The World in My Kitchen

by Colette Rossant

  I did not know how I was going to write with the children out of school and needing my constant supervision. It was July, so Elisabeth Fonseca suggested that I send the children to her house in East Hampton, along with Lucy, our new housekeeper. I would come on the weekends and that would allow me time to write all week. Lucy was my gift from the gods. Gladys had stayed with us until the house was finished. She then announced that she was leaving us to get married. We were sad to lose her but happy for her. Now I needed someone who would live-in, look after the children, and help me run the big house. I had heard through friends that there was a family of Colombian women looking for work. Was I interested? I was. So one day Lucy came to our house. Lucy was a tall, round woman with an easy smile and a warm embrace. However, she did not speak a word of English, and my Spanish was elementary, but we understood each other, mixing words of Spanish, French, and Italian.

  As soon as the children were settled in Elisabeth’s guest house, I worked full-time for two months and then used every free moment to work on the book through the winter months. Jimmy who was always involved in my work, read the manuscript and drew all the illustrations. He created a cartoon of a boy/girl so that all the children could identify with the main character. By spring the book was finished, and I sent the manuscript to Lorraine. She loved it and went to work editing the book.

  Around this time, I met Rita Reinhardt, the widow of the artist Ad Reinhardt. She came to me with a proposition. She was involved with a project called Art Park. Earl Brydges, state senator from Lewiston near Buffalo, had decided to put his town on the map by creating an art park there. The idea was that art should be a performance; it should come out to the open, out of the studio. Artists would go about creating their work in the park in full view of park visitors strolling along. Sometimes the public could even participate in the artist’s work. Would I be interested, the following summer, in joining the group of artists that had been accepted? I would use food as my medium, and people would watch me create recipes. I would have a morning cooking class for children of the area. I would be paid for my work and housed. The list of artists was impressive, so I readily accepted. I was proud to be included as an artist.

  The following July, with my son, Thomas, in tow, I drove to Buffalo and then on to Lewiston. The park was located on the Hudson River. It was a 200-acre park with a magnificent view of the gorge just beyond Niagara Falls. Along the pathways of the park were studios for artists. But during that first summer, the artists were working in makeshift studios. I was given a table, a hot plate, and nothing else. Nobody had prepared anything, so I went shopping in Buffalo. I bought everything I thought I would need for the children’s cooking classes. I had read, in The New York Times about a month before, of a man who was importing a new gadget that he called “Cuisinart food processor” based on a French restaurant appliance. The electric utensil could mix, cut, shred, and beat. The New York Times called it a miracle machine…so I called Cuisinart in Connecticut and suggested that they send me a food processor. In exchange, I would demonstrate the appliance as I prepared food and would distribute pamphlets to the crowd. They agreed, and two days later I received my first food processor. I spent an entire day experimenting with the Cuisinart and found it very useful.

  In those first few days of my arrival, I made it a point to meet the artists in residence. There was Catherine Jamison, a very intense young woman whose medium was photography. She printed her photographs on large white sheets that she spread on the grass so that the rays of the sun would be used like a catalyst. She befriended Thomas, who went around for her on his bicycle with a camera strapped to his ankles. Thomas’s pictures of grass, insects, or paths would be developed to form an artistic pattern on those enormous sheets. Not far from where I was working was an artist who was building gigantic plastic forms, encouraging the public to join him in building forms that looked like enormous tinker toys. I met Charles Simmonds, a sculptor who built tiny cities in holes in the walls on the streets of New York. His miniature villages were made of bricks the size of grains of rice. He had a big project at Art Park. He was to build a house made with bags of earth filled with seeds. After rain, the house would sprout; corn and other vegetables would grow. However, in the morning he, like me, was to teach a group of children to make the tiny bricks he used in his art, so they could build their own cities. Neither he nor I, as yet, had any children for our classes. I suggested to the manager of Art Park that he should go on the radio and invite children to join us for a free cooking class and an art class. They would start with me then go on to Charles. It worked, and within days we both had a large group of children. I taught them the basics of cooking and made something they could eat for lunch. We made omelets, crêpes, grated carrot salad, sautéed chicken, rhubarb mousse, etc. While the children tried to cook, Bob Sacha, a young Lewiston photographer, took pictures of the children for the park. The food processor was a great help since in the afternoon I often had 100 people watching me create dishes that they all wanted to taste. In the late afternoon when the park closed, the artists would meet in one of the buildings. I often cooked for them or brought along dishes I had prepared in the afternoon. One day a week I took off with Thomas. We explored Niagara Falls or drove to Canada for dinner. Both Thomas and I had a great time. When we left Art Park, Catherine Jamison handed me a sheet with pictures of Thomas running around, playing, or helping her with her work. I framed the sheet, and to this day, it is hanging in our house.

