It was impossible not to recall the flames that had ravaged his home in Santander. That had been a tragedy for his family. They could have died. But they managed to pull ahead that time, and he was determined to do the same again. It would take more than a fire to make him give up on his dreams.
They still had cuttings they could plant. And Jean wasn’t alone: he had his brother and Jaume Rovira, not to mention his own innate capacity to rise again—this time, literally—from the ashes. He would be the phoenix of Torrelavit.
One night at the end of November, just months after the fire, the phone rang. The first ring was long. That meant the call was coming from afar, from overseas. America.
“Jean, it’s me, Emilio.”
He was surprised to hear the chef from La Scala calling him at that hour. It was almost midnight in Spain.
“Something terrible’s happened, Jean.” His voice was cracking. “They shot the president. Kennedy’s dead!”
CHAPTER 14
Jean followed the aftermath of John Fitzgerald Kennedy’s assassination and funeral through the badly informed Spanish press. In his own private, discreet way, he felt the desolation he imagined sweeping over America. Donna sounded dismayed on the phone, but the renovations and decoration work on the enormous new house the couple had bought after returning from their trip to Europe kept her busy. Still, her impatience with her husband was growing uncontrollable.
“Do you not get it, Jean? Once again, I’m the one who has to take charge of all the family’s business. You told me this would be our home, that we would share the responsibilities, you and me, that everything would be done to our liking. It had to be this big so we could invite family and friends over for the weekend, and all of us could spend more time together . . . And now here I am, feeling claustrophobic and alone, and I have no idea how to fill up all this space . . .” Jean was no longer sure whether his wife’s phrases were trailing off because she was angry with him or just depressed. “Where are you now, when you’re supposed to be here deciding how we’re going to arrange things?”
“What do you think? That I wanted the fire to happen? That I burned up my own property so I wouldn’t have to be with you?”
“Of course not.”
Donna sighed, and it was obvious their conversation was going in circles.
“Stop letting everything eat at you,” Jean said. “Things are coming back together here. There’s a lot to do, but I’ll be back home by Christmas at the latest, and then we can celebrate together.”
He did, as promised, make it back to California before Christmas. But, of course, a Christmas celebration in the home of Jean Leon meant Donna had to share her husband with the guests at La Scala with their endless lunches, dinners, and take-out orders. And the nights stretched on into morning, with the owner’s blessing and participation. It was like clockwork: the more Jean’s wife wanted him home, the more he fled from his responsibilities to her and to his children.
He wouldn’t allow anyone to talk to him about what was going on. Not his few close friends, not even his Spanish family when he returned to see the improvements they’d made to the vineyard. When they asked about his wife and kids, he fell silent. No one dared get in the middle.
Except for Emilio.
“Can I be honest with you?” he asked Jean.
“Please. Shoot. If you didn’t, you wouldn’t be you.”
“Right. But are you going to listen?”
Jean took a sip of wine and lit a cigarette, pretending to give his friend his full attention.
“For a long time now, you’ve been out of it, and I’m afraid you’re about to screw things up big.”
“You’re not going to bring up the Newport thing again, are you? For every project of mine that turns out badly, I’ve got a dozen guaranteed successes. Newport is old news.”
Emilio didn’t believe that Jean had really gotten over the failure of the restaurant he had opened in Newport Beach. It had been Dick Powell’s idea: the actor had told him he should expand the business, opening a spot on that touristy part of the shore just an hour by car from La Scala. But it had turned out badly, and Jean reacted as he always had when faced with failure: he wouldn’t admit he’d been wrong, and he wouldn’t listen to reason.
Emilio, who knew the business as well as he did, quickly figured out their mistake. The places that did well in Newport Beach focused on seafood, and in an Italian restaurant like La Scala, the seafood was mainly there to round out the menu. To Emilio, Jean had been arrogant and had gotten ahead of himself, whereas Jean felt it had just been a slipup, that he should have gotten to know the market better and not put all his trust in Powell. He’d learned from it, he said, and he wouldn’t make the same mistake when he sought to expand the business in the future.
“That’s the problem. You’ve got a million projects in your head, and you’re dead set on all of them no matter what.”
“You know me, every day brings a new idea . . .”
“Is the vineyard not enough?” Emilio pushed harder. “Look at all the time you’re spending now to get a winery up and running on the other side of the world. You haven’t even finished that and you’re already on to the next thing. Why don’t you focus your energies on taking care of the things you have, maintaining them, maybe even enjoying them?”
Jean listened with a glum face. But Emilio knew one thing that would break through his studied indifference.
“Yeah,” Emilio added, “it’s no wonder you’re destroying your marriage and your family.”
Emilio had expected a reaction, and he got one: Jean was now giving him his undivided attention.
“While you go on adding to this myth you’ve built up, flaunting this idea you have of yourself as a visionary, you’re hurting the people who love you the most.”
Jean took a deep breath and downed his glass of wine in one swig.
“You’re right. Maybe I shouldn’t have gotten married, let alone had kids. I was in love, and I thought a wife and kids were what I needed to feel complete and happy, to feel like I’d made it. But all that came before La Scala.”
