Insatiable

by Gael Greene

  He looked at me.

  “You’re cute,” he said. “I really missed you.”

  We made love that night.

  Once I’d taken the unthinkable step, it was thinkable. There was no retreat. I dedicated all my philandering to my marriage. If a man was attractive and interested, we found a bed or the backseat of a taxi, or a hotel suite. I didn’t have to nag or make Don feel my need. . . . I would find sex where I found it and love my husband forever. I talked about this in my head and it made so much sense to me. I became an expert on foreplay and fork play and, once again, a scholar of married men. I reasoned that a married man had as much motivation to be discreet as I did. That didn’t mean single men were necessarily out of bounds. At times when I came home, I was sure Don could smell the pheromones and the sex even after a shower. And then he would want me and we would make love. And even when we didn’t, there was always so much hugging. So many times we said “I could never live without you.”

  Danish Meat Loaf

  This meat loaf started life as a meatball recipe in the Times.

  6 slices of dense square packaged pumpernickel (Wild’s Westphalian is perfect) or 3 1/2-inch slices of bakery pumpernickel

  2 large eggs

  2 tbsp. Worcestershire sauce

  2 tsp. coarse salt

  1 tsp. freshly ground black pepper

  3 medium yellow onions (1 cup) finely chopped (not minced)

  2 cloves garlic, minced

  3/4 lb. ground beef

  1/2 lb. ground veal

  3/4 lb. Italian sausage, squeezed from casing. (Sausage can be sweet or hot. Guess what? I prefer hot.)

  Plain store-bought or fine homemade bread crumbs to sprinkle on top

  Preheat oven to 350° F.

  Soak bread in warm water for 3 or 4 minutes. Squeeze out water and tear into pieces.

  Combine lightly beaten eggs, Worcestershire, salt, and pepper in small bowl. Using a big mixing bowl, mix bread and egg mixture together, then add onions, garlic, and the meats, and blend together with a wooden spoon or your hands.

  Pat into an oval or square baking dish or a loaf pan, then sprinkle with bread crumbs. Bake 1 to 1 1/4 hours or until instant-read thermometer registers 155° F.

  Remove from oven, pour off excess fat, and let it rest for 10 minutes.

  Serves 6 to 8.

  14

  MEN I JUST COULDN’T RESIST

  I WAS LIKE A TEENAGER AGAIN, EXCEPT IT WASN’T THE REPRESSIVE FIFTIES, where I’d felt like a wanton aberration. It was the “anything goes” seventies, and I wasn’t wasting a moment.

  Years later, I would glance at Time magazine and my breath would catch in my throat. There were two men on Time’s January 9, 1978, cover and I had been to bed with both of them. No, no, not Anwar Sadat and Menachem Begin. I wasn’t sure how I felt. Even in the freest sexual moment of this century, I thought I would die if anyone knew, and at the same time I wanted to shout it out. I was a woman of appetite. I wasn’t afraid to feed my hunger. Still, I was surprised to see the two of them, linked . . . not by bedroom antics, but by movie box-office magnetism.

  It means a lot to me that I never went to bed with anyone to get the story. I do confess that once in awhile in the middle of pursuing a story, I just couldn’t help myself. But in the several years of my double life, when I convinced myself I had found a way to save my marriage, out-of-town assignments came with built-in possibilities.

  Clint Eastwood had been working all day in the Mexican desert when I arrived on the set of Two Mules for Sister Sara, delegated by Helen Gurley Brown in 1969 to dig beneath the studio pap for a profile of the charismatic cowboy. I felt awkward, too dressed for the desert dust, shy, experiencing a surge of the little girl from Detroit who still lived inside my Manhattan persona, intimidated by being that close to a movie star. His manginess, the unkempt hair under his flat-topped leather sombrero, the sweaty rubble of beard, and a mangled stub of a cheroot clenched in his teeth dimmed his unbearable good looks, but not much. He seemed to be cashing in on the silent antihero image of the spaghetti Westerns that had rescued him from Hollywood’s indifference.

  “At least it’s me doing my own bag and not someone trying to imitate me,” he said, defending himself when I asked.

