The Apprentice: My Life in the Kitchen (Biography Series)


In this captivating memoir, the man whom Julia Child has called "the best chef in America" tells the story of his rise from a frightened apprentice in an exacting Old World kitchen to an Emmy Awardwinning superstar who taught millions of Americans how to cook and shaped the nation's tastes in the bargain.
We see young Jacques as a homesick six-year-old boy in war-ravaged France, working on a farm in exchange for food, dodging bombs, and bearing witness as German soldiers capture his father, a fighter in the ...
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In this captivating memoir, the man whom Julia Child has called "the best chef in America" tells the story of his rise from a frightened apprentice in an exacting Old World kitchen to an Emmy Awardwinning superstar who taught millions of Americans how to cook and shaped the nation's tastes in the bargain.
We see young Jacques as a homesick six-year-old boy in war-ravaged France, working on a farm in exchange for food, dodging bombs, and bearing witness as German soldiers capture his father, a fighter in the Resistance. Soon Jacques is caught up in the hurly-burly action of his mother's café, where he proves a natural. He endures a literal trial by fire and works his way up the ladder in the feudal system of France's most famous restaurant, finally becoming Charles de Gaulle's personal chef, watching the world being refashioned from the other side of the kitchen door.
When he comes to America, Jacques immediately falls in with a small group of as-yet-unknown food lovers, including Craig Claiborne, James Beard, and Julia Child, whose adventures redefine American food. Through it all, Jacques proves himself to be a master of the American art of reinvention: earning a graduate degree from Columbia University, turning down a job as John F. Kennedy's chef to work at Howard Johnson's, and, after a near-fatal car accident, switching careers once again to become a charismatic leader in the revolution that changed the way Americans approached food. Included as well are approximately forty all-time favorite recipes created during the course of a career spanning nearly half a century, from his mother's utterly simple cheese soufflé to his wife's pork ribs and red beans.
The Apprentice is the poignant and sometimes funny tale of a boy's coming of age. Beyond that, it is the story of America's culinary awakening and the transformation of food from an afterthought to a national preoccupation.
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Editorial Reviews

The New York Times
[Pepin] made his way late to the written word, having been a chef before he was a scholar, and a teacher and a restaurateur before he published. But first -- the good luck is ours -- he was a hungry child, in a country in which food was religion, and in which history imprinted itself culinarily. — Stacy Shiff
The New Yorker
In this beguiling memoir, the celebrated French chef and cooking-show host recounts his start as a scrappy thirteen-year-old country boy who arrived at his first restaurant apprenticeship still wearing short pants. An incorrigible prankster (he once coated a colleague's eyeglasses in aspic), Pépin never fully submitted to the strict regimen of the French kitchen, and, after a stint as a cook for Charles de Gaulle, he headed for New York, where he ended up working for the chain-restaurant entrepreneur Howard Johnson. Making clam chowder by the gallon was a quirky turn for a classically trained chef, but it enabled Pépin to revolutionize mass-produced food. With appealing modesty, he sees himself as essentially a blue-collar worker, whose "vantage point to history-in-the-making was the crack between two swinging kitchen doors."
The Washington Post
Lest any reader think this is another saga of sex and drugs in the kitchen, it definitely is not. Instead, it's the story of just what it takes to turn a talented young Frenchman into one of the most admired figures in the culinary world. And anyone who thinks that all you need to do to be called "chef" is to survive a few months -- or even a few years -- in culinary school would do well to read it. — Judith Weinraub
Publishers Weekly
In this fast-moving and often touching memoir, Pepin recounts his journey from the kitchen of his mother's humble restaurant in rural France after World War II to his current position as author of 21 cookbooks, star of 13 PBS cooking shows and dean of special programs at the French Culinary Institute in New York City. Along the way he describes everything from the tough French apprenticeship system that saw him dropping out of school at 13 to work in Lyon to the beginnings of the Howard Johnson's chain. Pepin accepted a job in the Howard Johnson's test kitchen over a stint at the White House cooking for John F. Kennedy , but shows no signs of regret. In fact, if there's a flaw here, it's that Pepin's eternally upbeat attitude is sometimes a little hard to buy-although he does seem to have been born under a lucky star. Pepin came to the U.S. just when a culinary culture was building and fell into friendships with Craig Claiborne, then food editor of the New York Times, and Julia Child. Even a bad car accident when he was 39 turned out to be a godsend, as it got him out of the restaurant kitchen and into the teaching profession. Pepin mines a lot of humor from the differences between French and American attitudes toward food, as when he recounts how he and a French friend once stopped by a farmsomewhere in the U.S. with a sign reading "Ducks for Sale" and wrung the neck of the duck they'd just bought in front of the horrified proprietress. Each chapter concludes with one or two recipes, many of them surprisingly earthy, such as Oatmeal Breakfast Soup with leeks and bacon. (Apr.) Forecast: Pepin's is a strongly branded name, and fans of his books, television shows and classes are bound to be curious as to how he got to where he is. This charming memoir will not disappoint, and the tireless Pepin's 12-city tour is sure to attract plenty of readers. Copyright 2003 Reed Business Information.
Library Journal
How does one become a chef? Aside from having a love for food, modern cooks are born from diverse experiences, talents, and training. Pepin, who has given us numerous cookbooks and memorable television programs, now shares his story. Throughout his early years in the kitchens of family restaurants and highly structured apprenticeships throughout France to his move to the United States, years as a product development chef for Howard Johnson, and friendships with such famous foodies as Craig Claiborne, Pepin relates how his interest in food and culinary techniques developed into passions for cooking and teaching. He does this deftly, neatly capturing personalities and events with clear, concise writing. As a tantalizing bonus, each chapter concludes with a favorite recipe. Pepin's book is an essential counterpoint to Anthony Bourdain's cynical Kitchen Confidential: Adventures in the Culinary Underbelly. Also available in CD and audiocassette formats, this entertaining and informative memoir is recommended for public libraries and culinary collections. (Photos not seen.)-Andrea R. Dietze, Orange Cty. P.L., Santa Ana, CA Copyright 2003 Reed Business Information.
Kirkus Reviews
From chef, author, and cooking-show veteran Pépin (The Short-Cut Cook, 1990, etc.), an easygoing but proud memoir of his journey through the stations of the kitchen and the food world. Pépin doesn't gloss over the difficulties involved in scaling the French culinary ladder, but there is never any question that it was exactly what he wanted to be doing. His mother ran a series of comfortable, small-scale, well-received restaurants outside Lyon, and young Jacques took to "the hurly-burly noise of the kitchen. The heat. The sweat. The bumping of bodies. The raised voices. The constant rush of adrenaline." His apprenticeship, feudal in duration and circumstances, wasn't easy, but he reveled in the learning process of observation and imitation, a "visual osmosis" that he conveys in warm, willowy prose. Cooking in a restaurant, we realize, is a calling, not a job. Gradually introduced to a variety of French regional foods, Pépin learned thoroughly and from the ground up the responsibilities and techniques of each kitchen position. He landed a succession of jobs at great restaurants in Paris and as a private chef before moving to New York and immersing himself in the revolution overtaking American cooking. Hungry for work, he was also gratifyingly unpretentious; he took a job at Howard Johnson’s rather than the Kennedy White House because he liked his life in New York. At Ho Jo’s, he worked with chefs (many of them blacks from the American South) who lacked formal training but had "natural grace and gut-felt understanding." After a horrific car accident shattered too many bones to count and forced him to leave the kitchen, he turned to writing, teaching, and fostering the growing Americanawareness of good food. Pépin offers a worm's-eye view of culinary personalities and approaches, and there’s no doubt he has earned every ounce of bounty he has received from the kitchen Prose as joyful and rich as the author’s food. (Photos, not seen) Author tour. Agent: Doe Coover/Doe Coover Agency
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Product Details

