Jerome & Julia

As I recently wrote on my other, professionally-related blog (see the link for "Juicy Dish" at the left), my friend and I recently had the good fortune to catch an advance screening of the new movie Julie & Julia. The movie was a lot of fun, and a nice return to form for Nora Ephron, who has made some bummers since the success of Sleepless in Seattle and When Harry Met Sally, which she wrote and produced, but did not direct. It was a showcase for Meryl Streep, natch, but it was also a worthy bio of Julia Child. I reviewed the excellent short bio of her by Laura Shapiro, in the Penguin Lives series, and the movie honors Child’s long, painstaking route to professional success, which for her was very personal, as she and her husband never had children. The setbacks to the writing and publication of that first cookbook were considerable, but Julia never gave up, and that persistence remains a lesson for me. For all of us.

As I stood in line at the candy counter before the screening, I was thinking about the fact that I actually waited on Julia Child back in the late Nineites. This was at Gotham Bar and Grill in New York City. How lucky I feel to have had that opportunity! I’ve waited on a lot of famous (and infamous) people over the years, but Child was and remains a true global and American icon. Here’s what I wrote on the other blog:

“She and the chef sat with a large party at Table 45, the round table in the center of the dining room. Julia was dressed in her trademark, no-nonsense matron francaise mode. After Champagne was poured and amuses-bouche of silken Goat Cheese Ravioli with Cremini Mushrooms and Parmesan had been delivered and devoured, Julia turned to the chef and said in her sing-song, plummy voice, "Now, what shall we eat?" Alfred, who I still greatly admire and respect, seemed at a loss for words, but Julia opened the menu and said, "Now, this sound delicious...Pheasant and Foie Gras Terrine..." I left them to discuss the strategy for ordering, and everyone else at the table wanted to know what Julia and Alfred were having before they ordered..."

In the very brief, professional context of my encounter with Julia Child, I was reminded of another formidable grande dame, one who was an even greater influence on me and, most importantly, on my cooking. Diana Trilling had very similar qualities--she had a similar voice, a similar way of dress, a similar way of finding amusement in things. Whenever I shop or cook, I hear Diana's voice saying, "Smaller. Find a canteloupe that's smaller...that's cooking too quickly, I can tell by the sound..." More than anything else, I hear her saying, "Did you add salt?" Or, "Did you add enough salt?" As I would have learned from Julia Child had I the chance, I learned to taste what I was cooking throughout the process, and to pay attention to what I was doing as I was doing, not just think about the results. A good lesson for cooking. A good lesson for life.

Once In a Lifetime...

In 2006, the New York Times book editor, Sam Tanenhaus, polled 125 “prominent writers” on their choice of the “best work of fiction of the last 25 years”. Like the Oscars, a debate over the results ensued that was arguably more interesting than the final tally. I’d read quite a few, including the poll’s winner, Beloved. But of the top five, Morrison’s novel was the only one I’d actually read. I pledged to tackle the remaining four at some point, but didn’t get around to even starting this in earnest until this summer. With a mere eight weeks to go to the start of the semester, here’s where things stand: I finished American Pastoral a few weeks ago; took a half-hearted swipe at Blood Meridian, but set it aside; continue to keep putting off the Rabbit Angstrom tetralogy; and am halfway through DeLillo’s Underworld, which I find slow going but intriguing, especially the post-9/11 resonances.

Reading Underworld takes me back to NYC in more ways than one. When the paperback came out, I often saw ambitious readers taking on the 800-plus pages. In my mind’s eye I can see them even now, perched on the hard orange seats of the subways, the thick Vintage book propped on laps, purses, backpacks, and briefcases. The deep-focus cover photograph by Kertesz of the Twin Towers in the fog behind the steeple of Judson Memorial Church announced the fact that they were reading The Book of The Moment. And because it was The Book of The Moment, I set the chin of my ego, dug in the heels of my resistance, and, self-conscious to more than one fault, refused to read it until the buzz died down.

What turns a book into an event? I’m not talking about books that appear and gradually or even suddenly evolve into cultural happenings. The Lovely Bones. Don’t Let’s Go the Dogs Tonight. The Liar’s Club. Even Running with Scissors. I’m not talking about events related to books where publication and other events merge into something historical. Portnoy’s Complaint. The Satanic Verses. The Corrections.I’m not talking about prizes, either, although prizes do make a book an event. I have a friend who despises the Booker---excuse me, the Man Booker prizewinners just because they’ve won it. In America we have so many prizes to choose from that they dilute the event-dom that the award might bestow. “Sure,” I shrug, “Olive Kittredge won the Pulitzer, but Tree of Smoke won the NBA…” The Nobel Prize guarantees that an author’s subsequent titles become events regardless of size—Garcia Marquez’s Chronicle of a Death Foretold is a mere 160 pages, but the publication hosannas, deserved or not, suggested a book ten times the length. After the critical success of Everything Was Illuminated, Jonathan Safran Foer’s second book was bound to be an event; its use of 9/11 within what felt like months of the attacks inevitably turned Extremely Loud and Incredibly Close into a Big Book Event. Length or ambition seem like tangible factors, as evidenced by Tree of Smoke; a gimmick like serial publication in this age of non-subscribers will work—-pace Tom Wolfe. And the finality of death makes the voice-from-beyond impact of posthumous publication a surefire event, Roberto Bolano’s 2666 being a recent example.

I may live in an age of noise and speed and size and buzz, but it still gives me a great deal of pleasure to walk into a quiet, independent bookstore and turn over the new, unfamiliar volumes lying face up on the front tables. There is a gratification that is like meeting a stranger that no one you know has met, of taking a risk, a chance. Of taking all that unfamiliarity home, of having that intimate experience with the book one-on-one, completely free of the sights and sounds and other sensations that are necessary for any activity to become something beyond mere experience.