Paris_ The Collected Traveler - Barrie Kerper [212]
These accomplishments had seemed the perfect subject for an article for Ms. Magazine. Aware that there was a certain undeniable irony about Ms. Magazine honoring a woman’s achievements in the field of cookery, I was confident the editor would see this as an opportunity to say that true liberation means a woman can pursue any field she chooses, even cooking!
The editors didn’t see it that way. “Very nice but not particularly feminist” came the hand-scribbled verdict clipped to my returned manuscript. I was embarrassed by the Ms. rejection because, like so many women who greeted the very first issue, in 1971, with a sense of triumph and who had subscribed instantaneously, I considered the magazine my own. It spoke for me. It ranted and raved for me. It was strong enough and smart enough to counter all the demeaning and belittling and devaluing that went on in Playboy and Esquire and Penthouse put together. I couldn’t explain the editors’ appraisal, so I decided to send it to Julia, along with a copy of my review of her book, Julia Child and More Company, which had just been published in the San Francisco Bay Guardian. She wrote back that she “loved both those articles.… I thought the one rejected by Ms. was especially good and also very amusing. You certainly write well!”
And so, as Julia, Dorothy, and I sat there eating our tuna fish sandwiches, I was glad Macy’s had asked me to interview her that day. The event celebrated her newest venture, a series of videotapes in which she explained and demonstrated basic cooking techniques, garlic mincing undoubtedly among them.
Nestled beside me was my own newest venture, a copy of The California-American Cookbook, just published by Simon & Schuster. I had already autographed this copy to Julia Child and had been waiting for the auspicious moment. And then, a few moments before, there had been this nasty business with the rules-are-rules, scowl-infested Macy’s PR person. This was the same Macy’s PR person who had promised that if I did this interview, it would be worth more than mere money, a commodity she insisted was in short supply at Macy’s. I wasn’t too savvy in the ways of book promotion, but I assumed one could do worse than to introduce one’s new book in front of the Child-revering masses within buying distance of Macy’s bookstore. Just a few sentences, I’d been told, but enough to give the audience the flavor of the book. This moment in the sun would, she whined apologetically, more than make up for the paltry sum Macy’s was paying for doing the interview and might even result in the book’s first avalanche of sales. Visions of cookbook-ravenous women stampeding down the aisles to lay claim to a copy of The California-American Cookbook had just stopped dancing in my head.
“You are not to mention your book today,” the Macy’s PR person commanded in scolding tones, her brow a landscape of petrified frowns. “This event is about Julia Child’s new videotapes and we don’t want anything to detract from that.” When I protested that this was a breach of our agreement, she turned on her heel with a little smirk as if to say if I was dumb enough to trust Macy’s, I had only myself to blame. I was wondering if any jury would convict me if I murdered her there on the spot when I noticed the gleam in Julia’s eyes, her whole face in bloom. She was looking at my book.
“How beautiful!” she said, flipping through the pages. “You must be thrilled.”
“Oh, I, well, yes, actually, and we, my coauthor and I, we autographed this copy to you.”
“Thank you so much. Wonderful. Simon and Schuster, very good