Paris_ The Collected Traveler - Barrie Kerper [210]
She shook the chef’s hand, commending him for going to all the trouble, advising him he shouldn’t have. She was right about the latter.
“I hope you like tuna fish sandwiches,” he blurted out with no shame or embarrassment, clearly out of touch with reality.
“Why, yes. We love tuna fish, don’t we, Dorothy?”
“Wonderful. I thought you would. Especially when I saw this magnificent specimen.” He went on to describe how he’d gone down to the fish market at dawn, poking and slapping a dozen different fish before deciding on the nice fat one he brought back to poach for these sandwiches.
I felt foolish for thinking any chef in his right mind would present Julia Child with a StarKist chicken of the sea. Meanwhile Julia never flinched. She’d already dived right in, unperturbed about whether her sandwich had begun with a can opener or a court bouillon. (I remembered M. F. K. Fisher telling me, in her unique mélange of praise and condemnation, “Julia will eat anything.”)
Over lunch, whenever I started to discuss the day’s program, the tuna kept getting in the way.
“Isn’t this just marvelous?” This a reference to the way the chef—“such a nice young man”—had cloaked the sweet chunks of fish with a creamy aioli that was “marvelously tart” and studded with chopped fennel instead of “ordinary old celery.” As for the sourdough, fire and smoke trapped in its crusty ridges and curves, he must have taken the loaves directly off the baking stones: that was the consensus. A lull between sandwich and dessert gave me my chance.
“Is there anything in particular you want me to say out there?”
No, she was sure whatever I said would be fine.
I felt surprisingly at ease myself about the day’s event, except for a disconcerting incident with the Macy’s PR person, who had just whispered an infuriating instruction that Julia didn’t know about. Whenever I interviewed Julia for an article, she always made it seem like we were friends, chatting. On a publicity tour for her previous book, Julia Child and More Company, she’d come to San Francisco to do a cooking demonstration and book signing, also at Macy’s. I joined the welcoming committee at seven in the morning at her hotel, the Huntington on Nob Hill. With an amused grin, she watched the parade of sleepy-eyed but fit-looking businessmen emerge from the elevator in shorts, look at her sheepishly—even MBAs recognize Julia Child—and trot across the street for their morning jog. At the store, Julia and her entourage had been led down an alley and into some sort of service-entrance back door, presided over by a neckless security guard who eyed Julia suspiciously.
“Who is that woman?” he asked, his eyes following her every move. I was tempted to answer, “Why, that’s the Lone Ranger,” but I wasn’t sure he’d see the humor in it, considering the hour.
One of Julia’s friends and assistants, Rosemary Manell, had already started pulling rabbits and onions out of grocery bags, assisted by Pam Henstell from Knopf, the book’s publisher. After taking a few pictures for my article, I offered to help, truly honored when Julia handed me a head of garlic and asked me to mince it finely. Determined to do an impeccable job, I carefully pried out two or three cloves. I rubbed them between my fingers in a massage-like motion, trying to coax off the papery covering. Instead of slipping off smoothly like a satin robe, it just crinkled and crumbled. What did come off glued itself onto my fingers; the rest of it didn’t budge. Using my fingernails, I scraped and clawed around the stubborn little cloves to no avail. Still attempting to appear unruffled and competent, I reached for a nearby paring