Repeat after me, okay?
Oh, Paul, leave me alone.
- Bon appétit. - Bon appétit.
Butter.
Oh, my goodness.
You have to taste this.
Here.
I mean... It's...
- I know. - But I'm...
I know. I know. I know.
Look at that! Oh, Paul, it's so beautiful!
Slow down.
Sorry.
This is it. Look, right... Just stop.
I can't believe we get to live here.
Paul!
Is this a mistake? Should we have stayed in Brooklyn?
We're gonna love Queens. Queens is beautiful.
Moving truck's here.
You okay?
- Everything is falling down. - Hey.
What are we doing here?
Repeat after me.
- Nine hundred square feet. - Nine hundred square feet.
Plus, it's close to your office.
Plus, it's close to my office, but we don't have to move.
We could renege on the lease, repack everything and live in the Jeep.
You're right. You're right.
- Eric, what is that noise? - What noise?
Is it going to be like this every night?
Maybe.
Jule?
It's Versailles.
I'm so happy you like it, darling.
Good morning, Lower Manhattan Development Corporation,
LMDC.
Lower Manhattan Development Corporation, Julie Powell.
- My son died in the second tower. - I'm sorry.
I'm so sorry.
Are you the person to speak to if I don't like the plan for the memorial
- that was in this morning's Times? - You can speak to me.
- Do you have any power? - No.
I wanna speak to someone with power. I don't like the plan.
I don't like the plan either.
You people are a bunch of heartless bureaucratic goons.
I am not a heartless bureaucratic goon.
I am just a person in a cubicle, and I am doing the best I can, ma'am.
This is my sixth phone call and the only thing anyone ever tells me is
I have to fill out a form to get in line for an insurance payment.
And you do. But, I mean, if you don't wanna fill out a form I will fill one out for you,
but you're still going to have to come in and sign it.
- To your cubicle? - Yes.
I feel terrible about what you're going through, Mr. Diamond, but...
You have no idea what I'm going through, Ms. Powell. You have no idea.
- Please don't yell at me. - This whole thing is completely inefficient.
- Please stop yelling at me. - It's ridiculous.
- My 3-year-old is more capable of helping. - I am your friend.
And now the doctor says there's fiberglass in his lungs.
He coughs. He never stops coughing. I don't know what to do.
His wife says there's so much crap in his lungs he can't breathe,
and now his insurance is refusing to pay for this drug that might really work.
- Tell her to call the Health Department. - That's an answering machine.
Andrea Gomez in the mayor's office.
Thank you. Thank you.
Chocolate cream pie.
- You know what I love about cooking? - What's that?
I love that after a day when nothing is sure,
and when I say "nothing" I mean nothing, you can come home and absolutely know
that if you add egg yolks to chocolate and sugar and milk,
it will get thick. It's such a comfort.
Bad day?
When will this pie be ready?
Soon, but I have to make the whipped cream first and let it set.
I'll be here. It's a masterpiece.
Ritual Cobb salad lunch tomorrow.
Dreading, dreading, dreading.
Subway.
- Hi. - Hi.
How are you?
What can I get for you ladies?
I will have a Cobb salad, no bleu cheese.
- Cobb salad, no beets. - Cobb salad, no bacon.
- Cobb salad, no eggs. - Okay, tell them...
Are you listening carefully, Tracy? Tell them to take the offer up to 185.
- Here she goes. - Repeat after me, Tracy.
- 1-8-5. - What's going on?
And call me the second you hear back.
My assistant. It's almost not worth having one.
I know. Yesterday I said to Allison,
"Go to the pharmacy, get me a pair of black pantyhose."
She came back and said, "They didn't have any."
I said, "Did you try another pharmacy?" I mean, really.
Or Bloomingdale's. What's wrong with trying Bloomingdale's?
Yeah, I don't get it. If only I could be my own assistant.
You can be.
Fire your assistant and don't hire a replacement.
No, that's not what I mean, Julie.
Excuse me. Oh...
- Oh, those are cute. - Oh, thanks. Thanks.
Okay, tell them 190, 1-9-0. Great.
"1-9-0." What? What are you up to?
$190 million. We're assembling a parcel at Midtown.
Oh, wow. Oh, oh, that is so great, Cassie.
