Sunday lunch in Chelsea

David cooks in a small Chelsea kitchen that smells of wine and orange peel, and she does not fuss. The daube has been waiting since yesterday; the salad is tomatoes, anchovies, and olives, and nothing cooked that David considers an impertinence.

Julia Child is in London between television seasons, still promoting the book that made her famous, and M.F.K. Fisher has come over from California for a few months of travel. Both of them are more enthusiastic cooks than David, who regards enthusiasm as slightly vulgar; the pleasure of the afternoon is in the disagreement, conducted over a long lunch that does not end until the light goes.