"The Book of Salt"

The Book of Salt by Monique Truong constructs the life story of a Vietnamese cook who worked for Gertrude Stein and Alice B. Toklas in the 1920s and 1930s at their home: 27, rue du Fleurus, Paris: a magic place in the history of American literature and literary Paris in the early twentieth century.

As a long-time student of the life and work of Stein and Toklas, I was curious to see what this author made of these unusual and gifted women and the mainly fictional servant. To be specific, I have been a fan of Gertrude Stein since I was in high school, when I did a project about her, and gave a presentation to a summer literature class that I was enrolled in. Ever since, I have returned from time to time to read works by and about Gertrude Stein.

When I read historical fiction, I always find myself questioning which parts of the characters' lives are made up and which parts are based on documents or memoirs from the characters. In this case, the cook, whose name is Bình, narrates the book, so there's a great deal that Truong has to invent about his childhood in Vietnam, his job from the age of six as a kitchen boy and then sous chef for in the the Governor-General’s kitchen in Saigon, and his journey to Paris where he worked for Stein and Toklas. He feels that he is looked down on or even hated for two things he can't change: his identity as a Vietnamese, and his identity as a gay man. He particularly narrates his views on cooking and what he cooked on various occasions for his employers, and his love for a particular American man that he called "Sweet Sunday-Man" because that was when they were together.

Gertrude Stein, Alice B. Toklas, and their dog Basket,
who plays a role in The Book of Salt.

Although clearly based on The Autobiography of Alice B. Toklas (by Gertrude Stein) and The Alice B. Toklas Cookbook (by Alice B. Toklas, written after the death of Gertrude Stein), as well as some of Stein's more obscure fiction, Truong's book creates a story of its own, not necessarily the exact narrative of a meticulous biographer. From a brief mention of Vietnamese cooks in Alice Toklas’s cookbook, she invents an entire life — and many food memories, as well as memories of the famous Saturday dinners at rue du Fleurus, and life in the countryside where the women spent their summers, accompanied by their cook. 

A few of the most luscious food descriptions — which all mention salt, so central to the imagery of the novel:

“She wants an omelet,” says Miss Toklas, who busies herself with the plates, silverware, and tray. Six eggs beaten with a generous pinch of salt until the mixture is thick with air, until the color lightens to the bare yellow of chamomile centers. Two large soupspoons of butter, the first melted in the pan until it sizzles, a harmonic of anticipation. The second is tucked under the puffy skin that has formed in less than a minute, if the heat is just right. A simple dish that reveals the master, exposes the novice. My omelets are well regarded and held in high esteem by all those who have partaken. Like children, gullible and full of wonder, they always ask, “What is your secret?” (p. 153)

“Pré-salé lambs are named for the salt marshes along the northern coast of France where they graze. Saltwater overflows onto flat stretches of land and leaves behind a sweet mix of herbs and flora. Elemental and tender, pré-salé lambs are salted and seasoned from the raw beginning. Now that, Miss Toklas thinks, is forethought. The first bite is a revelation of flavors, infused and deep. The second bite is a reminder of why we kill and eat the young. The third allows the brain back into the fray to ask, But how is it possible? Not a visible grind of pepper, a milky grain of salt, not even the faintest traces of rosemary, wild fennel, or thyme, and yet the lamb gives all this and more. Yes, intrigue is what my Madame aspires to in all of her creations.” (p. 178)

“The true taste of salt—the whole of the sea on the tip of the tongue, sorrow’s sting, labor’s smack—has been lost, according to my Madame, to centuries of culinary imprudence. It is a taste that Miss Toklas insists is sometimes unnecessary, as in the gazpacho of Malaga, and other times, as in the gazpacho of Segovia, it is the hinge that allows the flavors of the other ingredients to swing wide open. ‘In my kitchen, I will tell you when salt is necessary,’ my Madame said, concluding the real lesson for that day.” (p. 210)

While I didn’t like everything about the book, it’s pretty good, and I liked the effort to see Stein and Toklas as Americans with American sensibilities, American prejudices, and American judgements. Mainly, I feel that I should return to some of the books by Stein and Toklas and read them again. And I feel as if I should go back to some of my old French recipes and cook them again. And go back to Paris again, where I often walk past 27, rue du Fleurus and think of Gertrude Stein and Alice B. Toklas.

The door to Gertrude Stein's house at 27, Rue du Fleurus
(from my visit in 2013).

The plaque on the wall beside the door reads:

"Gertrude STEIN

1874-1946

AMERICAN WRITER

Lived here with her brother Leo STEIN

then with Alice B. TOKLAS

she received many artists and writers

from 1903 to 1938."

Blog post © 2022 mae sander.