A parcel of what?
Buildings.
We're gonna tear them all down and put up a high-rise.
- To your parcel. - Thank you.
And enough about you, here's to me.
As of yesterday, I am the senior vice president in charge of corporate publicity.
- No. - Which means I get a raise
and I can borrow half a million dollars at 2% if I want to.
- Great. - If you want to?
- So how's your job, Julie? - Oh, it's...
- I can only imagine. Heartbreaking. - So sad.
- Painful. - Not in a bad way.
- Excuse me. Oh, God, I forgot. - Excuse me.
- Hello? - Hello?
- Hi. - Hi.
Hey, Jules? I have got to interview you for this piece that I'm writing.
Sure, Annabelle, great. I'd be honored.
Call Julie about interview.
Find out about dry cleaning. Find out before dinner on Thursday.
Saturday party.
No.
I cannot computer-coach you every day while I'm with my girlfriends.
What is it about? The article?
It's about our generation turning 30.
People turning 30. Oh, my life, I am so busy.
I don't know when I can fit you in.
May I remind you, I don't want to see you, you want to see me?
Yeah. Would a breakfast work?
I believed her. What kind of idiot am I?
She said, "It's about our generation turning 30."
What'd you expect? Annabelle was always a liar.
"Julie Powell, once the editor of the Amherst literary magazine,
"the one we all knew would be 'The One,'
"temped for eight years before giving up on her novel,
"and now works in a cubicle as a mid-level bureaucrat,
"attempting to deal with the aftereffects of 9l11."
Oh, God, you memorized it? How pathetic.
She left so much out.
Anyway, the picture was good.
- I looked fat. - Just your face.
I forgot to tell you. Do you know what Annabelle's doing now?
- Sarah told me. A blog. - Of what?
What do you mean "of what"? A blog of Annabelle.
Of every thought that passes through her brain.
Her stupid, vapid, insipid...
I could write a blog.
I have thoughts.
And you're a writer, which is more than I can say for Annabelle.
- If only that were true. - You wrote a novel.
Half a novel. And no one wanted to publish it.
You're not a writer unless someone publishes you.
See, that's what's so great about blogs. You don't have to be published.
You can just go online, press enter and there it is, out there.
What would I write a blog about?
You're an editor, tell me.
Why don't you write about how much you love Queens?
A short blog.
You could write about your job.
If I wrote a blog about my job and anyone at work ever read it...
- I mean, hello. - This is good.
This is really good.
On top of which, the whole idea of writing a blog is to get away from what I do all day.
The way that cooking is a way that I get away from what I do all day.
So write a blog about cooking.
I'm not a real cook, like Julia Child or Mario Batali.
Julia Child wasn't always Julia Child.
If I really wanted to learn to cook,
I could just cook my way through Julia Child's cookbook.
I could blog about that.
I have a copy. I stole it from my mother last time I was in Texas.
When I was eight, my father's boss came to dinner and it was a really big deal,
and my mother made boeuf bourguignon.
But it wasn't just boeuf bourguignon. It was Julia's boeuf bourguignon.
And it was like she was there, like Julia was there in the room,
on our side like some great big good fairy.
And everything was going to be all right.
I'm gonna try to flip this thing over now,
which is a rather daring thing to do.
She changed everything.
Before her, it was frozen food and can openers and marshmallows.
Don't knock marshmallows.
When you flip anything,
you've just got to have the courage of your convictions.
Especially if it's a loose sort of mass like...
That didn't go very well.
But, you see, when I flipped it,
- I didn't have the courage I needed... - She's so adorable.
... the way I should've.
But you can always put it together.
And you're alone in the kitchen. Who's to see?
Pearls. The woman is wearing pearls in the kitchen.
... you've just got to practice, like the piano.
I'm Julia Child.
Bon appétit.
- Bon appétit. - Bon appétit.
Bon appétit.
Julia Child is coauthor of the book Mastering the Art of French Cooking.
Bon appétit.
"For the servantless American cook." That's me, all right.
Okay, here's a problem. I've never eaten an egg.
And I have a hyperacidic stomach. We'll deal.
So I'll cook my way through the Julia Child cookbook
and write a blog about it.