“Jean, for God’s sake, how can you say that?” Emilio couldn’t believe his ears. “Do I need to remind you how hard Donna worked in this kitchen and this dining room to make them what they are today? Do I need to remind you how proud you were when Jean-Georges and Cécile, your little princess, were born? Get it together, man! Who are you trying to fool?”
“You’ve got it, Emilio. I’m just a goddamn egomaniac, and I don’t think about anyone but myself.”
“You promised you’d listen. So let me talk, and then you can do whatever you feel like,” he admonished him harshly. Jean opened another bottle, not bothering to look at the label. “You act like all that matters is you and your projects. Not to mention the women who come and go or the waitresses you butter up and then a month later they’re gone. Well, I hate to tell you this, but you’re not alone. You have a family, like it or not, and they’re a part of you.”
They stayed there, neither uttering another word. As the silence persisted, Emilio gathered the papers scattered over the table: seasonal menu proposals they’d been trying for days to sort through before making a final decision.
Sitting next to him, Jean sipped deeply from his glass of wine. His eyes were pinned to the floor. He had already been through one recent failure, and he wasn’t ready to bear another, deeper, more permanent one. He had so much to take care of. He needed to reorient his priorities . . . reduce expenses.
The restaurant had shown Jean that he could make his dreams come true. And now he had a new dream that was taking shape, that was on course, and that no one would stop: his wine, with his name on it, made in his country . . .
“I can’t make any promises,” Jean said quietly.
“You don’t have to promise me anything.” Emilio shook his head, disappointed.
They turned back to deciding on the menu. They had spent the spring trying to update La Scala’s cui
sine to keep their clientele on its toes—not only the old faithfuls, but those new faces that were constantly renewing Hollywood, the ones whose names Jean wasn’t always able to recall.
The main dishes would soon include a salad with radicchio—a bitter-tasting vegetable, a kind of chicory—imported from Treviso in the Veneto. The radicchio, they’d found, paired brilliantly with white beans and clams. They were also considering another dish destined to become a La Scala classic: a rabbit cacciatore. Emilio could make it like no one else. First he grilled the meat, then he mixed it with just a touch of red and green peppers and served it with a whiff of olive on a bed of angel-hair pasta.
The two men spent several days talking over each item, readying a menu that would make its debut at the beginning of summer. They knew that to stay on top, to keep the stars coming in, they would need to adapt and change.
And sure enough, the stars kept coming. Despite the failure of their Newport Beach experiment, Leon’s relationship with Dick Powell was cordial as ever. A few months earlier, NBC had canceled Powell’s show, but the actor and host kept dining at La Scala after he left the company’s Burbank studios. He still hung around with actors and celebrities, he wasn’t going to let those ties slip, and he had a great nose for sniffing out opportunity. Especially when it came to politics. Those were fraught times, politically, in America. The country hadn’t yet awakened from the nightmare of Kennedy’s death, and Democrats and Republicans were both gunning for the presidency.
One night, Powell reserved a table for four. Jean remembered the story Powell had told him about the night of Richard Nixon’s defeat in the California gubernatorial race back in 1962. Powell had tried to comfort Nixon and had recommended he support a young candidate to jump in and replace him. Jean remembered it because he knew that young man’s name—he’d even shared a drink with him some time before. And he was just as happy to see him again when Powell brought the man and his wife in as guests, along with his own wife, the actress June Allyson, for a double date.
It had been years since Jean Leon had seen Ronald Reagan.
“You did it, kid.” Ronnie greeted him with open arms that seemed to embrace the entire restaurant. “Jimmy would have been so happy. The place is beautiful!”
“I’m so glad you’re finally seeing La Scala.”
The ex-actor, since transformed into a politician, introduced his wife, the actor Nancy Davis, and Jean showed the group to their table. Reagan excused himself for a moment to catch up with the owner privately and reminisce about a moment they’d shared with Jimmy.
“How’s your new career going?” Jean asked.
“Good, I can’t complain. You know they fired me from General Electric Theater because they said my monologues were too political, and it was no longer convenient for the company to keep me on the air. You know what I say? Great!” he declared. “I don’t like being censored. I’m getting my footing in the party. Powell, George Murphy, and William Holden are helping me.”
“You were already headed in that direction. I’m happy for you, Ronnie.”
“You’re not doing so bad yourself.”
“Fact is, I’m about to make one of those dreams that came up in our conversation that night a reality . . . Do you remember?”
“The wine?” Reagan asked.
“Damn, Ronnie! You’ve got some memory!” Jean shook his head admiringly. “If everything goes right, in a few years La Scala will be serving the best food and the best wine in the city. Maybe you’ll be governor of California by then and we’ll be able to toast our achievements.”
Years passed, and Jean and Emilio were happy: the menu went on growing and changing, and the restaurant remained a success. But over time, they spoke less and less to each other one on one—and one day, in one of those unexpected decisions of his, Jean took off, leaving everything in Emilio’s hands for weeks on end.
