The World in My Kitchen by Colette Rossant Read Free Book Online Page A

sickeningly sweet, I could not order a glass of wine nor could I ask for a beer. Unable to eat, I paid and left the place, promising myself that from then on to bring my own lunch to work.
    Back at the office, I switched newspapers and turned to The Wall Street Journal. Scanning the front page, it was there that I caught a glimpse of American life outside of New York. For instance, there was a column about a New England woman who had started a business raising Newfoundland dogs and knitting jackets with their hair. The article was fascinating because it was bizarre and also because the woman was so successful. I cut out the article and added it to my pile. For the next few weeks when I came into the office in the morning, I first turned to The Wall Street Journal for its stories on small businesses. They were always fascinating vignettes and, to me, so American. I could combine them with other articles to send to Brussels on Fridays. No one ever complained in Brussels that what I wrote was often strange or far-fetched. Once in a while, I would insert important political news stories. National elections were to take place the following November, so I looked for some extraordinary events such as the controversy around Adlai Stevenson’s shoes. Stevenson was the Democratic candidate for president, and the sole of one of his shoes had a hole. The embarrassing photograph was shown on the front page of The New York Times. Later, I found out that it may have been planted by Stevenson’s people.
    I enjoyed my work immensely because every day I learned something not only about New York but also about the rest of the country. Slowly, I began to understand American politics and the workings of New York City.
    New York life fascinated me, especially Greenwich Village. Very often after work, I would take the subway and get off at the Eighth Street station and walk through the neighborhood. It was late June, and along the narrow curving streets, the lovely town houses had geraniums in window boxes and flowers everywhere. I spent my afternoons looking at the small funky boutiques, sitting in coffee houses, or spending hours at the Sheridan Square bookstore. On weekends, Jimmy and I would go listen to jazz or attend an avant-garde play. We often went to the first in-the-round theater in New York, the Circle in the Square Theater. I can still remember how enthralled I was to see Jason Robards in The Iceman Cometh or Truman Capote’s The Grass Harp. The crowd was young like us, and after the play or the concert, we would walk to Tenth Street to the Ninth Circle for a drink or dinner or stop on Cornelia Street for a cappuccino at Caffe Cino. It seemed to me that people all around me were adventurous, that they were open to new ideas and very involved. I felt that there was hope and excitement in the air and found the city vibrant and alive. For me, the Village was a bit like the Left Bank in Paris; it felt like home.
    Every morning, I looked forward to going to work. I was no longer afraid of getting lost in the subway. The only problem I had to solve was my lunch. Every day after work, I went shopping for food in our neighborhood. I found supermarket displays baffling, the food was always wrapped in plastic. For example, if I wanted to buy beef or lamb, the cuts of meat were different from the French ones, and it took many tries before I knew which one to buy. Bread was also a problem until I found a delicatessen store that sold rye bread, which was far tastier than the sliced white bread from the supermarket. I also discovered that New Yorkers liked smoked salmon and that it was as good as what I used to buy in charcuteries in Paris. I also loved Virginia ham, which is very different from the French boiled ham that I loved, slightly too sweet for my taste; but I learned that with it I still could make a very good sandwich.
    Finding good vegetables and salads was also a problem. String beans seemed overgrown to me, nothing like the French