  • ISBN-13: 9780786256167
  • Publisher: Gale Group
  • Publication date: 8/28/2003
  • Series: Biography Series
  • Edition description: Large Print Edition
  • Pages: 509
  • Product dimensions: 5.44 (w) x 8.86 (h) x 1.08 (d)

Read an Excerpt

The War Years

My mother made it sound like a great adventure.
"Tati," she said, using the nickname my brother had given me as
toddler, "you are going to a marvelous place. A farm. A real farm."
My six-year-old's imagination filled in the rest of the details.
Enormous plow horses. Fat, grunting pigs. Dairy cows with sharp horns and
swollen, swaying udders. All manner of fowl: chickens, ducks, geese. Dogs
and cats. In short, heaven.
Maman had more practical reasons for sending me to a farm.
School had ended, and I would be on summer vacation for the next two and
half months. In towns and cities, food was always scarce in France during
the Second World War. In the countryside, farmers may not have had two
sous to rub together, but gardens produced vegetables, corn grew in fields,
pigs became fat, chickens laid eggs, and cows gave milk that was turned
into cream, butter, and cheese. Out of kindness, rural folk would take in the
children of townspeople, giving room and board in exchange for chores.
Although hearty, the food at the farms was simple and straightforward,
coarse and without variety. A gratin of squash with cream, homemade
cheeses, roasted or boiled potatoes, and cured pork held in barrels from the
previous year were the most common dishes. Occasionally on Sundays,
farm families ate roast chicken or rabbit, followed by plum or apple tarts.
Nothing fancy, but compared to what we ate in town, this was feasting. In
fall, the children would return home tanner, stronger, and fatter.
The big day came. Maman prepared a picnic lunch. I hopped into
a trailer that she towed behind her bike, and together we set off through a
landscape of hills, valleys, vineyards, fields, and roadsides shaded by the
leafy branches of plane trees. Late that afternoon, we arrived in Foissiat, a
hamlet in the center of the rich agricultural region of La Bresse. We pulled
into the courtyard of a farmhouse identical to any of a hundred Maman had
already pedaled past. It was fashioned from blond-colored mud and round
stones and had a red tile roof, plain except for being topped by the ornate
and vaguely Middle Eastern–style Saracen chimney. Just as I had
chickens, ducks, and a pair of majestic geese squabbled, quacked, and
honked in the courtyard, and a stinky, mud-caked pig grunted in one
It was exciting and a bit scary to be that close to real farm animals.
The farmer's wife greeted us, ruffling my hair and cooing. It was a
surprising sound, given its source: the tallest, roughest-looking, and most
powerfully built woman I had ever laid eyes on. She had a bright red face
wore the traditional peasant's bonnet.
While she and my mother went into the house, the farmer, a big
man with a great moustache that curled up at the corners, took me to the
barn, which was even more exhilarating than the courtyard. Although I had
seen plenty of cows in my day, I had never stood close to one. In that
shadowy building, where the sweet scent of hay and raw milk mingled with
the acidity of manure and urine, a dozen broad, wet noses turned in my
direction. The closest cow, an enormous beast, lifted her tail and hunched
her back. I jumped away just in time to avoid being splattered by the
mess. That was my first act as an apprentice cowherd.
We returned just as the farmer's wife heaped dinner on the table

