After leaving Egypt for Paris in 1947, I had consciously shunned my Egyptian past, desperately wanting to be French. I had worked hard at losing my singsong Egyptian accent, learned to dress like I imagined a French young woman would, and never looked back at my Egyptian past. Now being French in the United States seemed to be my passport to a better life. In New York everything French had cachet. As Jimmy and I walked past a store on Atlantic Avenue, I stopped short as I noticed a cascade of loofas hanging on a nail. Loofas! These were the vegetable sponges that Aisha, my maid, washed me with until my skin would be red as a lobster when I was a six-year-old girl! As I stepped into the shop—the Oriental Pastry and Grocery—the smell of cumin and coriander hit me with such force that I staggered. I was back in Cairo in the kitchen with Ahmet, sitting on the counter, eating a pita filled with warm, lemony ful medamas (richly braised fava beans). A smooth male voice said, “Ahlan wa sahlan.” Without thinking, I repeated the familiar greeting. The words came out without my knowing that I could still speak some Arabic. I looked around at the shelves filled with food I remembered: jars of tehina and tarama, buckets of briny vine leaves, jars of rose petal jam, honey, and tiny stuffed eggplants. On the floor were barrels filled to their brims with multiple varieties of rice, small red and black lentils, dried brown beans from Egypt, and a panoply of macerating olives—pickled, cracked, oiled, and peppered. There were also pickled onions and lemons that I remembered using in stews, and my favorite, bright pink turnips pickled in beet juice and vinegar to eat with ful. Near the counter were baskets of fresh pita breads that I had not seen in more than ten years, and in a jar in a corner, were paper-thin sheets of apricot paste that we used to roll around ice cubes and suck like lollipops in the summertime. I wanted to buy everything. The voice I had heard belonged to a man with curly black hair and a warm smile standing behind the counter. How did he know I would understand? And did I? I thought I did, but I wasn’t sure. Shy and afraid of making a mistake, I responded in English, “Why me?” “Habibi,” (my dear one), “you look Egyptian or Lebanese,” he said laughing. I asked for a jar of tehina, and a pound of ful medamas and wondered if he had mulukhiyya (a bitter green herb used to make a popular soup in Egypt)? “Yes, of course…two kinds. You want dried or frozen?” I didn’t know, but having an aversion for frozen foods, I chose dried and was handed a large bag of brittle leaves. I asked for cumin and coriander, two loofas, a pound of olives, and a container of pickled turnips. Then with a loud, happy Ma’al-salaama (good-bye), laden with my purchases, Jimmy and I returned home. On the way, I promised Jimmy that he would have a great dinner that night.
Back home, as I looked at all the food, I suddenly realized that I had no idea how to prepare any of it. In Cairo, no girl in my family was allowed in the kitchen. The kitchen was the cook’s domain. True, I had managed to sneak in without my grandmother noticing. Ahmet, our cook who liked me, would plop me on the kitchen counter and let me taste what he was preparing. I looked, smelled, ate, but nothing more. Tehina, I remembered, was a light creamy sauce, not that thick oily paste I had in front of me. What should I do with this enormous bag of mulukhiyya? The soup I loved was a smooth, deep green soup, redolent of garlic and cumin, and served with a mound of steamed rice. How did one transform these dry leaves into that lovely soup? Ful medamas was served with pickles and slices of hard boiled egg. But what had made the egg whites so brown? I didn’t know, but I thought that I could cook the beans and do without the eggs. I boiled the beans for two hours and tasted them. Their skins were too tough; it was nothing like the warm soft ones Ahmet would give me to taste in a fresh pita bread. That night we ended up eating pickles, olives, bread, and cheese. I promised myself that the following weekend I would go back and ask the owner of the store how to prepare the dishes I longed for.
The following weekend, I dragged Jimmy back to Atlantic Avenue. Mohammed, the owner, on seeing me again so soon, affectionately called me sukkara (honey, sugar) and was willing to explain everything to me. Pen and paper in hand, I took notes. He told me how to make a good tehina, with water and lemon juice; that dried mulukhiyya had to be pressed through a very fine sieve and added to strong chicken broth along with cumin, coriander and garlic; that tarama was mixed with soft white bread and lemon juice, and that ful had to be soaked overnight and slowly cooked for nearly twenty-four hours. “It is much better to buy cans of ful. All you have to do is heat them and mix them hot with lemon juice, olive oil, salt, and pepper.”
