Backstage with Julia (13 page)

She had an appealing openness about her own personal life and an insatiable curiosity about the lives of others. But she loved to gossip, and unless you made her swear on her life not to tell, she'd throw your personal issues into the storytelling mix without thinking that you might be more sensitive about revealing your private matters than she was about sharing hers.

Professional organizations sought her involvement because she was a strong, effective leader who had no problem writing scathing letters to anyone who stood in the way of her causes. In her personal life, her strength often translated to stubbornness, and when she dug in her heels, there was simply no talking to her. At times it was terribly frustrating; usually it was just plain funny. Ironically, for all her strength and directness in her public affairs, in her personal life she hated to deal directly with conflict, and usually refused to do so even when she was the one who had caused it in the first place.

Strong, admirable people are still, of course, only human and not without their share of shortcomings. Yet people such as Julia are venerable because their shortcomings never override their qualities. Certainly, Julia's faults never diminished my admiration for her or dissuaded me from wanting to be like her in many ways. Of course, I never could be exactly like her, but my years in her company clearly rubbed off on me, as my sons, who were raised with Julia in my life, often remind me. Recently I was embroiled in a conflict that was driving me to distraction. My son Brad listened to my blithering complaints for a length of time that would try anyone's patience. When I paused in the midst of my tirade, he calmly said, "Mom, think for a minute. What would Julia do?" It was all I needed to hear.

Brad and Andrew were four and two years old when I began to work with Julia, and books by Benjamin Spock, T. Berry Brazelton, and several other child-rearing experts shared shelf space with Irma Rombauer, Jacques Pépin, and Julia Child. I pretty much had weaning, toilet training, and separation anxiety down, but I was in search of the absolute, definitive, no-fail method of instilling self-confidence in children. Julia abounded with a secure sense of self and a can-do attitude. I wanted the same for my boys. So I asked her how she got like that.

"My mother thought we could do no wrong," she answered immediately, referring to herself and her younger siblings, Dorothy and John, who like Julia grew to be over six feet tall; Mrs. McWilliams liked to say that she raised eighteen feet of children. "She was always telling us we were special. When you hear it all the time, you can't help but feel good about yourself." From that moment on, I never missed an opportunity to tell my boys that they were the best, and today, at twenty-nine and thirty-one, they are!

Perhaps it was Mrs. McWilliams's enthusiastic cheerleading, maybe it was all genetic, but Julia
was
special, and her uniqueness came wrapped in all that self-assurance. No wonder she was able to inspire passion in at least three generations of amateur and professional cooks; along with each technique and morsel of French cooking, she served up a generous helping of confidence.

"Have the courage of your convictions," she told her audiences. "If I can do it, you can do it." And we believed her. We were like Mrs. McWilliams's eighteen feet of children—we could do no wrong. If, perchance, we did make a mistake, it didn't matter. "Remember, you are alone in the kitchen." Long before Nike made it a call to action, Julia gave us the message "Just do it!" In New Haven I would soon realize that she wasn't just talking about flipping potato pancakes, crepes, and omelets; she was talking about dealing with life.

We arrived at the theater early in the morning on a glorious fall day. A historic old port, this particular section of New Haven had all the weathered charm of a classic New England dockside market, where vendors sold food from burlap bags and wooden boxes. That day there was a farmers' market in front of the theater. For me, the produce of fall outshines that of any other season, including the much-touted summer offerings. Plump purple eggplants, deep green and brilliant red bell peppers, long and narrow pale green frying ones, lush plum tomatoes, and lacy Italian parsley all scream, "Cook me!" The brilliant display was not to be ignored, and Julia, who admitted that some of her fondest memories of France were the outdoor food markets, did not intend to.

We strolled the stands pinching, sniffing, admiring the wares, and chatting with the vendors. Julia told me that talking with the vendors was her favorite part of visiting an open market. After assuring us that his plump, perfect eggplants had been picked just that morning, one vendor directed our attention to the food shops that lined the wharf.

"Best meat in the country," he told us, pointing to an Italian market behind him.

"We should go in," Julia said, already striding toward the store.

Busy at work, carefully arranging cuts of meat in a display case, were the owners, a middle-aged Italian American couple who were as proud of their store as they were obviously surprised and delighted to see Julia walk into it.

"Why, that's just beautiful," Julia said, admiring the well-marbled steaks, neatly sectioned chicken parts, long ropes of sausages, and tied roasts.

"Thank you," the man said. "We cut and prepare all our own meat and make all the sausage, sweet and hot, right here." He invited us into the back room where they hung the meat ready to be cut and then showed us into another room where the sausage was made. Julia was like the proverbial kid in a candy shop, and on the way back to the theater she told me that she could be content being a butcher; the whole business of meat fascinated her. That was probably why she was so visually descriptive of meat cuts on television, pointing to her own body parts and moving her arms about to show how some parts became tough with use and needed long, slow braising while other parts remained relatively unused and would be tender enough for a quick sauté.