  Back in New York, the book Cooking with Colette was ready to go into print. The production people asked for a picture of me and kids cooking. I remembered that Bob Sacha had taken many pictures of us, so I asked him for one. He sent me a great photo of me looking on as a child tries to separate an egg. I wanted to use the picture for the cover of the book, but we needed signed consent forms to use it. Bob Sacha did not know who the little girl was. Hundreds of children had come to my stand in Art Park. How was I going to find her? Jimmy had a brilliant idea. We called the chief of police of Lewiston and asked for his help. We sent him the picture. Unfortunately, the police chief did not know who the girl was, but he sent it on to the local newspapers. The caption under the photograph in the local newspaper read, “Who Is This Mystery Child?” Within a few days, the little girl was found, and we were able to use her photo for the book.

  Soon after Cooking with Colette was published, I received a telephone call from New American Library. The publisher had heard from Cuisinart that I had experimented with their food processor. Could I write a book about food processors, writing an evaluation of the best available, and develop a few recipes? By this time, I had switched from teaching at Hofstra University to St. Ann’s School, a private school in Brooklyn that my own children attended. I was so busy with schoolwork that I asked a journalist friend, Jill Harris Herman, to help. I would test the food processors, take notes, and then she would write the evaluations while I developed recipes. My kitchen began to resemble an appliance store as I got inspired by the food processors, discovering that I could quickly prepare complicated dishes that, in the past, I had hesitated to prepare. Jill went to work, and Jimmy made line drawings of the processors and dishes. Within six months, we had a food processor cookbook and guide.

  Meanwhile, Jill and I discovered that there were other well-known food writers writing food processor books, and I worried about the competition. Our book was called A Mostly French Food Processor Cookbook, and in the fall of 1977, the book came out with five others on the same subject! I was very scared, but thankfully the reviews were glowing. The New York Times called our book, “Outstanding…. Adventurous and inspired.” We had a bestseller, and the book had to go back to press within one month. The publisher and I were very surprised by its success. Happily for me, it went into several printings. We sold over 100,000 copies within a year. I was interviewed on radio and television programs such as Good Morning America.

  Although my articles, the cooking school, and Cooking with Colette had earned m
e a certain reputation in the food world, the success of this book opened new doors for me. My life was no longer the same. I started to meet other food writers and food critics. I was asked to lunches that, to my regret, I could rarely attend as I was still teaching; but my opinions on food and restaurants were sought out by people in the food world. I met Craig Claiborne, the esteemed restaurant critic of The New York Times who liked to come to dinner. He always brought interesting friends. Sometimes, I would see one of the dishes I had served him appear in his Saturday column. Once, at one of the dinners, he brought the stars of the famed TV show Upstairs, Downstairs. My children were in awe of these actors and hung in the staircase all during dinner, trying to catch glimpses of their favorite actors. The following Saturday, Craig wrote a profile of me, with the recipes for all the dishes I had served at dinner that night.

  I also met Pierre Franey, who wrote a weekly column for The New York Times. When I met Gael Greene, she was a young food writer for New York magazine. We struck a friendship then. She often would call me to ask about new restaurants I had found in Chinatown. She was very generous and would always cite me as her source and give me credit. Sometimes I wrote articles for Dorothy Kalins of Metropolitan Home, and many others.

