“Colette, look at the terra-cotta skin. Its machine made and celebrates the world of today, but it is able to produce a version of medieval stone of the Gothic architecture, just like the Gothic churches celebrated in their own way, the merchants and the artisans.” I wasn’t sure I really understood, but I tried to look at New York though his eyes.
Then we walked to Wall Street. The streets in this part of town amazed me; they were so narrow, and the buildings were so tall. I felt like an ant crawling in the street, looking up and barely seeing the sky. Suddenly, what seemed like an army of people came out of every building, pushing and shoving us.
“What is happening?”
“People are going home, Colette. Downtown is filled with offices and at 5:00 P.M. they all go home. In a few minutes, Wall Street will be deserted. Let’s wait, and then we can walk around Fulton Street and down to the Battery to look at the Statue of Liberty.”
A half an hour later, Wall Street looked like a ghost town, empty and silent. Slowly we walked to the tip of the island and stood together, admiring the Hudson River and the Statue of Liberty in the distance. New York, once again, seemed to me so extraordinarily beautiful.
The next few days went by slowly. I had little to do. I took John for rides in the park and walked around the neighborhood for hours. There were no cafés where I could just sit and look at people passing by. I also felt shy about entering a restaurant alone, not knowing what to order. I explored the shops on Broadway, looked at the clothes and the beauty salons. I noticed women had very strange hairdos; their hair was teased and puffed up. I thought as a young woman of twenty-three, I must have looked very old fashioned with my curls.
Every night, Murray and Jimmy came home late. Jimmy was busy renewing contact with his old friends and job hunting. At night he often told me who he saw and what he did. The search for an apartment did not seem like a priority to him. We had been in his brother’s house for three weeks, and I felt tension building up in the family. I felt there was tension between Murray and Naima—we were still staying in their bedroom—and between Murray and Anne, who spent every summer with them. Dinners were difficult. There were many silences. Murray would talk about people he had seen without any explanation of why or for what: “I had lunch with the CEO of…” or “As the mayor said to me this morning…”
Growing up in Cairo, the conversations my family had were lively and interesting. The family was large, prosperous, boisterous and loving; my grandmother had had nine children. Here it was more like my French grandmother’s house. No one talked because there was no love between her and me or between my brother and me. Here it seemed it was the same. Anne resented Naima and seemed not to like her very much. Also, Naima and Murray did not seem, at least in my eyes, to love each other. I started to dread these dinners. I tried to tell Jimmy about it, but he thought I was imagining things.
There was also the problem of the food. Naima was a good cook, but on the nights Anne cooked, I ate nearly nothing. I was not invited to help in the kitchen and was too shy to offer. I spent these awkward dinners dreaming of a tomato salad, a good Camembert, and above all, a French baguette stuffed with ham. I would make my escape at lunch. I had discovered a restaurant that did not have tables, just a counter that made it feel more like a French café. The luncheonette, Chock full o’Nuts, served a cream cheese sandwich on very good walnut bread. I became addicted to it and went there every day, telling Anne not to wait for me for lunch. A few days later, I received a phone call from an old friend of my mother’s inviting us to dinner. The night of the dinner, I went looking for a flower shop to bring flowers. I could not find any, and I was worried. Go to dinner to someone’s house and bring nothing? Jimmy kept on telling me it was all right.
My mother’s friend was a tall, slim American woman with dyed red hair. Mr. and Mrs. Lowenstein lived on Park Avenue in a very grand apartment. They had lived in Paris for a year after the war, where they met my mother. “It was a relief to find someone who spoke English so well,” Molly said. “She helped me shop, and we had a great time together.” Philip, her husband, a banker, was slightly pompous. He made fun of the French, saying they took long hours for lunch and did not work hard. At the same time, he told me how delightful my accent was. This was something I would hear time and time again. There were many other guests, but I could not distinguish one from the other as everyone was introduced by their first name. I didn’t know who was married to whom. The men stood at one end of the large living room and the women at the other. They all drank hard liquor. I was offered whisky but turned it down. I would have loved a glass of wine but ended up drinking orange juice. The women talked about shopping, babies, and baby-sitters while I tried to listen to the men’s conversation. Their conversations were about politics and the stock market. I would have liked to join them but decided it was best if I stayed with the women. I had nothing to contribute to the women’s conversations, as I had no children and no home of my own.
