If a dish goes horribly wrong, like a ''vile'' eggs Florentine she once made for a friend, Julia instructed, ''Never apologize.'' She considered it unseemly for a cook to twist herself into knots of excuses and explanations. Such admissions ''only make a bad situation worse,'' she said, by drawing attention to one's shortcomings (or self-perceived shortcomings) and prompting your guest to think: Yes, you're right, this really is an awful meal. ''The cook must simply grin and bear it,'' Julia said firmly.  Our conversation drifted to the Cordon Bleu, France's famous cooking school. In 1950 she was the lone woman in a class of 11 American G.I.'s learning to cook there under the G.I. Bill. Always considerate of ''the boys'' in person, Julia confided to her sister-in-law that the G.I.'s weren't serious enough: ''there isn't an artist in the bunch,'' she coolly observed. And when I asked about Madame Brassard, the school's formidable proprietor, Julia, who rarely spoke ill of anyone, snapped: ''She was a horrid woman. She hardly knew how to cook and was mostly interested in making money. Besides, she wasn't even French -- she was Belgian.''  When I asked her about the recent tension between France and the United States, Julia said she'd found it disappointing but not surprising. ''It was the same in 1949,'' she recalled. That year, an old American friend in Paris had blurted out that she considered the French mean, grasping, chiseling and unfriendly in every way. The friend, Alice, couldn't wait to leave France and said she would never return. ''Her words were still ringing in my ears the next morning, when I had a flat tire, broke a milk bottle and forgot to bring a basket for strawberries,'' Julia recalled. ''Yet every person I met that day was helpful and sweet, and one of them even gave me a fish head for our cat! Alice had been a good friend, but I just didn't understand her anymore.''  Julia, meanwhile, had decided that ''I must really be French -- only no one had ever informed me of this fact. I loved the people, the food, the lay of the land, the civilized atmosphere and the generous pace of life there. I saw no reason to leave, ever.''  Julia led a charmed life, but it wasn't perfect. In France she and Paul had half-heartedly tried to conceive, but, ''it didn't take,'' she said with a shrug. Resolutely unsentimental, Julia did not dwell on this. Instead, she directed her enormous energy into ''cookery.'' Paul, who was quiet but strong-willed, was fully supportive of her decision. ''If we'd had children, I never would have had the career I did,'' she said. ''I don't regret it.''  As Julia grew sleepy, and her black-and-white cat Minou chased butterflies around our feet like a mischievous sprite, my wife Sarah asked her: ''What was your favorite thing you've ever done?''  Julia paused a beat, and with eyes suddenly bright, answered: ''Cooking with other chefs!''  That deceptively simple phrase was quintessential Julia: clear, modest, committed, eager to participate, and happiest when she was sharing delicious food with others.  ''It's been a very nice life,'' she said. And then she lay down to rest.
Op-Ed article by Alex Prud'homme pays tribute to his good friend Julia Child; recounts conversation he had with her days before she died, when she recalled arriving in France in 1948 not speaking language or knowing how to cook; notes that six years later, she was fluent in French, ran cooking school and was co-authoring comprehensive cookbook that would later make her famous; diagram (M)