Atlantic Avenue was like a slice of Cairo to me with all its Arab shops. There was, for example, a larger, more elegant store across the street from Oriental Pastry called Sahadi, selling foods from all over the Middle East; further down the street were two bakeries, more Syrian than Egyptian; a butcher; and one or two Yemenite restaurants. I was eager to return home and try again to cook an Egyptian dinner. The tarama turned out perfectly, creamy clouds of lemony caviar flavored mousse, just as I remembered. I tried to squeeze the dry mulukheyya leaves through a fine sieve, but my fingertips were scraped, and I decided that next time, I would buy the frozen version. Miraculously, the soup turned bright green, and its garlicky, grassy aroma summoned Jimmy to the kitchen. I had succeeded. The food was good but not quite what I remembered. Jimmy loved it. Soon I started to cook Egyptian dishes for our guests. Later I went further, remembering my grandmother and Ahmet’s other dishes, and tried from memory to reproduce exactly what Ahmet had cooked in Cairo. I made stuffed vine leaves, cooked rice the Egyptian way; I made sanbuseck (small pastries filled with cheese) and baked chicken on a bed of leeks. To my surprise, I had, through memory, become an expert cook of Egyptian dishes.
Something else also changed. Gradually, I began to recall with a certain pleasure small incidents from my life growing up in Cairo. I would tell Jimmy about my grandmother’s poker day and how, if she won, I would get some money, or about my grandfather who took me to Cairo’s mango market. I even sang Arabic songs to Marianne. From then on, I often spoke about my life in Cairo to friends. I was no longer ashamed of my past, and to everyone who asked where I came from, I now answered, “I am half French, half Egyptian,” to the chagrin of Eunice Whittlesey, the wife of one of the partner’s in Jimmy office. She would state in an authoritative voice, “You don’t look Egyptian…you look French.” I had a problem dealing with people like Eunice who thought of me as too loud, too Mediterranean, and probably just a bit too sexy. Jimmy tried to explain their reaction as naturally Waspish, more reserved, but that didn’t make me feel any better. I preferred to spend time with Americans of European background, and happily, most of our new friends were.
Another chance encounter opened up a world that enchanted me and helped me develop an entirely new way of understanding the art of cooking. I met a Japanese artist, Arakawa, and his wife, the American poet Madeline Gins. Arakawa loved good food and believed that my cooking, which mixed Asian and French ingredients, was fantastic. He thought I should also get to know Japanese cuisine. He talked about dishes I had never heard of like soba, a buckwheat noodle that you eat cold, or shabu shabu, a dish of thin slices of meat that you twirl in a hot broth. I made him a French potee, a dish of poached meats and vegetables that is served with an aioli sauce; and while you eat, you also sip the rich, golden broth. The dish resonated with Arakawa, as it had the same basic idea as his beloved Japanese dish. He loved it and promised then and there to introduce us to a real Japanese dinner.
One night, he invited us to a Japanese restaurant on Fifty-seventh Street, located at the corner of Park Avenue. I don’t remember its name, but I will never forget the meal. I had walked along Central Park on my way to meet them at the restaurant; I had a feeling of well-being. It was an early autumn evening; the sky was clear, and a crisp breeze rustled the red and gold leaves. I felt alive and happy. When I arrived at the restaurant, I was ushered to a beautiful private room whose floor was covered with tatami mats. We sat upon silk pillows on the floor around a lacquered table. In a corner was a tall, black vase that h
eld one apple tree branch with tiny pink flowers. The first course was a soup served in miniature tea pots. The tea pot lid held a little cup, and in the cup was a thin slice of lime. I was told by my host to squeeze the lime into the soup, drink the broth, and then eat the morsels from the little teapot. The broth was clear and warm with a faint taste of fish and flavored with a mushroom that I learned later was the famous Japanese matsutake mushroom, and the zest of the lime came from a citron called Yuzu whose perfume made me swoon. In a single moment, I was warmed by the delicate broth, enthralled by the tastes and textures of what I discovered in my little teapot: a shrimp, two gingko nuts, and several bits of mushroom.