  Between scenes, he stripped off his shirt. His jeans rode low on bony hips. I’d read the clips. The man was clearly not into food. My flutter of early fame as New York’s Insatiable Critic would mean nothing to him. I had a feeling that if he knew my slavish devotion to sweetbreads and smelly cheeses, he would keep his distance. Six foot four of skinniness, he lay collapsed on a canvas chaise—his langorous off-camera self—silently stroking a baby rabbit, unwound, obviously content. Everyone I had interviewed in preparation for meeting him had alerted me: “He loves animals; he has a gentle reverence toward animals.” I interpreted this to mean animals are easier than people, especially nosy women with notebooks and tape recorders.

  Suddenly, there was a commotion behind his trailer. A crowd of Mexicans had roped an iguana and were dragging it to the prop tent in hopes of cashing in. Clint recoiled. “I sometimes wonder who is the zoo. The animals or the people,” he said. He disappeared, returning with the writhing iguana, getting slashed by its whiplash tail.

  “I bought it for five pesos,” he said, hitching the beast to an awning stake. “What do you think they eat?” After lunch, struggling to set the beast free, he backed into a cactus. The makeup crew was still plucking quills from his back when I hitched a ride back to the hotel to cool off.

  I could see the man was exhausted by the time we met for dinner on the terrace in near darkness at Hacienda Cocoyoc, the resort where the films stars were lodged, an hour’s hairpin ride south of Mexico City. The terrace was not lighted, to discourage mosquitoes, I supposed. I wrestled in the darkness with knife and the pork chop I’d foolishly ordered. One bite told me the pork was almost raw. Will I die immediately of trichinosis or later in horrible pain? I brooded, feeling my forehead. Yes, I was warm. But it could have just been proximity to Clint and not imminent death. Clint tossed most of his food to the dogs ringing the terrace, before I had a chance to see what he was eating. I quickly got rid of my chop, too. I kept trying to draw him out. Nothing I asked provoked an insight, or even more than a bored response. I’d already read most of the history he portioned out in brief phrases. But that voice . . . that iconic lazy, breathy voice. I found myself transfixed by it, not registering the words. I had no plan, not even a fantasy. He was handsome, yes, and, for most women, a heartthrob, I supposed, but I felt his indifference, his distance. I’d not ever known a vegetarian, and I doubted any vegetarian would be attracted or attractive to me.

  I wasn’t any more comfortable in this charade than he was. But he wasn’t giving up yet. I got the message that he had committed to this interview as the price he must pay for a profile that would inspire millions of Cosmo girls to see his movie. I followed him back to his cottage suite, where he stretched out on the sofa beside me and glowered at my tape recorder. He was still Clint Eastwood, and I found him more appealing in the low lamplight than I had in near darkness. I asked a question. He didn’t answer. I looked up from the notebook. He was asleep.

  I’d never had anyone fall asleep in the middle of an interview before. Engelbert Humperdinck had been late and rude, so I said, “Forget it,” and walked out. But Eastwood had been unfailingly polite. I touched his arm to wake him.

  “Let’s go to bed,” he said.

  I guessed he would do anything to escape talking. I realized that I absolutely did not care about his motivation. We made love, gentle and easy. I remember the sweet smell of soap and the sun smells of his skin, the feel of his beard, how lean he was, how tall, the long muscles wrapping his bones. How dark he was against the white sheet. We lay there afterward and he started to talk. I didn’t say a word, for fear of stopping him. He answered questions I would not have dared to ask.

  Would I have done it just for the story? Ridiculous questi
on. I wouldn’t have not done it for anything. At that moment, I wanted him. I liked that it was his idea. A few months later, I was in Los Angeles again on another assignment. He came to my room at the Beverly Wilshire. I opened the door and my knees buckled from the impact of his Clinteastwoodness. He seemed even taller than I’d remembered, clean-shaven now, his sun-streaked hair trimmed. The blue shirt made his eyes even bluer, or did his blue eyes make the shirt seem more blue? One wall of the room was all mirrors. I was a puddle of Jell-O. I forgot any questions I thought I needed to ask. I’m not sure we even spoke. It never occurred to me that what we had might have gone on beyond the Beverly Wilshire. It was wonderful sex in an era of wonderful sexual possibilities. I still believed I was having sex on the run to be a better wife to my husband. And anyway, I don’t think I could have lived with a Republican. Or a health-food addict. And in Clint’s case, shared him with those ex-wives and mothers of his children. So, no regets.

  The other box-office centurian? I’ll get to Burt Reynolds later.

  Infidelity Soup with Turkey and Winter Vegetables

  This will be even better the next day or the day after, so you can leave it in the fridge to comfort your mate if you’re feeling a little guilty about playing around out of town. If you don’t have a turkey on hand, use chicken bones or a ham bone, or even chicken stock.