literally. She slopped spoonfuls of a yellowish brown porridge, called
not onto plates or bowls, as we ate it at home, but directly into hollows
carved into the wooden tabletop. We gathered around as the farmer's wife
poured cool, raw milk over our gaudes. With no further ceremony, we all sat
down and dug in. The gaudes were thick and smooth and had the salty,
slightly nutty taste of the roasted corn flour from which they had been
The best part of dinner was getting to eat with my elbows on the table and
not even being asked whether I had washed my hands. What a summer
was shaping up to be!
But as soon as the last oil lamp was blown out that night, my
excitement vanished, replaced by a hollow sense of emptiness and
abandonment, sadness and fear. The farmer's wife had done her best to
provide what comforts her home offered. I was given a tall bed beside the
wall. For warmth, she tucked an eiderdown around me, and I curled up
beneath its homespun cover. It smelled of the fields and outdoors, a foreign
scent to a six-year-old boy who, until that night, had always fallen asleep in
his own bed in a second-floor apartment in a busy little town. Lying there
a coeur gros, a heavy heart, I thought of my family. Papa, a jovial bear of a
man. Zizi, or Roland, eighteen months my senior, a mentor, constant
companion, and best friend, so much more than a big brother. Richard,
known as Bichon, just a baby. And, most of all, my beautiful, effervescent
mother, who had slipped away without my even knowing.
My pillow was still damp from tears when I woke up the next
morning to begin the routine that would set the tone of my summer days. At
first light, after a breakfast of café au lait and bread and jam, the farmer led
me into the barn and presented me with a wooden staff. The other
of my cowherd's uniform was a pair of wooden shoes stuffed with hay. I was
also introduced to my work mate, a big black mutt. Our job was to escort
cows out into the fields in the morning, watch over them during the day, and
see that they returned safely to the barn in the evening. Although I fancied
myself very important and hardworking, the truth is that the cows and their
canine overseer knew what was expected of them far better than I did.
Still, there have been few prouder dairymen than I as I trailed
home behind my twelve charges that evening. Inside the barn, the woman
me on a stool beneath one of the animals, which caused me some
nervousness, given the size of the beast and my close call the previous
She took my fingers gently in her callused hand and placed them on the
cow's teat, showing me how to pinch the top with my thumb and forefinger
and then pull down, squeezing with my palm. To my delight, milk squirted
noisily into the pail, more each time I repeated the motion, until it brimmed
with creamy, frothy milk. The woman took down a small bowl and filled it.
"It's yours, mon petit," she said, handing me the bowl.
The milk was foamy and slightly tepid, with a rich, buttery flavor.
She had no way of knowing it, but that plain country woman,
whose name I have long forgotten, taught me one of the most important
lessons of my life: food could be much more than mere sustenance.
That night, I didn't cry.

I was born on the eighteenth of December, 1935, in the town Bourg-en-
Bresse, about thirty miles northeast of Lyon, the second of three sons of
Jeanne and Jean-Victor Pépin. Weighing only two and one half pounds, I
nearly died at birth. The midwife lined a shoebox with dishtowels and put
inside, placing the makeshift incubator between two bricks that had been
warmed on the stove.
Like his grandfather, father, and older brother before him, Papa
was a cabinetmaker, an ébéniste, from the word for "ebony." He specialized
in period furniture such as the table en chiffonnier, a narrow dresser made of
cherry wood, with three drawers and elegant curved legs carved in the Louis
XV Provençal style. It was precise work, more art than craft. In his
he had a can of colle de bois, or wood glue, that he kept hot on a small
stove. It had an awful smell. He told me it was made from mistletoe berries.
was fascinated by the idea of those little white berries turning into that
darkish, thick, sticky, and smelly mixture.
In contrast to my small, energetic mother, my father was big,
barrel-chested, and jovial — a happy guy, a man's man, more like one extra
overgrown kid under our roof than an authority figure. He'd throw us in the
and catch us, bounce us on our beds, and wrestle with us, and he was
always up for a game of soccer or rugby, a sport at which he excelled. He
loved to drink wine in the company of his many friends. It always put him in
cheery mood, and when he had a few too many glasses of Côtes du Rhône,
he would sometimes remove his shirt and dance on a table, La Bresse's
answer to Zorba the Greek. When fooling around like this, he would show
by hurling walnuts against the outside windows of the café with the
of a major league pitcher. The nuts shattered each time but never broke the
glass. It was his private trick, and he got a kick out of seeing our puzzled
faces. No one ever found out how he did it. My mother, who tried it once,
broke the window, and Roland and I never dared to attempt it.
But like virtually all young Frenchmen, Papa, then twenty-nine,
was drafted when war was declared against Germany. Nine months later,
French army was routed and a period of confusion and disarray called la
débâcle began. We had no idea where my father was, whether he was safe
among the hordes of retreating soldiers who clogged the roadways trying to
get home, whether he was suffering in some military hospital, or whether
like thousands of young French soldiers, lay dead in the mud of what was
once the invincible Maginot Line. But by then, those of us at home had our
own war to fight.