Dinner was served from a buffet by a black maid in uniform. We didn’t sit at the dinner table but on chairs and couches. I was not used to it and was afraid to spill my food. The whole evening was painful and boring. As we took our leave, I thanked Molly for the lovely dinner. “We must see you again soon,” she said, as I thought that I would have to find friends of my own very soon.
A week later we left for Boston. I was so happy to leave the house and be alone with Jimmy. The city delighted me. I loved the row of town houses around the Green; the scale of the buildings was a relief after Manhattan’s skyscrapers and mammoth apartment buildings. On our first night, Jimmy took me to his favorite restaurant—a small fish place where we ate broiled flounder and where I had my first taste of clam chowder. The light creamy broth, filled with chopped clams and cubed potatoes, had a wonderful aroma of the sea and fresh thyme. Oysters followed, thick fatty oysters so different from the French ones but still wonderful. They slid down my throat in one gulp. The next day we went to Cambridge for the conference on planning. I liked Cambridge with its small streets, funky boutiques, and cafés with students sipping espresso and discussing their classes, books, or politics. Jimmy left for the conference and mingled with his friends, while I walked around Harvard Yard. What an extraordinary campus, so beautiful, so free, and so peaceful. There were students lying on the grass, talking or just sunning themselves. I thought of my own experience at the Sorbonne. Dreary, immense amphitheaters where the teachers never knew your name. You sat with your friends on hard benches, never meeting the other students. Our only fun was after class, where we’d meet in a café over a ham sandwich and a glass of beer, discussing world politics or Sartre’s latest novel.
As I entered the conference hall, a woman was on the platform talking about the American cities and urban planning. I looked at the program and read that her name was Jane Jacobs, a journalist for Architectural Forum and Fortune. She was talking about urban renewal and how it had destroyed American cities by creating large bands of highway that were changing neighborhoods for the worst, killing small businesses. She pointed out how the immense building heights had a dehumanizing effect, their massive blank walls seeming almost hostile to the pedestrians on the sidewalks. I recalled then my own experience arriving in New York, how I felt like an ant crushed by the heights of the buildings. She added, “We need more people who care. We need to save our city centers, and stop the exodus to the suburbs.” She was passionate and electrifying. She got a standing ovation. I wanted to meet her, but there were too many people. Later when I met Jimmy, I told him how much I enjoyed the woman’s talk.
“We will meet her in New York, I promise. I know her husband. He is an architect and, like her, fascinating.”
That night Jimmy took me to Durgin Park Restaurant, an immense place, packed with tourists like us. The restaurant had long wooden tables for communal eating. We sat next to a family with four children from Ohio. Everyone was very friendly, so different from the French. They were all excited that I was French, and
questions flew at me:
“How do you like Boston?”
“Love it, it’s more like Paris.”
“New York?”
“More difficult to know…I haven’t really explored it yet.”
“What part of Paris do you live in? I know the Eiffel Tower and…”
It turned out that the father had been a soldier in the war and had visited Paris and enjoyed the visit tremendously. Here the food was different but also very exciting as Jimmy chose dishes I had never tasted before, such as a strange corn pudding, light and fluffy, more like a soufflé with a very strong taste of corn. I loved it!
“It’s called Indian pudding,” the woman told me. This was followed by a broiled fresh fish and scalloped potatoes. It was the first great meal I had had in United States. The next morning Jimmy took me to the Italian section in North Boston. There was an open market, he told me, like in Paris. All along the street were stands with merchants calling to customers to buy their fare: oysters piled high, smelling of the sea; clams; and large crabs.
“Can we have some now? Right here?” I asked one of the sellers who was pushing me to buy oysters. “I don’t live here, but I would like to try them.”
“Get yourself a lemon. I’ll open some oysters for you. How about clams?”
“I never ate clams; I will try some.”
“Bella, anything for your great eyes,” he said.