Absorbed in the ritual of the dish, I realized suddenly that this extraordinary soup echoed and prolonged the feeling of calm energy inspired by my autumn walk to the restaurant. The remaining dishes were as extraordinary an experience as the first one: a golden broiled fish, sweet, spicy, swimming in a transparent broth topped with shaved white radish and seaweed, tingling like the autumn breeze. Sake was served in delicate china cups, and at the end of the meal, we were brought warm, smoky tea. For dessert, we were presented with grapes peeled and threaded onto a beautiful carved wooden skewer, with overlapping slices of bright orange persimmons.
I fell in love with Japanese cuisine. Like a visionary dream, the experience of this meal opened up a new world to me. I quickly realized that this was how I wanted to cook. I knew then that I hoped to create a cuisine that would stir emotions in my guests, respond to seasons, and tighten bonds between friends sharing this experience. I realized the importance of the actual container in which the food would be served. I roamed the city looking for beautiful, unusual porcelain from China, Japan, France, and Italy or the best American pieces. I searched New York for Japanese ingredients (they were difficult to find but Arakawa helped), for French and American miniature vegetables, for Chinese mushrooms, for spices, and for fresh fish. I strove to bring elements of surprise and mystery to the table. I decorated my table with branches from our garden, and I garnished dishes with fresh flowers. My friends, astonished by my dinners, begged to be invited, and so once a week, Jimmy and I gathered our friends and our children together for a meal where most of the recipes came out of my imagination.
A year after Marianne was born and as the new fall semester started, I found out that I was pregnant again. Jimmy felt ambivalent about having another child. He thought it was too soon. But I was elated. When I announced to my mother-in-law that the new baby would be born in May, she was very upset, and within a few weeks sent us a television. I guessed, with an inner smirk, that she thought the television would distract us from more amorous activities. I told the Mother Superior that I would give birth in May, and her reaction took me by surprise. I was called to her office. Her face was set in a grim expression, and her mouth was pinched into a straight line. I wondered if one of the student’s parents had complained about my teaching.
“Sit down. Mother Elisabeth told me you are expecting another child,” she snapped.
“Yes, for the end of May. But don’t worry…I have someone who will replace me for two months. She is excellent,” I assured her.
“We cannot renew your contract,” she countered, her bonnet shaking furiously. “You are a good teacher, but we believe that mothers should take care of their children,” she continued in a more compassionate tone. “Your child needs you, so we’ve decided that this is your last year with us. We hope that when your daughter is old enough to go to school, you will consider the convent. We could make some financial arrangement.”
“But this is not fair!” I objected, forgetting the intractable nature of the Mother Superior. “Marianne is fine. I have an excellent babysitter.” I was crushed. Didn’t the church teach that marriage centered around procreation? How could they do this to me? Here I was pregnant again and losing a job that I loved. “But the church says…” I attempted.
“Don’t bring the church teaching to me!” Mother Superior roared. “The role of a mother is to stay with her children. You must give these children you teach a good example. Now go back to your class.” It was obvious to me that she wouldn’t budge.
What were we going to do? We needed the money, and I wasn’t sure I could get another job so easily. Back home that night, I tearfully told Jimmy what had happened. Jimmy told me not to worry, that another job would come along soon. He was now making more money since he had become one of the senior designers in his office, and we could live on his salary alone. He patted my arm, kissed me, and said, “When do we eat?”
MUSHROOM FLAN
Clean and remove the stems of 1½ pounds of crimini mushrooms. Puree the mushrooms in a blender with 4 large eggs, salt and pepper, a pinch of nutmeg, 1½ teaspoons of fresh marjoram, and ½ cup of heavy cream. Process until all the ingredients are pureed. Butter 4 small individual soufflé dishes. Fill with the mushroom mixture. Bake in a bain-marie, in a preheated 350° oven for 30 minutes or until the top is golden brown and firm.
Serves 4.
FENNEL SOUP WITH CILANTRO
Thinly slice 3 fresh fennels. In a large saucepan heat 1 tablespoon of butter. Add 1 onion, thinly sliced, and sauté until transparent. Then add 2½ quarts of chicken stock. Add the fennel, and 2 large potatoes, peeled and cubed. Bring to a boil, lower the heat, and cook until the potatoes are done. Puree the soup. Pour the soup back into the saucepan, add salt and pepper to taste, and heat through. Pour the soup in 6 individual bowls. Add 1 tablespoon of crème fraîche to each bowl and sprinkle with 1 tablespoon of chopped cilantro.