It was September 1969. Harvest time. The owner of Château Leon—only those closest to him knew he had adopted that name for the winery—arrived in time to take part, along with his wife and his children. It had been seven years since Jean had bought the vineyard and planted the first vines, but so far, something had always gone wrong—the crop was too thin or they’d had late frosts, or hail had ravaged the vineyard. One way or another, it wasn’t up to their standards. This year was different, and it was time to make the wine a reality. To mark the occasion, the children would visit their father’s homeland for the first time.
The kids spent part of the airplane trip asking their father about their relatives. Jean, with uncharacteristic patience, tried to describe each of his siblings, and if memory failed him, he invented what he couldn’t recall. The children were hopping up and down with excitement when they entered the main hall of the Hotel Ritz, where Jean Leon was to reunite with his family. His children would soon understand why their mother had warned them about the strong hugs and countless kisses they would receive.
The harvest, the high point of the grape-growing cycle, had turned into a huge party, and every household invited family and friends up to take part. The sun was hot and the air muggy, and all the workers were dripping sweat. Carefully but firmly they would push aside the leaves to pick the first bunches. With little more than a precise flick of the wrist, they would use their knives to cut the shoots with their clusters, and the grapes would fall into a basket or pail until it was full. Then the workers would take the grapes back to the main building for pressing, carrying the precious fruit in their arms or else loading it on the back of a mule.
Jean walked over to his wife, smiling, and whispered into her ear. “Get ready for something you’ve never seen or even imagined.”
They left the children with their cousins, Paco’s kids, and Jean winked at Jaume Rovira.
They walked down the stairs to the cellar, where the stones around them seemed to breathe out moisture. They were guided by the smell of the grapes in the vats, about to turn into must.
“Once you throw the grapes into the vat, you have to stomp them with your bare feet so the wine gets enough color and strength—that gives it body and aroma.”
“I hope my feet are clean,” Donna added with a laugh.
“I’m sure they’re fine. May I?” Jean knelt down to take off her sneakers.
“Thanks. Very kind of you,” she whispered playfully.
Donna rolled her thin blue jeans up over her knees, then hopped from the floor up to the footrest. From there, she gathered her strength to jump inside the cylindrical vat, which was fitted with ropes over the top to hold on to. The ropes kept the person inside from slipping and also helped them push with all their force to press out the juice.
Once inside, sunken up to her knees, Donna cracked up laughing, almost like a child. Jean loved seeing his wife there like that, smiling and shrieking with joy. Her legs, those beautiful white legs, were submerged in that mess, the sweet scent of which gathered in his nostrils. No matter what she did, the juice splashed all over her clothes. Her jeans were ruined, but what did it matter?
Donna held on to the edge of the vat, afraid of falling. But she couldn’t stop laughing. She was having a blast, that much was clear. She turned around and around, still leaning on the wall, and when she felt safer, she let herself go. Keeping her eyes on her husband, Donna took two steps out into the middle of the vat, let down her hair from its ponytail, and started dancing. Jean nodded, as if giving permission to this momentary ballerina. He paused for a moment, imagining himself savoring a wine with Donna’s flavor.
Delicately, Donna continued to crush the grapes, stepping over and into and around them, moving her feet gracefully. Jean stopped hesitating: he took off his sneakers, jumped in, and landed in the middle of the grape clusters, which felt like a soft cushion under his feet.
“Let yourself go,” she whispered in his ear.
Jean realized that Donna was shivering. They grabbed each other’s shoulders, hugged, and, following tradition, turned in a circle, stomping on the grapes and s
queezing them out with vigor, letting the juice run out under their feet. The aromas they released made the couple want to come closer, touch each other, be free. They moved in the same rhythm. Their hands explored each other’s bodies. A moan rose up and vanished. It was a mirage that evoked old memories and swept them aside for the times to come.
Their bodies weren’t the same ones as in Las Vegas all those years ago, and their relationship had soured since then. But there, surrounded by the perfume of the grapes they were crushing, they cut loose, and for a moment, they were once more those kids full of dreams who had an entire future to build together in front of them. It was a magic moment, intense, charged with memories and hopes for Donna and with feelings of peace, fullness, and satisfaction for Jean. The moment bore sweet fruit, but soon enough, Jean had forgotten it, in thrall to another of his schemes.
Jean had now spent seven years traveling back and forth to Penedès at harvest time and Holy Week, with just two thoughts in his head. It wasn’t only the wine he was obsessed with, it was also the memory of his long-lost but much-beloved Catalan cuisine, the food he remembered from his childhood. Both were equally important to him, and he wanted to bring both back to the tables at La Scala.
In mid-May, after the season had ended, he and Jaume were invited to Valls for a calçotada, an event that finally allowed Jean to bring both those affinities together. Valls was the capital of this decades-old Catalan tradition: a festival centered on grilling calçots—the region’s long, thick green onions—and eating them with plenty of roasted meat, sausage, and white beans. Now Jean could rediscover his country’s gastronomy, this time with a professional’s eye. It would also be a dress rehearsal for the wines of Château Leon: they had bottled a barrel of their first vintage especially for the occasion.
“Our wine—do you think it’s good enough for a calçotada?” Jean asked Jaume nervously. “I know we’re not quite there yet.”
Stars in His Eyes Page 16