The Train Bleu took the Childs to Cannes for a La Pitchoune Christmas, but Paul’s bad case of bronchitis and consequent medication seemed to disorient him more than ever. His “severe communication problems” meant it took him one and a half hours to write a page to Charlie, saying, “Aphasia is shocking—because it’s YOU doing it. And you don’t know when or why … I simply don’t understand most of what people say.” Earlier he wrote, “I can’t adjust to my present incapacities, as though some evil witch has waved a wand over my head and The Prince finds himself all at once a hedgehog, like the Grimms’ tale.”
While staying at La Pitchoune, Julia learned that for her efforts on behalf of French cuisine, she would receive the Ordre de Mérite National from the French government, an award which Jean Fischbacher and Simca instigated. She was the most visible representative in the United States for French food, had feted many French chefs in Cambridge and New York, and demonstrated French techniques (with Simca and Anne) that summer for Natale Rusconi at the Gritti Palace Hotel in Venice. Though she did not intend to return to the Gritti (the work actually cost her money, the publicity was nonexistent, she reached too few students for her efforts, and she doubted that any of the profits promised to the “Save Venice” fund found their way there), she made important friends in Marcella and Victor Hazan, who had a cooking school in Bologna, and Faith Heller Willinger, who had sought Julia’s advice in 1972 and consequently apprenticed herself to Italian chefs. Willinger, from Cleveland, married an Italian man and eventually coordinated the Cipriani cooking school (after Rusconi left the Gritti).
Julia and Paul returned to Boston in time for the presidential political conventions, staying up until 4:30 A.M. to watch and celebrate Jimmy Carter’s win. She often gave her time for patriotic efforts, participating in a film, The Chemicals of Life, for the Smithsonian National Air and Space Museum, which they dubbed “Julia Child’s Primordial Soup.” And she encouraged young cooks, many of whom dialed Julia’s listed telephone number for help in preparing a recipe or menu.
CONFLICTS OVER “AMERICAN” CUISINE
Despite all her French dining and concern with French cuisine, whether classical, nouvelle, or minceur, Julia was chiefly interested in how Americans cooked and ate. Via books and television, she was primarily a teacher of home cooking. The aborted plan with Beard for a bicentennial cooking show—featuring turkey, pumpkin, succotash, Indian pudding, and the like—was part of her larger plan to improve American cooking and eating. She had urged Sam Chamberlain before he died to give his papers to the Schlesinger Library in Cambridge (Radcliffe), where there was a growing collection of valuable books on cookery. She also supported the Culinary Institute of America by attending its commencement in Hyde Park, New York, in 1976.
Never parochial, she tried all cuisines, preferring fresh Chinese when there wasn’t a good French restaurant in town. She knew all the great French chefs and supported the growing number of teachers (the ever-hostile Madeleine Kamman, who had just opened a restaurant in Newton, being a noted exception). Anne Willan and Mark Cherniavsky came for the 1976 Thanksgiving weekend of cooking together. Anne and Julia discussed the early growing pains of La Varenne and, specifically, the visit of Queen Elizabeth to the Ford White House earlier that year, a state dinner that Julia had attended. She was still in the throes of writing an article about it for The New York Times Magazine.
Julia had attended the White House dinner with WGBH, filming in the cramped kitchen before dinner and nibbling the food. Ruth Lockwood had encouraged the New York Times to do a feature on the event, but Mimi Sheraton ended up criticizing chef Henri Haller (who was Swiss) for serving French food (the lobsters were in aspic). Where was the American food? Sheraton and others asked. Julia was caught in the middle of what she labeled “public caterwauling.” She believed in French techniques and American ingredients (lobster certainly qualified), but always wanted the best food whatever its provenance. (The Fords had insisted on only American wine.) When W magazine published an article of advice for the new Carter administration, including “Pamela Harriman’s Peanut Pâté,” Julia was quoted as saying that the “tiresome” chauvinists “should be knocked in the head.” The only criteria for food and wine should be that it be the best and can be served to a large group.