- But I'll probably need a deadline. - Why?
Because otherwise it'll be like everything else I do.
'Cause let's face it, I never finish anything.
- Hey. - Well, it's true.
You know why I think it is?
- ADD. - You have ADD?
Yes. That's why I'm so bad at housework.
Oh, is that it?
I'm just saying, a deadline would be good.
So a deadline. "I love deadlines.
"I love the sound they make as they go whooshing past."
- Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy. - I mean it.
- Okay, so a year, or so. - A year?
This thing weighs like two pounds.
I have a full-time job. Sometimes I don't get home until 8:00 or 9:00 and...
It's crazy. It's crazy.
- Is it crazy? - Yes. Yes.
- Okay, you want to do Blog Z? - Yes.
Blog Z it is.
Nobody here
but us servantless American cooks.
"Servantless American cooks."
- What do you think? - Love it.
"Start blogging."
"The Julie/Julia Project."
The Book, Mastering the Art of French Cooking.
First edition, 1961 by Simone Beck, Louisette Bertholle,
and, of course, Julia Child, the woman who taught America to cook and to eat.
It's 40 years later and no one can touch her.
The Challenge, 365 days, 524 recipes.
The Contender, Julie Powell.
Government employee by day, renegade foodie by night.
Risking her marriage, her job, and her cat's well-being,
she has signed on for a deranged assignment.
How far it will go, no one can say.
Dear Charlie, we're settled in finally, and Julia loves it here.
She wants to stay forever.
You know how famously grouchy the French can be, dear brother.
Everyone here is so delightful.
But Julia brings out the best in a polecat.
So charming.
So she thinks they're the most wonderful people in the world.
I feel that I am French.
I just must be.
Well, you might be.
As for staying here forever, I have to say, I wouldn't mind it myself.
And I'm so glad that you came,
- I can't tell you. - It was a very nice show.
- Thanks for coming. - I enjoyed it.
- Paul, congratulations. Excellent exhibit. - Thanks so much, Jack.
Jack Donovan, this is my wife, Julia.
- It was such a wonderful exhibition, Paul. - Thank you. Thank you.
- I am so proud of you. - Oh, good.
French people eat French food!
- Every single day! I can't get over it. - They do.
You know I love you so much, I'm gonna let you take the first bite.
- That's so good. - Before I even had... It's good, is it?
What should I do, do you think?
About what?
I don't really want to go back into government work.
You know, but I... Shouldn't I find something to do?
These wives don't do anything here.
- That's not me. It's just not me. - I know.
I saw a notice on the bulletin board at the embassy
for hat-making lessons.
You like hats.
I do, I do.
I do.
What is it that you really like to do?
Eat.
- It's what I like to do. - I know, I know. I know. I know.
- And you are so good at it. Look at you! - I am good at it.
- Now. How good you are. - I'm growing in front of you.
I was thinking of taking bridge lessons.
- You like bridge. - I do. I like the idea of bridge.
Four points for an ace, three points for a king,
two points for a queen, one point for a jack.
And breast your cards.
Do you have any French cookbooks in English?
- I'm afraid not. - Gosh.
The salesperson. She...
Had no idea... Because, you see, there is no French cookbook in English.
And all I have is this Joy of Cooking by Irma Rombauer,
which is an excellent, excellent cookbook, but it's not French.
So I did ask my friend Avis De Voto
to look around in the United States to see if she could find...
Right. Right.
Gosh, I thought I was speaking French to you!
Oh, my goodness!
What do we have here?
- It's a copy of... - It's my memoirs.
Oh, look.
Oh, it's fantastic! But it's in French!
- You'll get there. You'll get there. - Thank you, darling.
I know. I'm learning. I'm trying. I'm really...
Happy birthday to me.
Happy birthday.
- What can this mean? - What?
- "Wash the thighs." - No, "bathe." Bathe the thighs.
- Look, but then... - Where?
"In butter." I know that. But what is the...
"Bathe the thighs in butter and then stuff the..."
What's that word?
- The hen! - Right. Hen.
"Until she just can't take it anymore."
- It doesn't say that. - It does.
I'll show you later in the dictionary. I'll go through the whole recipe with you.
- Why don't I go to cooking school? - Why don't you?
