Julie And Julia


Repeat after me, okay?

Oh, Paul,

leave me alone.

- Bon apptit.

- Bon apptit.


Oh, my goodness.

You have to taste this.


I mean... It's...

- I know.

- But I'm...

I know. I know. I know.

Look at that! Oh, Paul, it's so beautiful!

Slow down.


This is it. Look, right... Just stop.

I can't believe we get to live here.


Is this a mistake?

Should we have stayed in Brooklyn?

We're gonna love Queens.

Queens is beautiful.

Moving truck's here.

You okay?

- Everything is falling down.

- Hey.

What are we doing here?

Repeat after me.

- Nine hundred square feet.

- Nine hundred square feet.

Plus, it's close to your office.

Plus, it's close to my office,

but we don't have to move.

We could renege on the lease,

repack everything and live in the Jeep.

You're right. You're right.

- Eric, what is that noise?

- What noise?

Is it going to be like this every night?



It's Versailles.

I'm so happy you like it, darling.

Good morning,

Lower Manhattan Development Corporation,


Lower Manhattan Development Corporation,

Julie Powell.

- My son died in the second tower.

- I'm sorry.

I'm so sorry.

Are you the person to speak to

if I don't like the plan for the memorial

- that was in this morning's Times?

- You can speak to me.

- Do you have any power?

- No.

I wanna speak to someone with power.

I don't like the plan.

I don't like the plan either.

You people are a bunch of

heartless bureaucratic goons.

I am not a heartless bureaucratic goon.

I am just a person in a cubicle,

and I am doing the best I can, ma'am.

This is my sixth phone call

and the only thing anyone ever tells me is

I have to fill out a form to get in line

for an insurance payment.

And you do. But, I mean, if you don't wanna

fill out a form I will fill one out for you,

but you're still going to have to come in

and sign it.

- To your cubicle?

- Yes.

I feel terrible about what you're going

through, Mr. Diamond, but...

You have no idea what I'm going

through, Ms. Powell. You have no idea.

- Please don't yell at me.

- This whole thing is completely inefficient.

- Please stop yelling at me.

- It's ridiculous.

- My 3-year-old is more capable of helping.

- I am your friend.

And now the doctor says there's fiberglass

in his lungs.

He coughs. He never stops coughing.

I don't know what to do.

His wife says there's so much crap

in his lungs he can't breathe,

and now his insurance is refusing to pay

for this drug that might really work.

- Tell her to call the Health Department.

- That's an answering machine.

Andrea Gomez in the mayor's office.

Thank you. Thank you.

Chocolate cream pie.

- You know what I love about cooking?

- What's that?

I love that after a day when nothing is sure,

and when I say "nothing" I mean nothing,

you can come home and absolutely know

that if you add egg yolks to chocolate

and sugar and milk,

it will get thick. It's such a comfort.

Bad day?

When will this pie be ready?

Soon, but I have to make

the whipped cream first and let it set.

I'll be here. It's a masterpiece.

Ritual Cobb salad lunch tomorrow.

Dreading, dreading, dreading.


- Hi.

- Hi.

How are you?

What can I get for you ladies?

I will have a Cobb salad, no bleu cheese.

- Cobb salad, no beets.

- Cobb salad, no bacon.

- Cobb salad, no eggs.

- Okay, tell them...

Are you listening carefully, Tracy?

Tell them to take the offer up to 185.

- Here she goes.

- Repeat after me, Tracy.

- 1-8-5.

- What's going on?

And call me the second you hear back.

My assistant.

It's almost not worth having one.

I know. Yesterday I said to Allison,

"Go to the pharmacy,

get me a pair of black pantyhose."

She came back and said,

"They didn't have any."

I said, "Did you try another pharmacy?"

I mean, really.

Or Bloomingdale's.

What's wrong with trying Bloomingdale's?

Yeah, I don't get it.

If only I could be my own assistant.

You can be.

Fire your assistant

and don't hire a replacement.

No, that's not what I mean, Julie.

Excuse me. Oh...

- Oh, those are cute.

- Oh, thanks. Thanks.

Okay, tell them 190, 1-9-0. Great.

"1-9-0." What? What are you up to?

$190 million.

We're assembling a parcel at Midtown.

Oh, wow. Oh, oh, that is so great, Cassie.

A parcel of what?


We're gonna tear them all down

and put up a high-rise.

- To your parcel.

- Thank you.

And enough about you, here's to me.

As of yesterday, I am the senior vice

president in charge of corporate publicity.

- No.

- Which means I get a raise

and I can borrow half a million dollars

at 2% if I want to.

- Great.

- If you want to?

- So how's your job, Julie?

- Oh, it's...

- I can only imagine. Heartbreaking.

- So sad.

- Painful.

- Not in a bad way.

- Excuse me. Oh, God, I forgot.

- Excuse me.

- Hello?

- Hello?

- Hi.

- Hi.

Hey, Jules? I have got to interview you

for this piece that I'm writing.

Sure, Annabelle, great. I'd be honored.

Call Julie about interview.

Find out about dry cleaning.

Find out before dinner on Thursday.

Saturday party.


I cannot computer-coach you every day

while I'm with my girlfriends.

What is it about? The article?

It's about our generation turning 30.

People turning 30. Oh, my life, I am so busy.

I don't know when I can fit you in.

May I remind you, I don't want to

see you, you want to see me?

Yeah. Would a breakfast work?

I believed her. What kind of idiot am I?

She said,

"It's about our generation turning 30."

What'd you expect?

Annabelle was always a liar.

"Julie Powell, once the editor of

the Amherst literary magazine,

"the one we all knew would be 'The One,'

"temped for eight years before giving up

on her novel,

"and now works in a cubicle

as a mid-level bureaucrat,

"attempting to deal with

the aftereffects of 9l11."

Oh, God, you memorized it? How pathetic.

She left so much out.

Anyway, the picture was good.

- I looked fat.

- Just your face.

I forgot to tell you.

Do you know what Annabelle's doing now?

- Sarah told me. A blog.

- Of what?

What do you mean "of what"?

A blog of Annabelle.

Of every thought

that passes through her brain.

Her stupid, vapid, insipid...

I could write a blog.

I have thoughts.

And you're a writer,

which is more than I can say for Annabelle.

- If only that were true.

- You wrote a novel.

Half a novel.

And no one wanted to publish it.

You're not a writer unless someone

publishes you.

See, that's what's so great about blogs.

You don't have to be published.

You can just go online,

press enter and there it is, out there.

What would I write a blog about?

You're an editor, tell me.

Why don't you write about

how much you love Queens?

A short blog.

You could write about your job.

If I wrote a blog about my job

and anyone at work ever read it...

- I mean, hello.

- This is good.

This is really good.

On top of which, the whole idea of writing

a blog is to get away from what I do all day.

The way that cooking is a way

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Rohan Hastak

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Submitted on August 05, 2018

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