The “culinary reputation” of the White House “is dreary indeed,” Julia concluded in her essay—in the form of a “letter” to the First Lady—published in The New York Times Magazine in January 1977. She defended the chef, Henri Haller, and challenged the new First Lady, Rosalyn Carter, to be practical in her “packaging and public relations.” Though “we most certainly must act to preserve our culinary heritages,” she urged a menu that was appropriate for large, sit-down dinners and changing the names of the dishes from international French to national American. Thus quiche aux crevettes became “open-faced tart of Louisiana shrimp,” homard en belle vue became “cold boiled lobster from the coast of northern Maine, in fancy dress,” and selle de veau farcie et braisée became “stuffed boned saddle of New Hampshire veal,” and glace aux pêches, sauce aux framboises became “fresh Georgia peach ice cream with Rose Garden raspberry sauce.” Practical American advice.
The old contest between American and French produce and cooking was one Julia largely ignored except when she was dragged into the White House debates and dunned for an occasional reference to the superior American beef. Paul initially preferred French wines, though they were surprised by the results of a contest set up in Paris by Englishman Steven Spurrier, a thirty-four-year-old wine purveyor who owned a wine shop, the Caves de la Madeleine, and a wine school, the Académie du Vin, near the Place de la Madeleine in Paris. It was a blind tasting and among the judges were several friends of Julia, including Odette Kahn, editor of the Cuisine et Vins de France, and Raymond Oliver of Le Grand Véfour. Much to everyone’s shock, the Americans won.
Soon a salvo from the other extreme added a different note to the culinary celebration of the American bicentennial. “It was hot stuff then,” Peter Kump says of The Taste of America, which food writers Karen and John Hess published in February 1977. “No one had ever dared to blast Julia and Jim before. Karen was angry and wrote the explosive chapters, though I don’t think she had the credentials.” Beard’s biographer called it “a vituperative and angry critique of American gastronomy.” Julia told Beard, “The less said about them the better.”
The Hesses (he was briefly the food writer for the New York Times) essentially said there was no taste in American food. Some of the criticisms had validity: they alleged that American “gourmet” cooking was largely second-rate Escoffier; corporate agriculture rendered the American diet tasteless and unhealthy; the food press and the food industry were indeed incestuous; reviewers were afraid to be honestly critical; American food products and cooking had declined; there was a “gourmet plague” in America. Yet the Hesses were sensational and extreme, blaming it all chiefly on Child, Beard, and Claiborne—the easiest targets. With rare exceptions, they attacked almost all of the food writers and cooks in the country.
The Hesses admired the purists and held to the idealism of the Jeffersonian agrarian tradition. And to their American tradition of dissent. Claiborne was a plagiarist, Beard a sellout. They admittedly struggled to find anyone to praise. Their book was a sensational read, at least in New York City. But it was self-defeating with its tone of snide cynicism and bitchery which gave the impression that it was settling scores against everyone. The controversy was healthy for an essentially closed food world, but its impact was weakened by the angry tone.
Julia took more than her share of lumps—for liking McDonald’s French fries, for using too many en croûte dishes in her cookbooks, and for aiming her Mastering books too much toward haute cuisine. Yet Julia frequently said, “It is a teaching cookbook, not a chef’s notebook.” A mutual friend (praised in the Hess book) countered that Julia’s way of handling her recipes made it look like a chef’s cookbook, “but I see no other way to do
it for people who do not have the background.” Indeed, “Julia includes quenelles, but she also has daubes (stews), pâtés, boeuf bourgogne, coq au vin, and soups of the bourgeois.” Peter Kump also countered, “Loving Simca and exposing Julia is dead wrong—they were one.” If Julia was vulnerable to some charges, she was clearly wronged by their statement that she did not enjoy cooking.
