandy butter, lemon, and parsley." To hear and see Julia describe that meal at La Couronne was to listen to a love story.

  Barzini's inspirational Italy had wielded its influence on Julia's memories, and I was disappointed when our driver pulled up to our hotel in Florence.

  The upside of being in Florence was that we would be staying in the same hotel for three consecutive nights and not moving each day to a new location. Instead of waking early and packing our bags for transport to places south, east, or north, we ate a leisurely breakfast while attempting to translate the Italian newspaper over coffee and Italian croissant wanna-bes. In the evening, before dinner, we lingered over cocktails sitting in cushy, tapestry-upholstered chairs in a lounge just off the lobby, enjoying the occasional melodies that wafted in from the piano bar behind us.

  One evening, Julia and I sat in the lounge awaiting a visit from one of her international admirers. Faith Willinger had introduced herself to Julia years before in a letter describing her own insatiable passion for cooking and asking Julia for advice on how to turn her passion into a career. Julia wrote back, telling her to "go to France and eat!" It was her version of Horace Greeley's recipe for success: "Go West, young man." As it turns out, Faith took Julia's advice but substituted Italy for France. She ate, learned, married an Italian, and opened a promising culinary tour business. Faith chronicled her experiences in letters to Julia, and when she read in the Italian newspaper that her mentor-by-post was in Florence, she sent a note to the hotel asking Julia if they could meet. Encouraging young colleagues was one of Julia's career-long commitments, and she sent Faith a return message inviting her to meet us at the hotel for drinks the following evening.

  Julia and I settled into chairs facing the lobby so that Faith would see us as soon as she entered the hotel. Julia ordered her regular drink, an upside-down gin martini, and I ordered a glass of wine. My order was easy; J
ulia was exacting about how she wanted her favorite libation prepared, and it was always a bit confusing to waiters, but more so in Italy, where she had to deal with the language discrepancies.

  "It should be in a tall wineglass," she said, gracefully air-sketching the shape of the glass with her hands. "Lots of ice, and then fill it to here with Noilly Pratt vermouth," she said, cupping the imaginary glass in her left hand and pointing to a spot near the top with her right index finger. "Noilly Pratt," she repeated. It was the only vermouth Julia drank or used for cooking. Still holding the phantom glass, she waved two fingers pinched close together over the top and scrunched her eyes. "And ju-u-u-st a splash of gin," she said, drawing it out to emphasize that she really wanted about as much as one could spray from a small atomizer.

  We watched people come and go through the lobby, scanning faces for anyone who looked as though they might be someone named Faith Willinger, although neither one of us had a clue what that look was. Then a woman strolled into the lobby, looked at Julia, smiled, and gave a little wave. Julia smiled back and signaled to her to come join us. She selected the chair next to mine, across the coffee table from Julia. We exchanged simple pleasantries, and then for several moments the situation was awkward. Uncharacteristic of ingénue food professionals, Faith wasn't offering much information on exactly what she did, and Julia didn't really remember enough about her to pose pertinent questions. Not a problem. Years as a wife in the diplomatic corps had trained Julia well to handle the most uncomfortable of social situations.

  "Now, tell Nancy all about yourself. She is a fine Italian cook and would love to hear about what you do," she said with genuine enthusiasm.

  The woman turned her attention to me but didn't seem to know where to begin, so, taking a clue from Julia, I helped her out.

  "I understand you are very involved with food." It seemed a wide-open area for her to run with.

  "Well, I don't do much cooking, but my roommate does. She loves to cook." To say the least, her answer surprised me, but if I looked perplexed, it wasn't only because of her response. I realized that I recognized this woman but couldn't quite place her. I could even picture her in a different dress, with a big smile and dangling earrings. And then it came to me. Her face was on the small cardboard billboard sitting on an easel in the lobby. She was the piano bar entertainer. Julia and I had read about her the day we arrived. Obviously she'd been walking by us on her way to perform, recognized Julia, and, as fans all over the world did, smiled and waved. I hated that she might think Julia had invited her over only because we thought she was someone else, so I quickly devised a ploy to ease us all out of an embarrassing situation.

  "I'm sorry," I said, "I didn't get your name." I hoped that Julia would hear that her name was not Faith Willinger, make the connection with the billboard, and then diplomatically switch topics from food to song.

  Julia did hear her reply and immediately boomed, "Well, you're not who you're supposed to be at all!" So much for diplomacy. But after explaining the mix-up, Julia moved right into asking her all about herself—what had brought her from America to Italy, what she sang—which made the performer feel quite comfortable, especially, I suppose, since she didn't have to talk about food. The real Faith showed up soon after, and I don't remember if we told Faith what had preceded her arrival, but I do remember making a mental note that directness has a place in diplomacy.

  Our first shoot in Florence was the one Julia most anticipated—bistecca alla fiorentina. The amount of setup was insignificant, so we descended as a group on the restaurant in the center of Florence. The restaurant was known not just for the essential authenticity of the Chianina beef but also for cooking the meat in large, wood-fired brick ovens. With the cameras rolling, the chef salted the huge steak, drizzled it with olive oil, and transferred it to a footed Tuscan grill that sat over hot coals. In less time than we could say "Mamma mia, that's a steak," he turned it over, cooked it briefly on the other side, and transferred it to a plate. The steak was so large that it hung over the sides. Julia was already seated at a table, and as soon as the director said, "Action," she picked up her fork and knife and cut into the beef. Other than the thin seared layer on the outside, the meat was blood-red, practically raw. Julia looked at it for a minute before saying anything, and I thought she might be questioning her carnivore loyalties. But hers had been a pause of appreciation. "Now that's a steak!" she said enthusiastically. Had it not been so early in the morning, I think she might have come close to eating the whole thing.