  Stock:

  Carcass of a 10- to 12-lb. roasted turkey, broken into pieces

  1 large yellow onion, sliced

  3-4 celery ribs

  1/2 tsp. dried thyme or 3-4 sprigs fresh thyme

  1 bay leaf

  1 tsp. whole black peppercorns

  Soup:

  1 package of 16-bean mix, soaked overnight in cold water to cover

  2 cups reduced turkey stock

  4 cups cubed winter vegetables: carrots, turnip, parsnip, sweet potatoes, and red onion

  2 to 3 tbsp. chili powder, to taste

  Salt, to taste

  Freshly ground black pepper, to taste

  2 cups leftover turkey in largish bite-size cubes, preferably dark meat

  Optional: 1 cup ribbons of kale, cabbage, or romaine lettuce

  Optional: 1 cup cooked fusilli or penne

  1 or 2 tbsp. freshly grated Parmesan and a drizzle of good olive oil per bowl of soup

  To make the stock:

  Put turkey carcass, sliced onion, celery, thyme, bay leaf, and peppercorns in a stockpot and add cold water to cover. Bring to a boil, skimming away and discarding any scum that floats to the top. Lower the heat and simmer uncovered for 60 minutes. Pour the stock through a fine strainer, discarding all the solids. Set aside 2 cups of this stock.

  Return the remaining stock (you will have about 10 cups) to a 4-quart saucepan and boil uncovered until the stock is reduced to 2 cups (about 45 minutes).

  To make the soup:

  Cook the beans in a one-and-a-half-gallon stockpot or as instructed on package (after prescribed soaking), using 2 cups of stock to replace 2 cups of the water.

  After 35 minutes, add the cubed winter vegetables and bring to a boil, then lower the heat and cover so the mix simmers. Add unreduced stock as necessary to maintain a rather thick texture of soup. Simmer for about 45 minutes.

  When the beans and vegetables are just barely tender, season the soup with chili powder, salt, and pepper, to taste, add the cooked cubed turkey, and the optional kale, cabbage, or romaine lettuce. Stir occasionally so bottom doesn’t burn. Continue to cook until the greens are tender and the flavors have melded (about 15 minutes longer). Refrigerate if not serving immediately.

  Fifteen minutes before serving, bring soup to a gentle boil. You may need to add additional stock or water to keep a semblance of soup texture. Stir to prevent burning. Add a handful of cooked fusilli or penne (if you wish) and simmer till soup is hot. Taste again for seasoning, adding more salt and freshly ground pepper according to your taste. Serve each portion topped with freshly grated Parmesan and a drizzle of good olive oil.

  Serves 6 as a starter, 3 to 4 as a main course.

  15

  THE WOMAN WHO GAVE ME FRANCE ON A PLATE

  I HAD BEEN A PLEBE IN THE AVANT-GARDE OF FOOD-OBSESSED AMERICANS that would eventually become an invasion, trekking across France in the late sixties and early seventies, gobbling, trading addresses and cuisinary gossip, stopping at Fauchon in Paris to stock up on exotic teas, fancy preserves, tins of candied chestnuts, and the inevitable gift for those left behind—wooden crates of exotically flavored mustards exactly like those that already cluttered the traveler’s fridge. We couldn’t help ourselves. Zabar’s had not yet gone global and SoHo was still forbiddingly industrial, with an invisible scattering of artists camping out in vast lofts, Dean & DeLuca not even a vision in fantasy. So it was worth whatever Fauchon charged to collect preserved prunes of Agen, Mirabelle jam, tins of duck and wild boar pâté, lavender, and herbs de Provence in clay crocks, shipped home in wooden crates, mostly to disappear in the shadows of kitchen cupboards, where just looking at the labels was fulfillment enough.