The Hesses were certainly right about Julia’s mention of canned consomme and frozen pastry, but some of their other criticisms indicate they may not have read the introductions to Julia’s books, where she clearly says that the French do not make their own French bread (Mastering II) and that she is including more than French dishes (Kitchen). Does one refuse to make bouillabaisse if one cannot get rascasse? Does one ignore the fact that most of Julia’s readers can only buy their produce in a supermarket? Again, her pragmatic compromises were turned against her. Ironically, in a 1974 article, Karen Hess had said, “French cuisine in America must be something of a compromise.”
Julia, the embodiment of common sense and practicality, walked the moderate road between the extremes of French classical and nouvelle cuisine and between the elitism of the Hesses and the catsup-on-cottage-cheese served at the White House. However slow she was to question the heavy floured cream sauces of classical French cuisine, she did modify her own French recipes. She shared the ideals for French cooking that the Hesses articulated, but she eschewed their ivory tower snobbery, believing Americans had to use the produce they had on hand—and most people did not have fresh produce markets. She did indeed like the taste of fat in McDonald’s fries (“I’d rather eat them than airline food”), but demanded that only the best cooking be offered in the White House.
A final, hurtful blow came from the Hesses in October 1977, when, on the basis of their reading of one sloppy newspaper article about Julia, they declared that “after a crash course for amateurs she became a teacher, and ultimately a television ‘chef’ virtually overnight.” Finally, frustrated that no one had answered the Hesses’ “pretentious drivel … and their latest attack on available windmills,” George Lang, owner of the Café des Artistes in New York City, wrote a rebuttal for the same magazine, Politicks. “Their interest is not to evaluate, but to hurt,” and by attacking “the biggest” and “most famous,” they gain “instant notoriety.”
Julia’s practicality was both innate and kept steady by her contact with the American people (the Hesses rarely left the Upper West Side of Manhattan, one critic noted). When in the winter of 1976 Knopf sent her on the final tour for From Julia Child’s Kitchen, this time to Rochester, New York City, Atlanta (for the Food Editors Convention), Detroit, Richmond, St. Louis, and Houston, she met people from every walk of life. She also had the good fortune, when she was in New York City, to meet Simca, who was still promoting Simca’s Cuisine and doing demonstrations with her co-writer, Michael James. Paul, now more than two years after his surgery, seemed to enjoy a certain amount of activity and stimulation.
During the two years since Paul’s strokes, Julia had resumed her Q&A columns for McCall’s, sat for numerous interviews, visited France, England, and Italy. She would now spend several months of 1977 in Provence “translating” From Julia Child’s Kitchen into British English (which meant, for one thing, testing the bread recipe with English flour). The U.S. edition of Kitchen had passed the 100,000 sales mark. She was also writing more book reviews, of the new French translation of Ali-Bab, books on French cooking by Jacques Pépin and Louis Saulnier, and three books on wine. Little wonder, with this activity and the reruns of The French Chef, that her books continued to sell briskly.
TRANSITIONS
For each of the three winters after Paul’s strokes, they spent a few weeks in California. During the obligatory visit to Pasadena and her stepmother, Julia mulled over her career options with an infirm husband who once carried half the burden of travel and project preparation. As they moved slowly up the coast, the Childs reveled in the isolated beauty of Santa Barbara, especially the San Ysidro Ranch. Proceeding north, they took Simca to meet Mary Frances on her ranch. Also, they met Dick Graff, who with his brother Peter owned the Chalone Winery in Northern California. Shirley Sarvis, a food writer for Sunset magazine and a friend of both Julia and Richard, set up the meal, pairing the wine and food, and the Childs were “so tremendously impressed with [Dick’s] wines.” Julia told a journalist that “the older we get the more American we get.”
Paul Child, the poet and semanticist, now struggled for lost words, so it was particularly poignant that his book of poems, many of them addressed to his beloved Julia, was finally published. Bubbles from the Spring was privately printed in 1976, and The New York Times Magazine printed four of the poems on its endpaper on May 16. First was his birthday poem of 1961, opening “O Julia, Julia, Cook and nifty wench,” and concluding “O luscious dish! O gustatory pleasure! / You satisfy my taste-buds beyond measure.” The fourth poem was “The disgraced orifice” and referred to Julia’s mouth, “made for other lips to press, for love,” which made such weird noises when confronted with food: “squawks … twittering coos … groaning.”