Serves 4 to 6.
CHINESE MUSHROOM CONSOMMÉ
This is a very simple recipe made with dry shiitake mushrooms.
Remove the stems of 8 large Chinese dried shiitake mushrooms. Place mushrooms in a bowl and cover with 6 cups of hot water. Soak for 2 hours. Remove the mushrooms and thinly slice. Place mushrooms in a saucepan along with the mushroom water and ½ cup of chicken bouillon. Add salt and pepper to taste. Bring to a boil, lower the heat, and simmer for 10 minutes. Pour the soup with mushrooms in 6 bowls, add 1 small spinach leaf to each bowl, and serve.
Serves 6.
ROAST PORK ON A BED OF POTATOES
Peel 3 garlic cloves and cut in thin slivers. With the point of a knife, make several holes in a 4-pound pork roast to insert the garlic. Rub the pork with 2 tablespoons of soy sauce mixed with ½ tablespoon of sesame oil. Sprinkle the pork with coarse salt and freshly ground pepper. Peel and thinly slice 5 large potatoes. Oil the bottom of a baking pan. Cover the bottom of the pan with the potatoes. Sprinkle with salt and pepper and 2 tablespoons of rosemary. Place the roast pork on top. Add 1 cup of chicken bouillon to the pan and bake in a 350° oven for 1 hour. Add more bouillon if necessary. Remove from the oven and cool for 10 minutes before slicing. Serve with the potatoes.
APPLE MOUSSE
Peel 4 Granny Smith apples. Quarter and remove the center core. Cut the apples in 1-inch pieces. In a skillet, melt 3 tablespoons of butter. Add the apples and cook over low heat until the apples are soft. Remove from the heat. Place the apples in a food processor with ½ cup of sugar and a 2-inch piece of fresh ginger and process until all the ingredients are pureed and let cool. Meanwhile, in a bowl beat 1 cup of heavy cream until stiff. Fold the cream into the apple mixture. Spoon the mousse into 4 wine glasses. Garnish with fresh mint and refrigerate until ready to serve.
Serves 4.
The busy kitchen of our house on Sullivan Street
4
Soho
Juliette was born on June 2, 1959. “Another girl!” Jimmy muttered when he saw her, “but so beautiful,” and he was right. Juliette was the most beautiful newborn baby I had ever seen. We sent pictures of the two girls home to Paris. In response, Mira, my stepfather, sent us tickets to come to Paris to spend the summer with them.
A few days after Juliette was born, Suzanne Chen, my doctor friend, came to visit and see the new baby.
“Lovely baby, but I have to talk to you bo
th.”
“Juliette,” she said, “has an eye problem. She has what we call nystagmus. Her eyes roam without focusing. I don’t know how much she can or will see. It could be temporary but I am not sure. I want to send you to a friend with whom I studied. He is a great specialist.”
We were crushed, worried to death. Was she blind? Would she ever see? What was nystagmus? The next few days were difficult. Suzanne made all the appointments. The end result was that Juliette indeed had nystagmus, a defect of the optic nerve. She would eventually see, but no one could tell us if the problem was temporary or permanent.
It was with a heavy heart that a month later we left for Paris. The summer went quickly. Marianne was learning French words; Juliette, despite her eye problem, was developing into a round, lovely, smiling baby; and my relationship with my mother, for the first time in years, was calm and normal.
In the fall, back in New York, I was looking for a new teaching job. In late September, I was hired to teach French by the Browning School for Boys. To my surprise, on my first day of school, I found out that I was the only woman in a faculty of twenty-seven men! I spent four delightful years there.
In 1960, pregnant once again, we moved to an old house on Nineteenth Street and Cecile, our third daughter, was born on September 15, 1961. Frau Zeimnitz wasn’t too happy to look after three children and soon left us. Despite the problems we had finding babysitters, life seemed wonderful. Our children were growing. Juliette could see, and Jimmy was very successful in his work. With my new job, we were financially secure when once again life played a trick on us. I was pregnant again, and this time the school was quite angry with me. They did not think that a pregnant woman should be around growing boys. No law had yet been passed protecting pregnant women from being fired. The school, to my chagrin, let me go.
The World in My Kitchen Page 8