I felt I was back in Italy where we lived after our marriage. There, the men compliment you at every corner, bella or not. I bought a lemon, and Jimmy and I ate half a dozen oysters and clams. I had never had clams on the half shell. It was a revelation. So different from oysters. You have to chew the clam. They are soft and hard at the same time, slightly salty, and so delicious. We continued our walk and stopped at a stand filled with vegetables. I recognized Swiss chard and Sorrel, but near them was a vegetable I didn’t know. It had broad, waxy, blue-green leaves. Next to it was still another vegetable with dark green leaves, frilled with curly edges. “It’s kale,” the seller told me, handing me a large bunch. I cut a small piece and tasted it. It was spicy and bitter at the same time.
“What are these?” I asked pointing to another green vegetable.
“The blue-green one is collard greens, and this here, lady, is mustard green. Buy some and cook it with a piece of salted or smoked pork, and you will love it.”
I wanted to buy some, but Jimmy said no because no one at home would eat it. I promised myself that when I had my own apartment, I would try them all. Then I saw stands with lettuces. “I hate iceburg lettuce,” I told Jimmy. “I have to bring this lettuce home.” I also bought large, round, purple eggplant and some green sweet peppers. The fish stand was great; there were all sorts of fish that were new to me. I would have loved to buy more, but to my disappointment Jimmy said no. “We are going back home on the train. You cannot take fish with you. It will spoil, and the whole compartment will smell.”
On the train back to New York, I dreaded returning to Murray and Naima’s apartment. I started to understand that Murray resented being kicked out of his room and sleeping in the maid’s room. We had been staying there too long. I knew we had to move. On the train, Jimmy told me that he had an interview the next day with a firm of architects and planners who had a great reputation. “I hope I will get the job” he said. So do I, I thought, so that we can afford an apartment. I also decided that I had to take over the task of apartment hunting. Having made that firm resolution, I felt free to daydream about the vegetables I had just bought and wondered how I would prepare them.
That night I made a sort of soufflé with the kale. I thought it was delicious, but no one, not even Jimmy, said anything. I put aside my apparent failure as a cook and put all my energies into finding a home. Every morning, with The New York Times in hand, I walked through the city’s streets looking at apartments. Jimmy had been hired as designer and planner at a firm called Mayer and Wittelsey. Meanwhile the tension in the house was becoming unbearable. Murray had refused to move back into his room. I had the feeling that he and Naima were fighting, but not only about us—they also fought about Anne, who like most mothers-in-law gave her opinion on everything that took place in that house. Dinners were hard to take; Murray barely acknowledged our presence; Naima, wanting peace above all else, was busy with the children and refused to intervene. Jimmy was lost in his own world, and I desperately tried to make conversation, so I talked about the apartments I had seen.
“I saw an apartment on a street called Bleecker. Wonderful. It’s on the third floor, a walk up. Great view from the windows, and you know, the bathtub is in the kitchen. So romantic! Next to it is a great charcuterie with prosciutto, hams, sausages, and cheeses. Also there are street vendors selling vegetables and fruit. And best of all the rent is only $85 a month. I want to show it to Jimmy tomorrow. We can move in right away.”
My announcement was greeted with exclamations of horror. “Bleecker Street, that’s in the village and a three story walk up! The bathtub in the kitchen! Ridiculous Colette, you need a real apartment! Furthermore, it is too expensive.”
Too expensive! I heard that statement every night as I would describe what I had found that day. Nothing was good enough for my mother-in-law, nothing was elegant enough for Murray, and Jimmy would smile at me and always say, “Tomorrow you will find something better.” I was getting so angry with Jimmy. I tried to explain to him that we were causing strife between husband and wife and that even Maxwell, the three-year-old, was acting up because of it. Jimmy told me I was exaggerating, that things were not that bad, and that tomorrow I would find an apartment. Day after day, newspaper in hand, I went looking for a place to live. By now I had learned the bus system and could move up and down Manhattan quite easily. Lunches were a slight problem. I could not always find a Chock full o’Nuts to order my favorite sandwich. I tried a street vendor sausage and threw it in the garbage—nothing like Munich’s sausage that we used to eat in the street. Eventually, I discovered a BLT, a tomato and bacon sandwich that I liked, but I had to learn to say, “No mayonnaise and on toasted rye bread.” I could not eat the thin, soft white bread even toasted.