At first they were quiet, like wind moaning through branches or the howling
distant dogs. But they became louder, like the whistle of an approaching
I awoke, sitting up.
Maman was already there with Bichon in her arms.
"Hurry, Zizi, Tati," she said to Roland and me.
We hopped out of bed, still in our pajamas, and ran outside
behind her. We crossed the street and dove beneath a railroad underpass,
where some of the neighbors had already gathered. Maman wrapped us in
blankets, and we waited.
The sky lit up. A second later we heard thuds and felt the ground
vibrate. Then silence. The adults whispered among themselves. After the
consultation, Maman turned to us and said, "We can go back now."
Our home was part of a small apartment complex near a key
bridge leading to Lyon and next to a railroad sorting depot. Because of the
depot and bridge, it was a strategic area frequently targeted by bombers.
After the first raid, we never knew whether or not we'd get a full night's
Night after night, siren wails awakened me, and I ran from the house with
mother and brothers.
The responsibility of keeping three young boys safe and fed during
this time fell solely to my mother, then only in her mid-twenties. Maman
strikingly beautiful, with proud, erect posture, high cheekbones, large brown
eyes, and masses of black curls swept back from her forehead. She was a
tiny, wrenlike bundle of energy, always on the move.
She earned money by working all day as a waitress at L'Hôtel de
Bourgogne in Bourg-en-Bresse. In the evenings, she sewed every article of
clothing the family wore. And on her one day off from the restaurant each
week, she shopped for our food, though hers was hardly your typical
run. Early in the morning, she would put on one of her Provençal-style floral
dresses and wrap her dark curls in a scarf before mounting an old bicycle
with solid rubber tires (no inner tubes), pedaling down our street onto the
main road and out to the dusty byways of the countryside. With her slim,
muscular legs, she pedaled thirty-five or forty miles, going from farm to
filling the wicker basket strapped on the back of her bicycle with bread,
meat, chicken, honey — anything that she could find that would help feed
Somehow she managed, and we ate every day, but necessity
exposed my taste buds to some unconventional recipes. In lieu of sugar,
which wasn't available, Maman made a wartime sweetener by cooking
in water on her wood stove for hours, straining the mixture, and then
the syrup to a thick brownish liquid. It filled the entire apartment with an
earthy, slightly caramelized sweet scent — an aroma every bit as appealing
to me as the inside of a pastry shop. I loved the stuff almost as much as I
hated another one of our staples, Jerusalem artichokes, which we
consumed "natural," with no butter, oil, or cream. Their smell made me gag.
But when I grimaced and said, "I don't like these," Maman would say, "Too
bad, Tati, that's all we have." And I would eat them, though I haven't put a
Jerusalem artichoke in my mouth since.
At the end of each meal, our plates were sparkling clean, so
that we would turn them over, and the small circle in the center of the
underside would serve as a dessert plate. Usually, when we had dessert at
all, it consisted of a few tablespoons of jam or fruit purée that Maman had
made, bartered for at a farm, or purchased on the black market.
When she had the ingredients, Maman made something she
called coque, or matefaim, roughly translated as "hunger quencher," a kind
French toast. For this, she used eggs that she had preserved in a whitish,
slimy mixture of lime and water, which made the shells very brittle and
She mixed the eggs with flour and water, or milk, if available, creating a
unsophisticated crêpe batter, in which she soaked slices of dark, tough, dry
bread. To produce the coque, she cooked the soaked bread and some of
batter in a skillet coated with a little rapeseed oil. Not exactly French toast,
but it did quench our hunger.
Another unlikely favorite of mine was mou au vin rouge: cubes of
beef or veal lungs cooked with onion and the sediment left in the bottom of
red wine barrel. Before cutting them into cubes, Maman inflated the lungs
blowing into the trachea. I once witnessed the disastrous results of omitting
this step. The lung pieces expanded in the cooking liquid, tripling or
quadrupling in size, until the lid of the vessel suddenly lifted and pieces of
lung spewed out of the pot like volcanic lava. Maman never had such
problems with her mou and served it several times a month. Even though
spongy texture of the lungs and the acidity of the sauce would not thrill a
gourmet, I loved mou au vin rouge. In a perverse way, I still do.
Occasionally, my mother got a few pounds of butter, which she
would cook and salt to preserve in jars. The darkened scum that rose to the
top of the butter and stuck in a ring to the sides of the pot as the butter
cooked was la crasse du beurre, or "butter's dirt." Despite the name, it had
deep, nutty taste that turned a stale piece of bread into a culinary triumph
that ranked right up there with mou.
To supplement what my mother acquired on her excursions
through the countryside, we had a plot in a community garden about a half-
mile from home. Roland and I were assigned to push a homemade cart and
clean up behind a large Percheron horse that made grocery deliveries
the neighborhood. Often competing with other local boys, we rushed in and
shoveled up the malodorous but precious "piles of gold." Our garden was
organic. And, thanks to us, the streets of Bourg were kept impeccably
The few crops we grew in our plot were precious: potatoes,
radishes, onions, leeks, parsley, zucchini, beans, and, especially, salad
greens. One day, Roland and I were instructed to get salad from the
But when we arrived there, we were confused. Which plants were we
supposed to pick? After some discussion, we chose the tender young
aligned in well-cultivated rows, by far the most appetizing specimens and
also the easiest to pick, although gathering enough for a salad required the
uprooting of three entire rows. We proudly bore our harvest home, only to
greeted by a shriek from Maman. Those seedlings had been transplanted
from the cold frame only days before. Although baby greens may be all the
rage today, size often trumped quality on the tables of wartime France.
One afternoon, during the peak of Mussolini's bombing of Bourg-
en-Bresse, Maman was off waitressing. Roland, Grandmother, and I were
weeding the garden, while Bichon napped in his carriage at the end of a
By then, the howls of air raid sirens and the thuds of exploding bombs had
become so common that we barely looked up from our chores when a loud
blast went off nearby. It wasn't until we turned the corner at the top of our
street on our way home that we saw the destruction. In front of our building,
the landlord's car had been reduced to a blackened, smoldering tangle of
metal. Much of the ground floor had been blown away. Protruding above,
completely windowless and minus its balcony and the exterior staircase
provided access, was the apartment that had been the only home I had
Everyone was gathering what belongings they could and fleeing
from the advancing German columns. We lacked a car, but my aunt, La
Marraine, said we could get out of Bourg with her. Nothing could have
delighted me more. La Marraine was the mother of my favorite cousin,
Robert, who was a teenage version of Papa. Traveling with him would make
Robert just like another brother.
But to my disappointment, La Marraine informed me that Robert
wouldn't be going with us. He had joined the army, and La Marraine said
he had disappeared. We climbed into my uncle's old Citroën; he had also
gone to war. La Marraine, who did not drive, drove. Crowded into that car,
which smelled of gasoline fumes, old leather, and Uncle's tobacco, we
out toward the mountains of the massif Central, near the Auvergne region.
Our progress was anything but smooth. La Marraine worked the shift like an
uncooperative pump handle, and the gears crunched and grated before
engaging, jolting the car forward. Just as often, it jerked to a stall. During
those interludes when La Marraine got us moving in the right direction, she
drove at full throttle, swerving from side to side like someone who'd enjoyed
one too many glasses of wine at lunch. We might never have survived that
journey had we not passed a young soldier wandering the road. La Marraine
stomped the brake.
"Where are you going?" she asked.
The soldier shrugged. "I don't know. I've lost my regiment."
"Well, you do know how to drive, don't you?"
He nodded.
"Good, it's yours," she said, sliding over so he could take the
A few kilometers later, he spotted a couple of trucks filled with
French soldiers along the side of the road. Hoping to get some information
about his regiment, our driver stopped and called out. Immediately, a young
man in the dark blue uniform of the French army jumped from the truck and
embraced him. La Marraine screamed. Incredibly, it was Robert. He took
the driving, and we ended up in a small hamlet called Baribas, where we
found lodging in a farm for a few weeks. Eventually, we moved back into our
home on rue de l'École normale. One morning I woke up and there, seated
the table as if not a day had passed, was Papa.
Unfortunately, this period of tranquility turned out to be but a
moment of peace in the eye of the storm. In late 1943 and early 1944, the
Germans began gathering able-bodied men at random and coercing them
forced labor for their war machine. Many men, moved by patriotism as well
unwillingness to participate in a German labor camp, joined the French
underground, known as le maquis, the term applied to the tight,
bush regions of Corsica, where bandits would hide from the law.
One day my father was strolling down avenue Alsace-Lorraine, the
main street of Bourg, when a German officer accosted him, accusing him of
being part of le maquis. The soldiers lined up Papa and seven other
townsmen against a wall outside the Préfecture de police, a seventeenth-
century castle-like building at the bottom of the street, and held them there
all day at gunpoint. In the late afternoon, the soldiers dragged two of the
away and summarily shot them. The Germans returned. Instead of taking
more victims, however, they told the survivors to go home. Shortly
Papa moved to the mountains and joined some of his friends in the
For a second extended period, he was gone. But this time, he
would occasionally slip home, often at night when my brothers and I slept.
We would not even know he had been there until the next morning when
Maman, wearing a faint smile, told us that our father had visited. He often
behind small gifts of food. For a while, we were awash in sardines. Papa
brought us a few dozen tins that he had gotten from parachuted goods,
compliments of the American air force. I still love canned sardines, served
simply on top of salad with finely sliced onion and a sprinkling of red wine