  I also began to meet chefs and was often invited to the opening of new restaurants. In New York, I met Andre Soltner of Lutece; Barry Wines of The Quilted Giraffe, who, like me, loved Japanese and Chinese cuisines; Larry Forgione at River Café, whose American Cuisine taught me a lot; but it was with Alice Waters and Jeremiah Towers of Chez Panisse with whom I really identified. Alice believed in home grown ingredients, fresh and seasonal. She also brought California’s attention to miniature vegetables, French string beans, local fish, and meats. For me they related to the way I actually cooked; they were the future in cooking. They also seemed to relate to what was happening in Europe, especially in France.

  Worldwide, the best known chef at that time was Paul Bocuse of France. Paul Bocuse had trained in Fernand Point’s restaurant La Pyramide and owned a three star restaurant in the outskirts of Lyon at Collonges-au-Mont-d’Or. Bocuse had just come out with a book in France called La Cuisine du Marché, which had revolutionized French cooking, then considered the best in the world. The book illustrated the way the new French chefs ran their restaurants and revolutionized their cuisine. They went to the market every morning and served only what was in season. The classic recipes of yesteryears were made lighter and more innovating. The book also discussed new trends among the French chefs: They all employed Japanese cooks in their kitchen and used Chinese techniques and utensils. In the United States, Pantheon bought the rights of Paul Bocuse’s book and was looking for a translator.

  I had met Paul Bocuse many years before on one of the food trips I had taken with my stepfather to La Pyramide. When Pantheon suggested me as a translator, Paul, who remembered meeting me and knowing my stepfather, agreed that I should translate the book. Bocuse’s book contained 1,200 recipes; exhaustive step-by-step instructions to various methods of cooking; and stories about him and his family. This was a monumental job! I had never tackled anything like this before. I was still teaching full-time, taking care of my four children, and running a very hectic household. It all seemed too daunting, but I decided to take the Bocuse project on anyway. The contract offered me two options: I could get a substantial fee, or I could get a small fee with a share in the royalties. I consulted my agent and talked to my friends in the food world. Everyone agreed that this book was going to be a great success and that its sales would most probably top those of Julia Child, who was the reigning queen of the food world. I also learned that the first printing would be over 100,000 copies and that they predicted sales of over a million. I accepted the job and chose to share in the royalties. Working at night, I began to translate the book.

  The first twenty pages seemed easy. Paul’s style and explanations were clear and gave the reader tips that only a chef would know. But when I started to translate the recipes, I had the feeling that they were not Paul Bocuse’s. Some assistant must have followed him as he cooked, then later adapted the recipes for household use. The problem was that whoever had written the recipes did not know how to cook. I was and am a cook that can easily detect, just by reading a recipe, if the recipe will or will not work. Many of Paul’s recipes did not seem to work! Although I was denied a budget for testing, I decided to try some of the recipes in my own kitchen. The results were deplorable. I contacted Pantheon and suggested they send me to Lyon to talk over the recipes with Paul. The answer was a no; but I could telephone him and discuss them with him. I tried several times. Paul was either too busy or away and would refer me to his assistant who, I was sure, was the one who had written the book. Her responses were always the same: “Non, Madame Rossant, les recettes sont parfaites!” (No, Mrs. Rossant, the recipes are perfect!) I stopped calling after I translated the coq au vin recipe, which called for two quarts of red wine for a four-pound chicken. I had tested the recipe and found I had a coq au vin soup! Her answer to me was the same as usual. The recipe was correct. So I started to change the recipes but always writing explanations for the changes in the margins.

  The book came out in the spring. Paul Bocuse, his wife, and his chefs de cuisine were put up at the Pierre Hotel. I was to meet Paul and accompany him to interviews and translate for him. Paul did not speak a word of English.