Many factors contributed to the Childs’ final transition back to the United States, foremost being Paul’s disability, which slowed down her pace of work. They struggled with the decision for months before Julia had a sense of turning a corner. Hiring Elizabeth Bishop to bring order to her Cambridge office seemed to signal a new level of acceptance of Paul’s condition. Soon they were housecleaning and discarding clothes (including many of Julia’s size 12A shoes—bought simply because they were the right size): most significantly, they boxed up books and letters—all her correspondence with Simca, Mary Frances, and others—and sent them to the Schlesinger Library, where Julia hoped to add to the best collection of culinary historical books and documents. She kept the books she needed for reference. She also bought a Dictaphone (insisting Simca do the same) and hired a new secretary to alternate days with Gladys.
Adding to her discomfort was the fact that Julia was between books and television programs. Just a year earlier she told a journalist she did not want to do any more television. “It’s gotten much more expensive to do, and it involves a 12-hour day and a 7-day week, and we’ve had it.” Yet by the spring of 1977, persuaded by the promise of a slower pace and a new format, Julia had agreed to do a new series. Russ Morash would come back as her producer, Ruth Lockwood (recently widowed) would be her personal manager, they would shoot one episode a week on a permanent stage, and she would move out of what she called “the straitjacket of French cuisine.”
“May we go out like rockets, rather than delayed fuses!” she had written Simca three years before. Thus, she planned her reentry by taking Paul to Europe to enjoy La Pitchoune, plan menus for the new series, undertake a diet, and have what Paul called a little facial “touch-up.” The plastic surgery, suggested by her producer, occurred amid worries about Freddie Child’s health. Erica had called from Maine on June 10 with news that her mother had a heart attack but was rallying. Because Paul had had dental work and Julia’s face was still a little swollen by mid-July, they delayed their flight home one more week. They had just walked in the door of their Cambridge home on Saturday, July 23, when the call came from Maine: a second heart attack had proved fatal. They took the plane to Bangor that night for private weeping and six quiet days with the family. On Thursday they offered Freddie’s ashes to the rocks and waves off Lopaus Point.
After fifty years of marriage, Charlie Child was devastated. So were Paul and Julia, who also worried about what would happen to Charlie, who was losing his sight. (After Freddie’s memorial service three months later in Pennsylvania, Charlie threw away his paints and stopped writing letters.) Freddie’s death would bring Julia closer to Rachel and Erica. But she handled this death as she had the loss of her grandparents and parents (and a dozen relatives during her youth), by an emotional outpouring and then determinedly getting on with the life ahead. Julia had lost a beloved sister-in-
law; all the more reason, she knew, to keep working. On October 25, after returning from Lopaus Point, she walked into her studio kitchen to begin rehearsals for Julia Child & Company.
Chapter 23
THE COMPANY SHE KEEPS
(1977 – 1980)
“As soon as you’re off television, in a few months
nobody will know who you are …”
JULIA CHILD, January 1980
THE MECHANICAL pea sheller was attached to a portable mixer. When Julia turned it on, the shiny machine began shooting the fresh peas out one side and the discarded pea pods out the other. Pop, pop, pop. It was hilarious, yet no more efficient than shelling the peas by hand. As Julia knew, however, it was a great visual for the television camera, and she loved gadgets. “We have to have fun on this show sometimes!” she told Mary Frances Fisher. Julia had a flair for anticipation and, as one journalist would say, gave the impression of “a child who can hardly wait.”
GOING AMERICAN WITH
THE PERSIAN CIRCUS
Julia Child & Company was filmed in 1977–78, and Julia Child & More Company in 1979–80. After five years away from a television series, Julia was “getting back in harness again,” as she described it to several friends. She made both series as much fun as she could, both behind and in front of the camera. But the giggles provoked by the mechanical pea sheller (for the show “Chafing Dish Dinner”) belied the complicated hard work behind the scenes.
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