Summer came, and once again I was going to leave home to spend a few
months on a farm. This time, much to my delight, Roland and I went
together. There were tears on my cheeks when Maman left us at the train
station in Lyon, but they dried quickly as the train, filled with other young
boys, chugged toward Chambéry, a town in the Savoy area known for its
vermouth, pasta, and fish from nearby lac du Bourget. We spent the night in
an army barracks in Chambéry and the next day boarded a small shuttle
train to complete our journey to St.-Jean-de-Maurienne, a small town in the
foothills of the Alps.
Standing on the platform, I heard a voice calling, "Pépin! Les
Roland and I separated ourselves from the crowd.
A priest with a rough, leathery outdoorsman's complexion and
clad in an old-fashioned ground-length black soutane was calling. We
presented ourselves, and without much more conversation, this most
unpriestly-looking priest led us to a distinctly unpriestly conveyance: a two-
wheeled cart to which a small donkey was hitched. The priest climbed
aboard, indicating that we were to sit beside each other on a bench that
faced backward. From that vantage point, I had my first encounter with big
mountains, immense peaks glowing in the bright sun of that early June day.
The priest and his donkey headed up a dirt road, bordered by the
abrupt wall of the mountain on one side and the gaping abyss of the valley
the other. Finally, we arrived in the village of Montvernier. I was hoping that
Roland and I would stay in the same house that summer, but the priest
me alone to the home of the family where I would stay, leaving Roland on
cart. Mme. Mercier was waiting for us in the large, central — and only —
room of the farmhouse. After a few minutes of conversation, the priest left
with my brother, facing backward, waving goodbye to me. Once again, I
Every couple of weeks, Mme. Mercier undertook the formidable
task of making bread, a staple for the family. Preparation started two to
days ahead of time. She began with a leftover hunk of dough about the size
of a plucked chicken, which she kept covered with water in an earthen jar in
the cool cellar under the house. To that, she added flour, water, and salt to
form a soft mixture, like slurry, in the pétrin, or kneading vessel. The pétrin
was made of carved hardwood and resembled a coffin in size and
appearance. Proudly displayed, with its beautiful carved lid, it functioned as
table or sideboard when not in use for bread baking.
Making the dough was backbreaking work. The first slurry would
be left to ferment and rise a little, usually overnight. In the morning, the
fermentation would have run its course, and Mme. Mercier added fresh flour
and water to the mixture to give it new life. She left the dough again for a
hours to activate and ferment, repeating this process, called a rafraîchi, or a
refreshing, several times over the course of three days. Eventually, her
became strong, elastic, and filled with pockets of air, which would burst and
produce a wonderfully aromatic, yeasty fragrance that permeated the
farmhouse. On the final day, Mme. Mercier shaped the dough into round
loaves, saving a piece to store in the cellar as a starter for the next batch of
Like every other household in Montvernier, the Merciers lacked an
oven large enough to bake the dough Mme. Mercier had so laboriously
prepared. Instead, the people of the town shared a massive common baking
oven with the residents of a nearby village called Montbrunal. Bread-baking
day had all the excitement of a carnival. Villagers greeted each other loudly
and gossiped in small clusters. Kids ran about and played. I was standing
forlornly on the outskirts when Roland appeared.
He was staying with a family in Montbrunal, which meant that I
would not only see him on baking days but on Sundays as well, since the
villages also shared a single church. Montvernier and Montbrunal were so
close together that we could even walk to visit each other during the week
when our farm duties permitted.
The oven seemed as large as a house, and together Roland and I
watched the baker-farmer feed it with the pile of wood needed to bring it to
the proper temperature. The smell of so much baking bread was enthralling.
We stood there for hours. One after the other, farmers arrived with their
loaves, two dozen or so each, and the baker would take over. At the end of
the day, some farmers brought casserole dishes, containing anything from
beans to cabbage, to be cooked overnight in the heat retained by the oven.
Back at the farm, Mme. Mercier arranged her loaves like
decorative plates on the high, narrow shelves running along two entire walls
the room. Every night for dinner, she brought down a new loaf. Seated at
head of the table, M. Mercier held the loaf on its edge and marked a cross
its underside with his folding wood-handled knife. This was intended as a
of respect for the bread and an offering to God, although it was more a ritual
of food than a religious observance. Only then would he cut the bread into
large chunks and distribute it around the table.
An unusual custom dictated that cheeses, made in the village,
were always to be consumed with bread at the start of the meal. One of
these was a wonderful cheese called Beaufort, rich, dense, and nutty,
to a Gruyère. Another Savoy cheese, Tomme de Savoie, was harder and
more pungent than the Beaufort. Sometimes we ate the Beaufort by itself.
Other times Mme. Mercier grated it into soups, gratins, soufflés, and
stuffings, but the Tomme was always eaten on its own. Mme. Mercier's
meals always ended with a soup — precisely the opposite order that I had
been used to. We also ate homemade cured, dried ham, redolent of the hay
in the summer fields. For dessert we had plum tarts made with sugary
mirabelle plums about the size of cherry tomatoes.
Montvernier offered plenty of experiences for a young city boy: the
glorious peaks of the Alps, the frightening chasms bordering the narrow
mountain roads, the powerful and intoxicating smell of the summer hay that
we spent hours cutting and gathering, the hair-raising rides perched on
of hay in a cart pulled by a donkey that occasionally slipped as he headed
down treacherous paths on his way to the barn. But for me the most
impressive thing about the Alps was that bread oven and the way
not only nourished but also brought together the people of two remote
mountain communities.