- I'm serious. - So am I.
Oh, my God.
What if you hadn't fallen in love with me?
But I did.
Oh, gosh.
Yesterday was Tuesday, August 13th, 2002.
Day one. 364 days to go.
I cooked artichokes with hollandaise sauce
which is melted butter that's been whipped into a frenzy with egg yolks
until it's died and gone to heaven.
And let me say this. Is there anything better than butter?
Think it over. Every time you taste something
that's delicious beyond imagining, and you say, "What is in this?"
The answer is always going to be "butter."
It's incredible.
It's been whisked into submission, that's why.
The day there's a meteorite heading toward the earth and we have 30 days to live,
I am going to spend it eating butter.
Here's my final word on the subject.
You can never have too much butter.
August 24th, day 11.
Is this what you mean when you say, "Don't crowd the mushrooms"? Is this a crowd?
353 days to go. A horrible day at work.
An old grandma who looked as if she wouldn't harm a fly
called me a pencil-pushing capitalist dupe.
But then I came home and cooked chicken with cream, mushrooms and port,
and it was total bliss.
Here's the big news.
I had been cooking mushrooms the wrong way my entire life.
Don't crowd the mushrooms, otherwise they won't brown.
Are you listening, whoever you are?
You're gonna love that one.
Day 22.
This one's really good with fig jam.
I got carried away in Dean & DeLuca last night and spent half my take-home pay.
And the first thing I realized when I got to the subway
with my groceries, a bag of cat litter,
a bottle of olive oil I absolutely could not live without, and a huge bunch of branches
was that the branches were probably not a good idea.
Sorry.
They were slapping folks in the face right and left and I was sweating like a pig.
Not surprising, since I've been way too busy cooking fattening food to bother exercising.
And then I came home and got a big vote of confidence from my mother.
Remind me again why you're doing this...
- Blog. - Whatever it's called.
It's a regimen, Mom. Like doing sit-ups.
- Well, it's just adding pressure. - What pressure?
You have a full-time job, you have a husband,
and now you're gonna get sick from blogging.
- It's sort of like being in AA. - What are you saying?
It gives you something you have to do every day, one day at a time.
How do you know this lingo?
Honey, are you an alcoholic?
I'm saying it's good for me to have short-term goals.
Well, that is silly. That is just plain silly.
Who's reading this blog?
People. People are reading it, I'm sure.
Well, it's something you decided to do,
and you can decide not to, and not one single person's gonna mind.
No. Don't you get it? I just started.
I can't stop, I have to finish. It's all I've got.
Hello? Hello?
Stupid dead phone.
Hey, it's not all you got.
I know. I know. I didn't mean that.
Yesterday, I poached an egg.
It seemed like the perfect thing to do
on perhaps the second worst workday in recorded history.
Explain to me how you've never eaten an egg in your whole life.
I've had eggs in, like, cakes.
Never had an "egg" egg. I was a very willful child.
It's simmering.
I had this notion, God knows why, that poaching eggs would be simple.
But I was deeply wrong.
"Immediately and gently push the white over the yolk with a wooden spoon
"for two to three seconds." Immediately.
Disgusting.
Oh, maybe the eggs aren't fresh. Julia says the eggs have to be fresh.
They are fresh.
Okay. You don't have to bite my head off. I'm just quoting Julia.
It took three of us, crammed into the kitchen over a pot of simmering water,
but, eventually, we nailed it.
- Hello. - Welcome.
How cute is that?
And I ate my very first egg of my whole life, ever, ever, ever.
I thought eggs were going to be greasy and slimy, but it tastes like
cheese sauce. Yum.
Julia Child, you are so good.
- Cheers. - Cheers.
And, may I say, excellent wine?
- Do you think Julia knows about you? - I wish.
I have this fantasy that she comes for dinner and I show her my new lemon zester.
We become very close.
The truth is, no one knows about me.
I feel like I'm just sending things into this giant void.
Which reminds me. Annabelle's blog. Have you read it lately?
Yes.
- It's sort of funny. - Is it?
She's dating this rich guy who owns a plane. His name's Lester.
And they do it in the air. People love it. It's a huge hit.
What do you think it means if you don't like your friends?
- It's completely normal. - Men like their friends.