  The next day our car and van drove through the winding hills of Chianti to Badia a Coltibuono, and we saw for ourselves that it was the idyllic place promised by the brochures. Julia met Lorenza de' Medici, and the mutual admiration and affection were immediate. Lorenza has a gentle, captivating graciousness as well as an astute sense of business. Those qualities did not go unnoticed by Julia, who within a short time was encouraging Lorenza to join the International Association of Cooking Schools so she could "get known." Lorenza did join and rallied other Italian culinary professionals to do the same; each year at meetings, Julia would ask me if our "Italian ladies" had arrived yet.

  On camera, Julia and Lorenza displayed the easy, friendly demeanor of two friends cooking their way through traditional Tuscan recipes—a pork roast laced with rosemary and garlic, and white beans cooked with tomatoes and sage. For the closing shot, the two new friends sat outside at a simple round country table set on a stepped terrace and prepared to toast the audience arrivederci with the house-label Vin Santo. You know those movie outtakes in which the actors just cannot stop laughing? That's what that parting shot became. Julia could not remember the name of where she was. She'd begin, "This is Julia Child with Lorenza de' Medici, wishing you bon appétit from . . . Bad . . ." Then she'd stop and ask Lorenza to say the name again for her. After three or four takes, both she and Lorenza would break into giggles as Julia tried to get the three words together in a row. When it became clear that Julia was not going to be able to say the name, Sonya suggested a new ending. Julia said, "This is Julia Child with Lorenza de' Medici, wishing you bon appétit," and then Lorenza added, "From Badia a Coltibuono."

  The next day's talent was Giuliano Bugialli, who was supposed to give Julia a lesson in how to make two traditional Tuscan recipes that used leftover bread: a salad, panzanella, and tomato bread soup, pappa al pomodoro. Instead we were about to get a lesson in the Italian casual attitude about time. Domani is a favorite word of Italians, and it does not necessarily mean exactly "tomorrow." A better translation is "when I get around to it." Sonya called Giuliano early in the morning to confirm that day's shoot and discovered that the day was not convenient for him after all. "Perhaps tomorrow," he said. His excuses were legitimate; he kept and continues to keep a demanding schedule, but it put Sonya in an impossible scheduling dilemma, and she was upset when she reported the news to Julia and the waiting crew.

  "Get him on the phone for me," Julia said with such authority that we all sat up at attention. Julia informed Giuliano that we would be at his school that afternoon exactly at the appointed time to shoot the spot as planned, and then, without waiting for his reply, she hung up the phone. We were, he did, and we left for Ravenna and eels.

  The eels excited Julia more than they did me, but then she was the one who would have to hold up a live slithering beast, so I didn't mention my distaste for them. Christmas Eve dinners at my Italian grandmother's had fostered a dislike of the fish I could only think of as snake, but I had not yet sampled the delicate creatures of the Adriatic Sea, which were nothing like the ones I remembered. Besides, after Julia told me the fascinating story about eels, I thought they deserved to be on camera.

  All the female eels in Europe and America, after lolling about for seven years in fresh water, swim downstream in search of their mates, express their affection, and then travel thousands of miles to the salty waters of the Sargasso Sea, between Bermuda and Puerto Rico, to deposit their eggs; then, for all their labors, th
ey die. The wee hatchlings then make the long journey back to their familial waters and continue the cycle.

  Sitting in front of Dante's tomb, Julia held a bottle of white wine in one hand and in the other, high above her head, a vigorously squiggling eel. After telling viewers that Dante wrote about the benefits of drinking wine flavored with eel, she dropped her eel into the wine bottle. Then she suggested that viewers try it and let her know how it tasted.

  Our splendid week was over, and the next day Julia and I left Italy. It was late when we returned to Boston, and I spent the night at her house.

  "Buona notte," she said, giving me a hug as we stood in the upstairs hall between our rooms. "It was a good trip."

  "It certainly was," I agreed, and then a childhood memory of my own came out of nowhere into my head. "Sogni d'oro," I said.

  "What does that mean?" Julia asked.

  "Golden dreams. It's how my grandmother always said goodnight to us."

  "Sogni d'oro," she said smiling. And forever after, that was how Julia and I said goodnight to each other.

  Chapter 8

  Life is just one damn thing after another.

  —Elbert Hubbard, writer and publisher

  Julia was never one to sigh, but on the few occasions she did, the sigh usually came before or after her saying, "Immer etwas."

  "What does that mean?" I asked the first time I heard her say it.

  "It's always something," Julia translated. It was a phrase she'd learned in Germany in the mid-1950s, when the State Department transferred Paul there from France. Julia wasn't thrilled about the move, but she was quite fond of the expression and the huge German-made potato ricer she bought. It was a solid, well-made instrument that Julia used with enthusiasm. "You see, the potato goes in and you go schoooom and out she comes!"