I had reason to dread the end of summer. Although I was officially too
to attend, Roland was already enrolled in Lycée St. Louis, a boarding
in Bourg. Between her six-day-a-week job and her day-off food-gathering
expeditions, not to mention caring for Bichon, who'd grown into a big, active
toddler, Maman did not have time to watch over me. The solution was to
if she could prevail upon the Jesuit priests who ran Lycée St. Louis to grant
me what amounted to early admission.
She, Roland, and I approached the somber stone edifice that
housed the lycée. We were shown into a dark reception room. A door shut
behind us, and we waited. At length le directeur entered. He was a tall,
austere priest whose pure white hair made him seem old enough to be on
speaking terms with St. Peter himself. He took a seat behind his desk and
"What is it you want?" he said to Maman.
Normally not easily cowed or at a loss for words, she
stammered, "My husband is away."
This merited only a faint snort from the exceptionally long nose of
le directeur.
"And I have a job, and a baby to take care of, and since Jacques's
older brother is already enrolled . . ."
Le directeur did not so much as cast a glance at or in any way
acknowledge the presence of Roland and me. Children, clearly, were
this man's contempt.
"The boy is not of age," he said.
"But, please . . ."
The adult conversation continued for a long time. I'm not sure
she said, but somehow she accomplished a minor miracle: she got le
directeur to change his mind and, more impressive, to bend one of Lycée
Louis's strict rules.
I immediately learned that one of the most important of those
numerous rules was that students were forbidden to talk. A policy of silence
prevailed unless we were addressed directly by a priest or given explicit
permission to speak. A natural chatterbox like all Pépins, I ran afoul of that
rule early in my studies. The priest who was teaching our class said
something that I couldn't hear from my desk in the back of the room, so I
asked a neighboring student to repeat it for me. I spoke in my quietest
whisper, but the Jesuits of Lycée St. Louis, aged though they may have
been, possessed superhuman hearing.
"Pépin!" he roared, before I'd gotten out two syllables.
I snapped to attention bedside my desk.
"Come to the front of the room."
I came forward and was ordered to get down on my knees in front
of the class and extend my arms to the side, palms up. On each palm, the
priest placed a heavy book. He forced me to hold those books until my
burned with pain. Whenever I lowered them, even by an inch, he ordered me
to get them back up.
Thursday provided us with a day off from classes, but not from
discipline and rules. The priests' idea of letting boys play in the woods was
make us form a single-.le line, with a priest at its head and another at its
end, and march us along in that manner. The forest had been the scene of
some fighting, and the priests warned us not to touch any military ordnance
that we might see lying around. I resisted until near the end of our "play"
session, when I spotted a brilliant gleam of brass under a leaf. I checked
behind me. The priest bringing up the rear was behind some trees, out of
sight. The lead priest was looking the other way. I made a swipe. It was a
spent cartridge casing, sleek and beautiful, a treasure beyond compare to a
boy whose father was off in the mountains fighting with le maquis, wearing
ammunition belt studded with shells just like that one. I pocketed it.
When we emerged from the forest, the priests stood before us.
One demanded, "Did any of you pick anything up in there?"
I was too frightened to confess, even if I had wanted to, so I stood
there shaking, my prize clutched in a sweating palm deep in my pocket.
"No?" the priest asked.
We all remained silent.
"If you have anything, drop it immediately."
Nothing hit the ground.
"Pépin!" he said. "Hands out of your pockets."
I did as told, leaving the cartridge in my pocket.
He strolled over to me and frisked the outside of my pants. Before
I could speak, he smacked me twice, as hard as he could across the face.
Corporal punishment was swift, certain, and harsh at Lycée St.
Louis, but it was an era when stern discipline was the norm, even at home,
and to their credit, the priests meted it out equally. I got used to it. But the
same cannot be said for the food, which was simply inedible. On my first
morning there, an older student told me that for breakfast, we were having le
caca de René. René was the infant son of the female cook, and caca
being . . . well . . . if you've ever changed a soiled diaper, you understand.
the dining hall my bowl was filled with some ignoble gruel, whitish and
It turned out that we were served — and required to eat — le caca de René
several times a week. The slop lived up to its name in every way. Although
we were hungry and nearly starving, we would even pay fellow students to
consume our servings of that vile concoction.
Things started looking up after breakfast, however. As we filed out
of the dining room after the meal, we were each allowed to take one piece
black bread out of a basket. The bread was hard and stale, but it had to be
better than le caca de René. I was about to gnaw off a chunk when my new
friend cautioned me to stop. Taking his own piece, he struck it on the
of the table. Several flea-like insects fell out and began scurrying for
In time, this step became routine.
Many of the boarders were farmers' kids who from time to time
received parcels of goodies, honey or salted lard or sausages, items that
kids like us never got. I became excellent at bartering, and for a few
or a roll of string, I would wangle all kinds of food. When I had nothing to