One night when Naima was out, I made artichokes stuffed with breadcrumbs and herbs, as I had learned to in Italy, and cooked them in olive oil. I thought that everyone would be happy, the tension would disappear, and I would be praised as a great cook. But no, no one said anything, not a word. I looked at Jimmy, who wore his far away look I now knew so well. It meant that he was thinking of an architectural problem and was totally oblivious of everything around him. Suddenly, I decided to leave the house. I had enough of this family who did not talk, who seemed not to like one another.
Slowly, I got up, left the dining room, put my coat on, and waited to see if anyone noticed that I had left the table. I waited ten minutes. Nothing happened, so I left. I walked down Central Park West toward Columbus Circle. By now I knew that part of the city quite well. I sat on a bench outside the park and looked at the people walking by. I thought I had made a mistake, coming to New York. I did not like the city, I had no friends, and Jimmy did not seem to care for me as much as he did in Italy where we first lived as husband and wife. Everything I did was either criticized or dismissed. What was I doing here? I wondered. I am twenty-three years old, I am still young, and I must go back to Paris, find a job, and start a new life again. But I did not want to go back to the apartment. I decided I would stay on my bench until morning and then go back, pack my bags, and leave. I must have sat down there for more than an hour when suddenly I heard Jimmy’s voice.
“Oh, I found you! I was so worried; I have been walking for the last two hours. Why did you leave? I was panicky. What’s wrong? I don’t understand what happened. Please tell me.”
I looked at his face; he looked exhausted, upset, there were tears in his eyes. “I love you,” he kept on repeating, hugging me. “Why did you do that?” And so I explained and talked about my loneliness: Murray and Naima, Anne and
him not understanding, not listening to me. Not helping me find an apartment.
“We have been here over two months. I want my own home with you. I want to find a job. Have a real life.” I told him of the apartment I had found on Sixty-eight Street and Central Park West. “It is in the back, on the second floor. It isn’t great, but please can we take it and move?” Jimmy promised that the next morning we would go and see the landlord and sign a lease. We slowly walked back to the house. They had all gone to bed. I did not have to explain anything to anyone.
The next morning as promised, we went to sign the lease. The apartment had one large living room, a small bedroom overlooking a brick wall, and a small kitchen with a dinette. Jimmy did not seem too happy but said nothing. Then we ordered a bed, and a few days later we moved in. Murray and Naima were upset with us. We had not asked their advice, and they felt offended. Anne thought we should have waited for a better place. No one was happy for us except me.
A few days later my large shipping baskets arrived with my entire trousseau. Together we unpacked, and mentally I thanked my mother for the lovely towels and sheets I now had. We went to the Salvation Army and bought two dentist stools for a few dollars and a writing desk that Jimmy stripped and painted white. (Forty years later, I still have the writing desk and the stools.) I bought a vase at the Five and Ten and filled it with flowers because by now I knew where the flower shop was. I placed one basket in the dinette and covered it with one of the tablecloths I had not wanted to take. This became our dining table, and after buying some pots and pans, I was ready to play housewife and cook my first meal.
I was finally home!
SNAILS WITH SWISS CHARD
Wash 1 pound of Swiss chard. Cut the leaves off the stems. Set aside the leaves and finely chop them. Dice the stems. Bring a quart of water to a boil with a pinch of salt. Then add the stems and bring to a boil; turn off the heat and drain. In the same saucepan, heat 2 tablespoons of butter, add stems, and sauté for 5 minutes or until they are tender, but do not brown. Then add the leaves and sauté for 4 minutes. Remove from the heat and set aside. Meanwhile, in a skillet heat 2 tablespoons of butter. When the butter is hot, add 2 dozen large snails, sprinkle with salt and pepper, and sauté for 5 minutes, while stirring. Remove from the heat and set aside. Peel 8 garlic cloves. Place the garlic in a saucepan, cover with 1 cup of milk. Bring to a boil, lower the heat, and simmer for 5 minutes or until the garlic is cooked. Drain the garlic. In a food processor, puree the garlic with ½ cup of heavy cream. When ready to serve, add the Swiss chard to the snails and heat for 2 minutes, then add the cream sauce, mix well, and heat through. Do not boil. Serve sprinkled with chopped parsley.
The World in My Kitchen Page 3