My Life In France: Memoirs Of Julia Child

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Le Petit Grignotage

Christine

At 5:45 A.M. November 3, 1948, Julia Child--thirty-six years old and newly married--awoke to see lights twinkling in the early dawn from the shores of Le Havre, France. Disembarking from the SS America, she stepped onto that Gallic soil for the first time, and would be forever changed. Up until then, she had worked for the Office of Strategic Services, the precursor to the CIA, where she had met her artistic husband Paul when both were posted in Ceylon, India in 1944. He fell in love with the gangly, 6'2", outgoing Californian, and they married in 1946. After two years in Washington, D.C., Paul was assigned to the United States Information Service office in Paris, and they two, being the adventure-loving sort, thought a few years in the City of Lights sounded just fine.

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Julia Child had no cooking skills to speak of. She could not tell you what a shallot was, or which type of wine to drink with beef. She could barely scramble an egg. Neither did she have any special fascination with food. She was raised on hearty American fare like potroast, beef stew, or leg of lamb, all cooked with sufficient, but not special, skill. That morning in Normandy would change all of this. Driving through the cold northern countryside, exhausted, famished, the two stopped in Rouen at a little restaurant: La Couronne, est. 1345--her first French meal--and it would prove a revelation.

It was warm inside, and the dining room was a comfortably old-fashioned brown-and-white space, neither humble nor luxurious. At the far end was an enormous fireplace with a rotary spit, on which something was cooking that sent out heavenly aromas. We were greeted by the maître d'hôtel, a slim middle-aged man with dark hair who carried himself with an air of gentle seriousness. Paul spoke to him, and the maître d' smiled and said something back in a familiar way, as if they were old friends. Then he led us to a nice table not far from the fireplace. The other customers were all French, and I noticed that they were treateed with exactly the same courtesy as we were. Nobody rolled their eyes at us or stuck their nose in the air. Actually, the staff seemed happy to see us. 

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As we sat down, I heard two businessman in gray suits at the next table asking questions of their waiter, an older, dignified man who gesticulated with a menu and answered them at length. "What are they talking about?" I whispered to Paul. "The waiter is telling them about the chicken they ordered," he whispered back. "How it was raised, how it will be cooked, what side dishes they can have with it, and which wines would go with it best." "Wine?" I said. "At lunch?" I had never drunk much wine other than some $1.19 California Burgundy, and certainly not in the middle of the day. In France, Paul explained, good cooking was regarded as a combination of national sport and high art, and wine was always served with lunch and dinner. "The trick is moderation," he said. Suddenly the dining room filled with wonderfully intermixing aromas that I sort of recognized but couldn't name. The first smell was something oniony--"shallots," Paul identified it, "being sautéed in fresh butter."...Then came a warm and winy fragrance from the kitchen, which was probably a delicious sauce being reduced on the stove. This was followed by a whiff of something astringent: the salad being tossed in a big ceramic bowl with lemon, wine vinegar, olive oil, and a few shakes of salt and pepper. My stomach gurgled with hunger. I couldn't help noticing that the waiters carried themselves with a quiet joy, as if their entire mission in life was to make their customers feel comfortable and well tended.... We began our lunch with a half-dozen oysters on the half-shell. I was used to bland oysters from Washington and Massuchusetts, which I had never cared much for. But this platter of portugaises had a sensational briny flavor and a smooth texture that was entirely new and surprising. The oysters were served with rounds of pain de seigle, a pale rye bread, with a spread of unsalted butter. Paul explained that, as with wine, the French have "crus" of butter, special regions that produce individually flavored butters. Beurre de Charentes is a full-bodied butter, usually recommended for pastry dough or general cooking; beurre d'Isigny is a fine, light table butter. It was that delicious Isigny that we spread on our rounds of rye.