  I was an outsider, an ingenue, a cartoon of an American hopelessly enamored with eating—the French seemed to find our obsession with their great restaurants endlessly amusing in its unabashed enthusiasm. And at home, people who didn’t commute regularly to France could not hope to comprehend our fervor. We were fiercely serious about our pleasure, and soon considered ourselves more knowledgeable than the seasoned toques who indulged us. Apprenticed to the range in adolescence, many chefs rarely got to eat or drink as we did. Any number of dedicated couples who explored the truffle circuit two or three times a year in the late sixties and early seventies took notes and graded dishes, sending copies to like-minded friends and, of course, to me. These enraptured souls did not call it spring and fall. They called it mushrooms and game. And they scolded chefs overstuffed with stardom for having lost their concentration. I still have the newsletter one couple mimeographed; it carried a copyright and a stern admonition that they and it not be quoted. This vigilante avant-garde noted the fumbles and divined the stars months ahead of poky old Michelin. And the ecstatic noise carried like jungle drums, a rattle of pots and pans igniting what would soon become a feeding frenzy.

  Even after the fall of 1968, when I went professional at New York, I was just an American parvenu abroad. That was about to change.

  In the spring of 1971, the name on every gourmand’s fois gras-stained lips was Michel Guérard. Little known and unbankable, Guérard had launched himself in a cramped low-rent spot in Asnières, a working-class suburb on a faraway edge of Paris. Quickly discovered by the French press, he soon found his twenty seats claimed months ahead by an international cognoscenti. I tried every tack I could think of to book a table at his tiny Pot au Feu, but in vain. I called weeks ahead from New York. No hope. The concierge at my modest hotel lacked clout, too. A foodie friend urged me to get in touch with a woman he’d met on his last Paris jaunt. “A great beauty, exquisitely dressed,” he said. “She drives a silver Rolls-Royce and she knows all the chefs. You two were born to be friends.”

  I phoned Yanou Collart. She was a well-connected publicist for many causes, most of them, it seemed, edible, drinkable, or matinee-idolizable. “Can we meet?” I asked. “Can we have a lunch or a dinner at . . .” I hesitated, not wanting to be too obvious. “Le Pot au Feu?”

  “When would you like to go?” she asked. “Tonight? Tomorrow?”

  “But they say it’s fully booked six weeks ahead.”

  “Tomorrow lunch, then,” she said. “I’ll pick you up at your hotel.”

  Yanou Collart pulled up in her gleaming Rolls. She was Belgian, it seems, but looked very French to me, unabashedly braless and flashing sapphires and diamonds on various fingers. I could see the perfect cleavage in the deep V of what had to be a couture suit, fitted to skintight perfection. I got a distinct impression her gems were real. She was at ease in adorably fractured English, with an accent that made even her longest bawdy jokes wildly funny.


  Yanou seemed to know everyone—movie stars, couturiers, famous writers, the lions of business—and in my honor, she was full of gossip about Paul (Bocuse, naturellement) and Roger (Vergé) in Mougins, about the amazing Jacques Manière at Au Pactole and why Michelin still gave three stars to La Pyramide long after Fernand Point’s death. She promised I would have no problem getting into the Tour d’Argent, one of four Michelin three-star restaurants in Paris that year (dinner cost from fourteen to twenty dollars, exclusive of drinks and service). She had only to phone the dapper owner, Claude Terrail, and I would have a window view of Notre Dame.

  At Le Pot au Feu, Guérard’s woman, the belle blond Jacqueline, greeted Yanou like a long-lost sister, a movie star, the ambassador of global publicite she was, and Michel came out of the kitchen to kiss the air that kissed Yanou’s cheeks. Was she their official publicist or just a friend willing always to help a friend? Even when I got to know her well, it was not always easy to make the distinction. She was the most charming facilitator I’d ever met, as well as a clever publicity counselor to the gastronomic superstars. (“The best-connected person in France and all of Europe,” Pierre Salinger described her. “She is a magic wand who can launch a chef through promotion like a boxer, or a couturier or a film,” Food Arts would quote Paul Bocuse in awarding her its December 1993 Silver Spoon Award.)

  The chef sought to gauge Yanou’s pleasure. Small, with a shock of dark hair, a quizzical smile, and a long pointed nose, Guérard looked like Pinocchio in a human phase. “Shall I just make you a dinner?”

  The chef’s impromptu tasting? Of course. Yes. Yes. Yes. We both agreed.

  We shared a bottle of red—Yanou drank only red, usually a significant Bordeaux, often with a name even I recognized. After the lofty Château Pétrus she favored, her everyday choice was a Ducru-Beaucaillou from a respectable year. Did she ever ask for a check? I don’t remember, and anyway, no chef in his right mind would present one. Since the French critics were by reputation mostly incurable freeloaders, it was a while before she would understand that certain American journalists had the endearing but rather imbecilic notion that free meals for critics were immoral.