trade with, I cajoled and pleaded. One day I convinced a farm boy to spread
some of his jam on my dry piece of bread. I was just about to bite into this
delicacy when I glanced down the table and saw that another boy was
dipping his knife into a strong-smelling purée of salted fish. I deftly turned
slice of bread jam side down, so only the bare side was visible, and begged
the other boy for a smear of his purée. Assuming that the only thing I had to
eat was a piece of dry bread, he took mercy. I thoroughly enjoyed my
bites-sweet, some-bites-fishy open-face sandwich.
During the winter, the dorm was cold enough at night to freeze the
water in the trough where we were supposed to wash. My feet stayed cold
so long that they grew red, raw, cracked, and painfully itchy with chilblains.
Finally, spring came, and with it the prospect of a great celebration. Roland
was to have his first communion. All the family, including La Marraine and
cousins from Bourg, even Robert, were going to gather at our apartment on
rue de l'École normale. My mother would be cooking.
I needed to acquire a suitable gift for Roland, and I finally decided
that the perfect thing would be the dry salami sausage called saucisson.
Every member of our family loved saucisson, especially Roland, particularly
after six months of le caca de René. In war-rationed France, acquiring a
saucisson was difficult, and for a boy confined to Lycée St. Louis, it was
attempting the impossible. But I was determined.
At school I knew a farm kid whose father kept cattle and pigs and
was also adept at sausage making. The boy, well aware of the value of
decent food at St. Louis, flatly refused to get me a saucisson. I bartered
him for days. First I put my collection of marbles on the table. He shook his
head. I asked him what he wanted. What possession of mine could be
valuable than my beautiful cat's-eyes and puries?
"Your knife," he said.
My prized pocketknife. That was too much.
"Absolutely not," I told him.
For a time we each stood our ground. Finally, with only a week to
go until the big day, I approached him and told him he could have the knife.
was a major sacrifice, but this was, after all, Roland's first communion.
"And your marbles," the farm boy said.
We sealed the deal, and I placed the precious saucisson in my
casier personel, the small locker each student had, which was as close as
we got to having private space at that school. Hopefully, it would be safe
other hungry students. I couldn't resist checking on my prize two or three
times a day to see if it was still there. Each time I looked at it, my mouth
watered and my hand reached out toward it. Eventually, I gave in to
temptation and bit into the end of the sausage, just to taste it. After that, I
continued to gnaw at my saucisson. Luckily, with a couple of days to go
before that special Sunday, I had nibbled only about a half-inch off the end
and was pleased that I had managed to keep the original shape of the
sausage intact.
As the weekend approached, my anxiety increased. I couldn't
wait to see the look on Roland's face. My mind was not focused on my
studies, a bad idea at any time at Lycée St. Louis, but especially so when
asking for dispensation to attend a special event. So maybe I was a few
seconds behind the rest of the students in lining up before morning classes.
"You're late, Pépin," said a priest, a notorious stickler for
punctuality who had never much cared for me anyway. The same priest
made me stand up in class and explain aloud to one and all why I was
gazing out the window instead of reading my lessons. What was I to say?
That I was daydreaming about the apartment on rue de l'École normale
with relatives and friends there for Roland's party? I apologized, and I guess
murmured something under my breath as I sat down after receiving my
"That's it, Pépin," said the priest. "We'll see if you learn to behave
after being grounded for the weekend."
My mother pleaded with le directeur, but he did not relent; I was
be restricted to school during that weekend. On Sunday after church and
before the big meal, the whole family came to visit and comfort me. I
my saucisson to my mother as they left and went up to the empty dorm.
There was no one there to hear me crying.
But it has always been hard for me to stay unhappy for long. Time
passed. Papa continued to visit occasionally in the night, leaving exotic
treats like bananas and oranges. Word reached Bourg that the Allies had
landed on the beaches of Normandy. Paris was liberated. Our home was
bombed again, this time compliments of the retreating Germans, but no one
was hurt, and we soon returned. Then one afternoon, people poured into the
streets, yelling, "They're coming! They're coming!" Roland and I joined the
crowds standing in the sunshine along avenue Alsace-Lorraine. In the
distance there was a rumble, clearly different from the familiar drone of
and German bombers. Certainly no car, not even La Marraine's ancient
Citroën, ever produced such a racket. The noise got louder, and then its
source appeared: an Allied army tank.
Roland and I burst from the crowd and, along with every other kid
in Bourg-en-Bresse, began running behind the tank. The soldiers —
Americans! — laughed and tossed goodies to us. Roland and I managed to
catch gum, something entirely new and such a luxury that we kept it for
days, passing it between us; I'd chew it for a while and then Roland would.
The soldiers also threw candy bars. Running behind the tank, I
caught one, broke off a piece, and put it in my mouth. For the first time in
memory, I experienced the silky, bittersweet richness of milk chocolate.
My war had ended.