We're not talking about men. Who's talking about men?
So it's five weeks down, 47 to go, and I feel fantastic.
Sometimes, I can't help but wonder. Is there anyone out there reading me?
But I'm sure you are, aren't you? Somebody?
Anybody?
Ernestine, I have a comment.
My mother. Doesn't count.
Today we will begin by learning to boil eggs.
First, you must make sure that the egg is fresh.
I was so hoping that...
Well, for something a little more advanced, Madame Brassart.
But you are not an advanced cook.
But I do know how to boil an egg.
Do you know how to bone a duck?
No, but that's exactly the sort of thing
that I'm very interested in learning how to do.
There is one other class, but you will not like it.
It's for professionnel, which you will never be, I'm sure.
All men. All GIs.
And very expensive.
I cannot imagine that you would ever want to pay the tuition.
How much?
So the onion is ready, but...
You must hold the knife, first of all, like this.
Wrist, easy. Leave the thumb here.
The hand and the knife are one.
And the hand, the other hand, you must protect it.
Here, you must cut only the onion. Yes?
- Not me. - Yes.
And then, you put your thumb here and the other fingers here.
Jule?
You're being a little over-competitive, don't you think?
Well, you should've seen the way those men looked at me.
As if I were some frivolous housewife, just looking for a way to kill time.
Well...
- Where are you going? - Not here.
- You hungry? - No.
Good.
Ta-da!
Well done, Madame Child.
Dear Avis, I'm in my third week at Le Cordon Bleu,
and I'm in utter bliss.
Every morning the alarm goes off at 6:30, and I leap out of bed.
I'm up!
By 7:30 I'm in class, in my apron, peeling potatoes.
Then we cook stock and we bone fish.
We dress pigeons. We make pastry with so much butter,
it almost stops your heart just to look at it.
My teacher moves so quickly I'm sometimes lost.
But I'm way ahead of the others in the class, all of them men,
and all of them very unfriendly, until they discovered I was fearless.
Something I realized about the same time they did.
Morning class ends at 12:30, then I go home and make lunch for Paul.
Then Paul takes a nap.
And later in the afternoon, he goes back to the embassy and I go back to school.
You must have a mortar and pestle.
Incidentally, my father is horrified I'm going to cooking school.
Offered to give me extra money to hire a cook.
Go on. Fun! Joy! This is what matters.
I'm probably the only American I know in Paris
who thinks shopping for food is as much fun as buying a dress.
Course, you'd think so too, if you lived in a country
where absolutely nothing comes in my size.
By the way, did you know that if you don't dry meat,
it won't brown properly?
Irma Rombauer doesn't say a word about it in the Joy of Cooking.
Avis, I am in heaven here.
I've been looking for a career all my life...
- Happy Valentine's Day. ...and I've found it.
We met in Ceylon when we were in the OSS.
But he never noticed me at first.
Well, that's not true. I noticed you. I noticed your legs straightaway.
Oh, you were such a roué.
- All the women were mad for him. - Can you blame them?
Anyway, we were sent off to China.
Absolutely delicious, if I do say so myself.
Julia.
When you finish your term, you'll be teaching at Cordon Bleu.
No, I don't think so.
The woman who runs it absolutely hates me!
Come on. Oh, no one could possibly hate you.
That's true. But she does.
Were you spies?
No. Yes. No.
Oh, so cagey, right?
You were in the Office of Strategic Services and you were not spies?
I was only a file clerk.
But Paul? Paul designed all of the secret war rooms for General Mountbatten.
Well, just maps and exhibits and things. It wasn't...
He did! He single-handedly won the war for us.
Well, I had to. Someone did. I mean, it was dragging on, wasn't it?
Anyway, so there we were in China, just friends having dinner,
and it turned out to be Julia.
It turned out to be Julia all along.
Julia, you are the butter to my bread, and the breath to my life.
I love you, darling girl.
Happy Valentine's Day.
Dear Charlie,
Julia in front of her stove has the same fascination for me
as watching a kettle drummer at the symphony.
The oven door opens and shuts so fast,
you hardly notice the deft thrust of a spoon as she dips into a casserole,
and up to her mouth for a taste check
like a perfectly-timed double beat on the drums.