  On the day of publication, Paul was to prepare a dinner at Lutece for the press. We were to meet for the first time in twenty-five years at 7:30 A.M. in front of Balducci’s food store on Sixth Avenue to shop for the dinner. Paul had brought many things from France, but we needed meat, vegetables, and fruit. I recognized him immediately. Paul was a tall, imposing man with a prominent French nose and an easy smile. He embraced me heartily, nearly breaking all the bones in my back. A few journalists began to assemble, and Paul, acting like a great star, spoke with them as I, standing shyly behind him, translated their questions and his answers. Unfortunately, Balducci’s had forgotten our appointment, and the store was not yet open; we were too early.

  “Colette, I need breakfast; where shall we go?” I looked around. Nothing was open except McDonald’s. I tried to explain that McDonald’s, which had not as yet invaded France, was a fast-food chain, and there wasn’t much he would like.

  “Let’s go there; it is fine,” and so to McDonald’s we went, followed by the press.

  As we sat down, I explained to Paul what was on the menu. “You can have a muffin with egg and cheese, or ham.”

  “Muffin? What is a muffin?”

  I explained, and Paul chose the muffin with eggs and ham and french fries. Paul ate the eggs with gusto, thought the coffee was too weak, but announced loudly that “These are the best french fries I have ever eaten. I want to meet the chef.”

  “But Paul, this is a fast-food restaurant, there is no chef.”

  “Nonsense Colette, every kitchen has a chef!”

  With these words Paul got up and walked over to the counter where a young black man was standing, waiting to receive orders. To his astonishment and amidst flashes of the photographers, Paul insisted on shaking his hand and saying over and over again “Bravo, jeune homme. Les meilleures Frites que j’ai jamais mangées. Traduisez, Colette.”

  There were large headlines that evening in the papers, “Paul Bocuse eats the world’s best french fries in New York at McDonald’s.”

  The dinner at Lutece went well, and for the next two days, we ran around the city. Bocuse appeared on all the talk shows; always trailing behind, I was translating what he was saying. He loved American veal…believed our beef was the best in the world…he liked California wines, said their vegetables were great…but he missed French salad, bread, and butter.

  On Wednesday, Pantheon received a call from Julia Child. She was opening Faneuil Hall in Boston with the mayor. She wanted Paul Bocuse to join her, and then they both would go to her home and together cook dinner for the press. Pantheon was in heaven. Jul
ia Child, the grand dame of American food, was endorsing Paul Bocuse! Paul accepted, and I was told to call Julia Child and make the arrangements with her. We would both go to Boston, and I would continue to translate for him although Julia understood French very well. On Thursday, Paul received a call from the Rolex Watch Company. Would he pose for them on Friday for a rather substantial sum of money? Paul accepted and announced that he would forgo the trip to Boston. I pleaded with him, Pantheon pleaded, but Paul would not change his mind. I tried to explain who Julia Child was, how important she was to the American public, what she could do for the success or failure of his book. Nothing would budge him from his decision. He would not go and that was final!

  I was told to call Julia Child and announce the bad news. Julia was furious with him and unfortunately with me, as the bearer of the bad news. The next day when interviewed on television about Faneuil Hall, Julia was asked what she thought of Paul Bocuse’s cookbook. She dismissed it with shrug. “Nothing new,” she said, “nothing worth talking about.”

  The book, which had sold 30,000 copies the first three days, had now slowed down to selling a trickle of copies. Our only hope was that with good publicity, the public would forget Julia Child’s comments and again buy Paul Bocuse’s book. This was not to happen because six months later an article appeared in New York magazine claiming that Paul Bocuse had never written the book. What he had done was buy the manuscript from the widow of a young, brilliant chef and adapted the young chef’s recipes into his restaurant. Pantheon sued Flamarion, the French publisher. Bocuse accused us of not translating the foreword, which recounted the story of the manuscript. It turned out that the book that Flamarion sold to Pantheon was the second edition, and in that edition, there had been no foreword. Paul had not known what edition I had received. However, the book virtually stopped selling since the story made the rounds. My dreams of riches died with the book.