Les Oeufs Jeannette
(Eggs Jeannette)
yield: 4 servings
When we were kids, eggs were a staple on our table. Meat or poultry
up there once a week at the most, and more often than not, our "meat"
dinners consisted of a delicious ragout of potatoes or cabbage containing
of salt pork or leftover roast. Eggs were always a welcome main dish,
especially in a gratin with béchamel sauce and cheese, and we loved them
omelets with herbs and potatoes that Maman would serve hot or cold with a
garlicky salad.
Our favorite egg recipe, however, was my mother's creation of
stuffed eggs, which I baptized "eggs Jeannette." To this day, I have never
seen a recipe similar to hers, and we still enjoy it often at our house. Serve
with crusty bread as a first course or as a main course for lunch.

6 jumbo eggs (preferably organic)
1 teaspoon chopped garlic
2 tablespoons chopped fresh parsley
2 to 3 tablespoons whole milk
1/4 teaspoon salt
1/4 teaspoon freshly ground black pepper
2 tablespoons vegetable oil (preferably peanut oil)

2 to 3 tablespoons leftover egg stuffing (from above)
4 tablespoons extra-virgin olive oil
1 tablespoon Dijon-style mustard
1 tablespoon water
Dash of salt and freshly ground black pepper

FOR THE HARD-COOKED EGGS: Put the eggs in a small saucepan, and
cover with boiling water. Bring to a very gentle boil, and let boil for 9 to 10
minutes. Drain off the water, and shake the eggs in the saucepan to crack
the shells. (This will help in their removal later on.) Fill the saucepan with
water and ice, and let the eggs cool for 15 minutes.
Shell the eggs under cold running water, and split them
lengthwise. Remove the yolks carefully, put them in a bowl, and add the
garlic, parsley, milk, salt, and pepper. Crush with a fork to create a coarse
paste. Spoon the mixture back into the hollows of the egg whites, reserving
to 3 tablespoons of the filling to use in the dressing.
Heat the vegetable oil in a nonstick skillet, and place the eggs,
stuffed side down, in the skillet. Cook over medium heat for 2 to 3 minutes,
until the eggs are beautifully browned on the stuffed side. Remove and
arrange, stuffed side up, on a platter.

FOR THE DRESSING: Mix all of the dressing ingredients in a small bowl
a whisk or a spoon until well combined.
Coat the warm eggs with the dressing, and serve lukewarm.

Copyright © 2003 by Jacques Pépin. Reprinted by permission of Houghton
Mifflin Company.

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Table of Contents

Acknowledgments VII
1. The War Years 1
2. The Call of the Stove 23
3. My Apprenticeship 46
4. Seasons 66
5. Paris 76
6. Le Plaza Athenee 88
7. Cooking for Presidents 106
8. Home Again 128
9. New York, New World 134
10. Only in America 151
11. Cooking with Friends 168
12. Gloria 185
13. Living off the Land 200
14. Soup's On 216
15. Teaching 224
16. Writing 250
17. Television 262
18. Gloria's Restaurant 272
19. A New Way to Cook 286
Index 295
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