Then with her bare fingers,
she snatches a set of cannelloni out of the pot of boiling water,
and she cries,
" These damn things are as hot as a stiff cock. "
- She said what? - I know.
- Julia Child said, "Hot as a..." - I know, I'm shocked.
It's from a letter that Paul Child wrote to his twin brother Charlie in 1949,
when Julia was just starting classes at Le Cordon Bleu.
So Julia and Paul, beaucoup, beaucoup.
- I know. Just goes to show you. - What?
You can never tell about a person's sex life by looking at them.
They were so in love.
Hot sauce from a reader.
And today I had 12 comments from readers, and I didn't know any of them.
Thanks to all my faithful readers for this loot.
I have now completed 65 recipes in 47 days.
On track with 103 recipes in just over two months.
Looks like a cupcake.
Lobster thermidor is coming up,
and I am going to have to murder and dismember a crustacean.
How will I ever do this?
Last night our sleep machine, the one we have by our bed
to drown out the noise of freight trucks rumbling past our apartment,
was speaking to me. And it was saying,
"Lobster killer.
"Lobster killer, lobster killer, lobster killer."
One of my readers said that if you put lobsters in the freezer,
it sort of numbs them.
Then I got another comment that said, "Man up, kill the damn lobster.
"Just take a knife and do it."
It's alive!
Eric.
Oh, God.
"A note on dealing with live lobsters.
"If you object to steaming a live lobster," yes,
"plunge the point of the knife into the head between the eyes."
Oh, Julia, you make it sound so simple.
Lobster killer.
Eric.
Get out of here.
I don't need you at all. You are completely useless.
I'm just gonna throw them into the water
and put the lid on and that will be that.
Fine.
Hello.
Goodbye.
I'm sorry.
You okay?
Okay.
Okay. All right.
All right, boys.
There's a new sheriff in town.
Lobster killer.
Under control.
You are a saint.
Thank you. Thank you, thank you, thank you.
- Thank you. - You're welcome.
- I can't. I can't. - You can.
- No, I can't. I have a lot to do. - You can.
- Eric, I can't. - I'm good.
- Eric. - Just give me one more, give me one more.
- Just one more. - Fine. Go, I have so much to do. Get!
Out!
- Hey, thank you so much. - Hey, man. How you doing?
Happy birthday.
Yeah, terrific. Good to see you.
- Cake. - Cake. Brother-in-law.
- Love you so much. - Hey, man.
Hi, hi, hi, hi.
Bon appétit.
Happy birthday, Julie.
- Happy birthday. - Hi! Thanks, sweetheart.
Oh, thanks for coming all out here. Hey, you.
Here's an incredible thing. When Julia and Paul met, she was a virgin.
- Really? - Wow.
She was, like, practically 40.
- You serious? - How does anyone even know that?
There were all these letters that Julia wrote to her friend Avis De Voto.
And Paul wrote to his brother, and no one threw anything out, as far as I can tell.
When they got married, she could barely boil an egg.
Isn't that amazing?
Really?
- Braised cucumbers are a revelation. - This is good.
I'm obsessed with her. I'm totally obsessed.
She's totally obsessed.
Well, it's good that you are, because this is amazing.
Seriously. So good.
Well, savor it, because that's all there is. I mean, lobster, major bucks.
Why don't you put a PayPal thing on the website?
People could send in money if they felt like it.
Oh, yeah. Absolutely.
You have fans, your readers love you.
I do? I have fans?
Yeah, you do.
- Well, I can't ask them for money. - Why not?
I think you should do the PayPal thing. That way we could have more lobster.
- Harder. Get them. Get them. Hey, hey, hey! - Thirty. Thirty. Thirty. Thirty. Thirty.
Happy birthday, sweetheart.
Thank you.
Just like Julia's.
Only hers were probably the real deal.
They're beautiful.
Help you put it on.
Let's give this a shot here.
How's that?
Yeah.
I'm 30.
I thought it was gonna be terrible,
but thanks to you, and thanks to Julia,
it feels like I'm gonna get through.
Cake.
More cake. How do you like that cake?
Hey, you.
I'm going to bed.
Ernie, 53 comments on my lobster blog.
Shut up.