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Rouen is famous for its duck dishes, but after consulting the waiter Paul had decided to order sole meunière. It arrived whole: a large, flat Dover sole that was perfectly browned in a sputtering butter sauce with a sprinkling of chopped parsley on top. The waiter carefully placed the platter in front of us, stepped back, and said: "Bon appétit!" I closed my eyes and inhaled the rising perfume. Then I lifted a forkful of fish to my mouth, took a bite, and chewed slowly. The flesh of the sole was delicate, with a light but distinct taste of the ocean that blended marvelously with the browned butter. I chewed slowly and swallowed. It was a morsel of perfection.... I experienced fish, and a dining experience, of a higher order than I'd ever had before.

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Along with our meal, we happily downed a whole bottle of Pouilly-Fumé, a wonderfully crisp white wine from the Loire Valley. Another revelation! Then came salade verte laced with a lightly acidic vinaigrette. And I tasted my first real baguette--a crisp brown crust giving way to a slightly chewy, rather loosely textured pale-yellow interior, with a faint reminder of wheat and yeast in the odor and taste. Yum! We followed our meal with a leisurely dessert of fromage blanc, and ended with a strong, dark café filtre. The waiter placed before us a cup topped with a metal canister, which contained coffee grounds and boiling water. With some urging by us impatient drinkers, the water eventually filtered down into the cup below. It was fun, and it provided a distinct dark brew. ... Paul and I floated out the door into the brilliant sunshine and cool air. Our first lunch together in France had been absolute perfection. It was the most exciting meal of my life.

The rest of her memoirs explain her awkward but joyful initiation into Parisian life, her acquaintance with the local fishmongers, butchers, cheesesellers, and vegetable stalls, where she acquired her food education "on the streets." She recounts her days studying at Le Cordon Bleu under her friend and mentor Chef Max Bugnard, how she started an informal cooking school, L'École des Trois Gourmandes, with the friends who would end up collaborating with her on her famous Mastering the Art of French Cooking.

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Although French cookbooks abound these days, Julia Child's work was truly unique for its time, groundbreaking, introducing authentic French recipes--some for the first time ever, including beurre blanc à la Mère Michel--in accessible English. She was the first to figure out a workable recipe for baking authentic French baguettes in a home oven, complete with quarry tiles and a stone heated red-hot to be dropped into a pan of cold water at the bottom of the oven to produce the puffs of steam so necessary to form that light, crisp outer crust. Mastering was a labor of love, years in the making, every recipe (in the hundreds) personally tried and tasted twice, thrice, sometimes a dozen times until perfected. Her newfound fame led to the cooking show, which made her a household name--and the rest is history. When one recalls the fact that, up until the middle of her life, she hadn't the least inkling she could cook nor had she ever tasted a single French dish, her later accomplishments are rather remarkable. Her memoirs are a sheer delight, and well worth the read to anyone with a love of France, fine wine, or food.

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In her honor, I set forth a quintessential French recipe that is--quite literally--simple as pie:

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Quiche au Fromage

For 4 to 6 Servings

1 cup grated Swiss cheese [more if you like it especially cheesy]

8-inch partially cooked pastry shell placed on buttered baking sheet [I make the dough from scratch, although those in a hurry can use pre-made filo dough]

1 1/4 cups whole milk [you can use 2% milk, but you must bake it about 10 minutes longer to ensure the quiche sets; on no account use skim milk, unless you want a slushy (not to mention bland) mess when you attempt to slice the quiche]

3 large eggs

1/2 tsp salt Pinch of pepper and nutmeg

2 TB butter

(Preheat oven to 375 degrees.)

Spread 3/4 of the cheese in the bottom of the shell. Beat milk, eggs, and seasonings in a bowl to blend. Just before baking, pour in the liquid to fill the shell to within 1/8 inch of the top. [Do not overfill, as the mixture rises when baking.] Sprinkle on the remaining cheese and the butter, cut into dots. Bake for 25 to 30 minutes. Can be served hot out of the oven, or cold. Personally, I prefer it hot, with a glass of crisp white wine and a simple salade verte.

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Bon appétit!

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Comments

[Old Dominion Tory]

An inspiring article, Christine. It appears a long lunch is called for today at the Tory household.