How often do you get the
question: Read any good books
lately??? Your mind spins. Your face
blanches. Have I read any GOOD books? Repeating
the question buys you time. The qualifier takes your spinning head and begs you
to reconsider ignorance vs bliss.
You quickly excuse yourself to
rush home to count table napkins.
Meanwhile, you’re thinking one of two things. Number one:
Were the books I read any good? Or Number two: Did I forget to read…let’s see, hummmm, have
I read anything for the past thirty-six years? Does the Anthology of Little
Known Mathematical Equations count? Or,
the video version of The Joy of Sex?
I’ve got a book that will
solve your dilemma and make you say with pride and a gleaming smile, I read! A
book! It’s good! Immediately, in the minds of your
insufferably judgmental friends, you will no longer be thought of as just a leaf
raker, a calloused thumbed TV lounger, or a swiller of screw-top wine. You’re an intelluelle, an inter-something…..you're a
really smart guy!
So, what’s the book? A Year
In Provence, by Peter Mayle and yep it’s been around since 1989, but some
things don’t change. The entire
misunderstandable country of France and the funny way they talk. The quirky
ways of the French through the eyes of an outsider. The dry, rib-wracking, understated Brit
humor. The fun and foibles of visiting a
foreign culture versus living there without benefit of room service.
You can’t mention France
without starting the food conversation, especially in comparison to English
fare. To paraphrase the French opinion: It
is well known the English kill their veal twice. Once when they slaughter the animal and again
when they cook it.
What is it about French food
that captures and enchants us? Mayle and his missus soon learn during an
evening with the neighbors.
“We had entire breasts, entire
legs, covered in a dark savory gravy and surrounded by mushrooms.
We sat back, thankful that we
had been able to finish, and watched with something close to panic, as plates
were wiped clean yet again and a huge steaming casserole was placed on the
table.” He goes on to describe the rest
of the almost never-ending, yet entirely sumptuous meal. “That night we ate for England.”
But, this book is more than a
description of the French table and the country’s undying passion for food.
Mayle takes us through the settling-in, and from season to season, beginning
with the hazards of buying a car in a country that prides itself on its
inefficient bureaucracy.
And how about house repairs
and overcoming the natural suspicions of the natives. How about truffle hunting?
“During the season, from
November until March they can be tracked down by nose…the supreme truffle
detector is the pig, who is born with a fondness for the taste and whose sense
of smell in this case is superior to the dog’s.
But there is a snag: the pig is
not content to wag his tail and point…He wants to eat it. In fact he is desperate to eat it…and you
cannot reason with a pig on the brink of gastronomic ecstasy.”
Or how about a discussion of
house insurance?
“One reason, apart from
idleness, why we had neglected the matter of insurance was that we detested
insurance companies, with their weasel words and evasions and extenuating
circumstances, and their conditional clauses set in miniscule, illegible
type. But Bernard was right…we resigned
ourselves to spending the afternoon with a gray man in a suit who would tell us
to put a lock on the refrigerator.”
Yes, the joy of this book is
not only the unabridged humor that echoes off nearly every page, but the sense
of being there, of living and breathing in Provence for an entire year, month
by month, season by season, through high expectations and convoluted results.
Yes, you will say with
certainty, I have not read a better book in a long, long time.
So, your former friend asks,
have you been to Provence? Oh, screw
you! I told you I read the book!!!!
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