- Julie Powell. - This the person I speak to
if I got a problem?
Yes, sir. What is your problem?
Too much food, not enough sex.
Eric, that's not funny.
I thought it was pretty funny.
Okay, it was.
- Hey, guess what? - What?
You are the third most popular blog on salon. com.
- I am? - Yes, you are.
I am!
So I figure for every one who writes in,
there are, I don't know, hundreds that don't. Don't you think?
It's like there's this whole group of people who are sort of connected to me.
They need me in some way.
Like, if I didn't write, they would really be upset.
They'd probably take, like, poison, try to kill themselves.
Julia.
Are you still making hats?
Oh, no, I abandoned it.
But I am ready to graduate from the Cordon Bleu.
I can't get the damn woman who runs the school to schedule the test.
Madame Brassart? Is that the woman you are speaking of?
She is a bitch.
She is, you're right.
I think she's almost the only person in the world I honestly can't stand.
She is not the only person I can't stand.
Do you two know each other?
You should. Julia Child, Simone Beck.
- Simca. - Simca, how do you do?
And this is my friend Louisette Bertholle.
I can't believe you haven't met.
Simca and Louisette are writing a cookbook.
- For Americans. - Really?
Why do you need to take a stupid test?
So I can get a diploma. So I can teach.
You don't need a diploma to teach.
You're probably right.
- Avis says the same thing. - Who is Avis?
My friend, Avis De Voto, who lives in Cambridge, Massachusetts.
She's very wise.
But I can't help it. I want a diploma.
I am very conventional.
I don't know what to do.
Well, why don't you write to the horrible Madame Brassart
and threaten her?
Threaten her? With what?
The United States of America.
Yes!
Tell her the American ambassador personally wants you
to take the examination.
No, no, no, no, no, no.
I couldn't do that. Heavens, no!
The American ambassador. Hardly even know the man.
Of course you can.
Dear Madame Brassart,
everyone at the American embassy,
including my dear friend the ambassador,
will be very surprised if I'm not allowed to take my examination.
You will write the recipes
for oeufs mollets. Côtelettes de veau en surprise,
et crème renversée au caramel.
Côtelettes de veau en surprise.
I had no idea what veal en surprise was. None.
Cooked it in class. It's a veal chop with mushrooms in a bag.
A paper bag. That's the surprise.
You open the bag, surprise!
Veal and mushrooms, it's just I've never flunked a test in my entire life.
- I am an A student. - You can ask to take it again.
- I can? - Of course.
Meanwhile, you can come teach with us.
Gosh!
Is it true you plan to teach?
Yes, we're going to teach Americans in Paris how to cook.
Madame Child, I must tell you, you have no real talent for cooking.
But the Americans will never know the difference.
We are, I am sorry to say, entering aspics.
An aspic is sort of a beef-flavored Jell-O mold.
Doesn't that sound delicious?
I can't imagine why no one makes them anymore.
You begin with a calf's foot,
which I am in possession of thanks to my sainted husband,
and you boil it until your kitchen smells like a tannery.
And then it gels in the refrigerator and you flip it onto a plate.
Which, according to Julia Child, is supposed to be easy.
And all I can say about that, no offense intended, Julia, is
the bitch lied.
Shit.
- Shit! - How many more aspics are there?
Seven.
No one will know if you don't do them.
It's not like there's, like, the Aspic Police or something.
You could lie.
I can't. I just can't.
Julia will know. It's like she's watching me. I'm under her influence.
I'm becoming a much better person because of her.
Yuck! The sink! Look at this!
I hate it here! Did you put something down the sink?
You hate it here?
How am I supposed to cook anything in this kitchen?
It's no wonder that my mold fell apart. I don't suppose we have any Drano.
Not unless you bought it.
I do all of this and I'm supposed to buy Drano, too?
Right now, you are so not under the influence of Julia Child.
What if I don't make my deadline, Eric? I'll have wasted a whole year of my life.
I used to be thin and now I'm getting fat.
- Fat? - On top of which,
I have to bone a whole duck.
- When? - At some point.
- Can you even conceive of boning a duck? - No, I can't.
Of course you can't.
I'm sure you all remember, because it was only a few days ago,
that I had a meltdown over my aspic
and vowed to transform myself into a better human being.