The format for the Long Wharf demonstration was much the same as it had been in Providence when I met Julia: Liz sitting and organizing, Paul keeping track of time, and Julia, Marian, and me prepping all day for an evening's demonstration. Lunch would be on the set, and I expected that some eager volunteer would arrive with a favorite dish. But at about eleven o'clock, Julia spoke up. "What should we do about lunch?" There was some muttering, and then she decided, "Why doesn't Nancy fix us lunch?"

I'm sure I must have hyperventilated or at least blanched. If they are honest, most chefs who find themselves having to feed Julia for the first time will admit that the mere thought of it is enough to obliterate everything they ever knew about food and cooking. Over the years, many told me so. I'd known that eventually I would prepare a meal for her, but I always expected that it would be at home, and that I would spend days shopping, cooking, and fashioning frilly paper booties for the bone ends of rack of lamb. To cook spontaneously for Julia Child, let alone Marian, gave me the same feeling I had during those dreams when I walked into a final exam and I hadn't read the text or attended a single class.

"What would you like to eat?" I asked, hoping my tone conveyed that I would fix whatever she liked and not the feeling of "why me?"

"Something good. You decide," she responded.

I looked around at what was available. We had plenty of staples—eggs, flour, butter, a variety of cheeses. My mind began to entertain a frantic jumble of possibilities. Maybe a quiche or a soufflé . . . but would they be as good as Julia's or Marian's? Maybe just a good old egg salad. I had enough eggs to make mayonnaise, and what's better than homemade mayonnaise? Would Julia think that was too simple?

Then it occurred to me just to fix something I wanted to eat, and I immediately knew what that was.

"I'll be right back," I told Julia, grabbing my purse and running out the door. I went back to the meat market first to be sure they still had some of the sausages they'd been making that morning. I left with a plump package and then stopped at the outdoor market for peppers, garlic, onions, tomatoes, and parsley. Back on the set, I prepared my nonna's sausage and peppers, a dish I could make with confidence, with my eyes closed, and without stopping my prep work for the evening's demonstration.

"This is delicious," Julia said, genuinely relishing the standard Italian fare.

Her delight with it encouraged me to admit my initial total lack of confidence in my ability to cook for her. "You know, I was very nervous when you asked me to make lunch. I almost couldn't do it."

She looked at me with a warm twinkle in her eye and told me, "I knew you could." At that moment I had a sense of what it had been like to be one of Mrs. McWilliams's children. More than having the ability to do something, having the confidence in that ability, the courage of your convictions, is what makes it happen. Whatever confidence I have in myself today is mine, but Julia set it in motion, and I've never forgotten that. In the acknowledgments for my first cookbook, I wrote, "In her [Julia's] ever practical and endearing way she simply assumed that I would do this—and do it well."

For Julia, having the courage of your convictions also meant being willing to speak those opinions frankly. That same positive outspokenness, which appealed so to her audiences, was visibly deflating in person. I found that out before our New Haven demonstration, when we visited the meat market. When Julia was admiring the meat in the display case, she commented on the quality of the delicate white veal.

"It's real veal and not all that small cow people are feeding us," she said.

"That's right," the owner said. "I buy the animals whole and cut them up myself."

Sure enough, when we went into the meat rooms, there were the carcasses of several small calves hanging on meat hooks. I still don't know why I said, "Poor babies," when I saw the tiny animals, but I immediately regretted it. Julia turned straight toward me and with a stern look and a raised index finger said, "That is unprofessional!" I blushed. "They wouldn't be born if they weren't meant to be eaten," she added firmly.

"I know," I said, and I did. I had no problem with veal at all. It was a staple in my home growing up. My grandfather owned a meat store and cut up calves just like those. My comment did not express any underlying aversion I had to veal; it was just a foolish muttering, I suppose, to say something. Julia's direct reproach took me by surprise and embarrassed me. But that was the end of it. She spoke her mind, and the next time veal came up, she made no reference to my previous remark or seemed even to recall that I had said it.

Julia spoke just as directly to others who worked with us, whether it was to challenge a comment she thought was unfounded or to interrupt an improper technique. It was just her manner and she usually accented her stern words by raising her index finger, turned out in a stop motion, in front of her chest. In restaurants she was bluntly honest about the food she was served. If it wasn't right, she said so, and I always felt sorry for the waiter or chef who offhandedly asked her how everything was when something was not as it should be. "Well, it's not good at all," she would reply, and then would proceed to explain exactly what was wrong with it—in one way or another as I discovered during that same New Haven trip.

Our demonstration had ended late and we were all desperate to find someplace where we could sit and quietly eat dinner. We found a nearby family eatery that boasted of large steaks and real baked potatoes.

"Perfect," said Julia, leading us to a table and immediately ordering the largest steak on the menu and a baked potato. When the meal came, Julia took a large mouthful of potato slathered with butter and made a face.

"Ugh. It's sweet!" At first I thought she meant that she had been served a sweet potato by mistake, but I leaned over the table to peek in and could see that hers was white like everyone else's.

"What do you mean?" I asked.