“Oh no. It’s the classic recipe,” he insists. “This is what Julia Child drank.” I make a scoffing noise that is somewhat out of my control, like a runaway choo-choo. “Julia Child was often so drunk . . . that she tried to bake herself as a chicken on the stove.” “Would you like one more?” “Yes, thank you,” I say very politely. “It tastes like being thrown through a window.”