And then I was trussing the poulet rôti à la normande,
which is roast chicken stuffed with chicken livers and cream cheese,
and it fell on the floor and the stuffing fell out into a big gooey mess.
So, long story short, another meltdown.
This is crazy.
Worse than the last.
I can't even truss.
And I cried like a small, emotionally disturbed child.
I'm a mess.
I got it. I got it.
Hello?
Yeah, who's this?
Can you hold on just one second?
I'm not sure if she's here. She might've stepped out. Hold on.
Hey, it's a reporter from The Christian Science Monitor.
He wants to write about you.
He does?
I should tell him to call back, right?
No, no, I'll take it.
Hello?
Yes?
You want to bring who to dinner?
No, of course, I know who that is. I know exactly who that is.
Who? Who, who, who, who?
That would be great, that would be completely amazing.
Goodbye.
- Who? - Guess who's coming to dinner?
Oh, my God.
To Les Trois Gourmandes.
One for all and all for one.
Yes!
All right. I had such a horrible time
converting these recipes from the metric system.
- Measurements do not matter. - Oh, but they do!
They absolutely do.
This is one of the biggest arguments
Louisette and I had when we worked on our cookbook.
Which is finally finished.
Sent off to the publisher. Soon Simca and I will be famous.
We'll be the next Mrs. Joy of Cooking.
Maybe. All right. Well, let's try. Let's just give it a...
Can I help?
Yeah. It is mieux.
So, yes. They're early. Americans!
Dear Dorothy, your sister, Julia, is now a cooking teacher.
We have three students who pay $2 a class.
Barely enough to cover the cost of the food, but who cares?
Simca, Louisette, and I are Les Trois Gourmandes.
Although sometimes we are only Les Deux Gourmandes
because Louisette turns out to have headaches
and doctor's appointments she schedules during class.
I have a little headache.
You'll meet them both when you come here next month,
unless, of course, Louisette is having a stomachache.
Perfection. And even if it isn't, never apologize.
No excuses! No explanations.
Louisette abandoned us, another stomachache.
And the day before that,
she left class before we even finished making the chocolate Bavarian cream.
I can't believe that's the only time her dentist could see her.
Keep an eye out, we don't want to miss Dorothy.
It's impossible to miss your sister.
I don't see her!
- There she is. - Dorothy!
Hi, Julia! I missed you!
So good to see...
- Paul! - Hi. Hi, sweetie.
I've had an adventure on the ocean liner!
- I didn't get sick once! - Good girl! How about your legs?
People were dropping like flies all around me!
- Look. - Oh, my goodness.
Look at that.
All I think about all day is food and then I dream about it all night.
It is true, she's obsessed.
If I didn't sit in the kitchen, I'd never see her.
Last week, I dreamed that I made cassoulet for Dad,
and he hated it, of course.
He doesn't understand any of this.
I almost feel sorry for him.
He wanted so much for us to stay in Pasadena,
marry Republicans, and breed like rabbits.
- Why didn't we? - Too tall.
Let's face it, it's true.
From the beginning, you just don't fit in. Literally.
- So then you don't. - I know, it's true.
Do not bait Father about politics when he comes.
- No. - Or he won't pick up the check.
- He won't, will he? - I can't make any promises.
- He loves Senator McCarthy. - Oh, I know.
- Pasadena. - Pasadena.
Jinx.
Dort, do you have... You have the Brie.
- Is this the Brie? - Yes. Yes, that's the Brie.
Is that not the most wonderful cheese you ever had in your life?
- Yes! - Yes.
The answer's yes.
I got the chef at Chez la Mère Michel to give me the recipe for beurre blanc.
Beurre blanc. What's beurre blanc?
- Butter in a white wine vinegar reduction. - I love butter.
You whisk them together,
and the acid in the vinegar works on the milk solids in the butter
so that the butter, instead of melting, becomes this
creamy, light, frothy,
with kind of a fantastic subtle kind of...
Tangy.
It has a tanginess.
Tanginess?
Yes.
Well, that's...
That's who I married.
Anyway,
you serve it on fish and it's splendid. I'm going to make it for you.
- That'll be divine. - Yeah.
And, Dort, we're going to throw you a party.