Anything Considered
- Book Review,
by Peter Mayle
Amazon.com
It's no secret that Peter Mayle (author of A Year in Provence) loves Provence, so it's no surprise that Mayle's new novel is set that area: it takes place in Saint Martin and in Monaco. Bennett is an Englishman scraping together his last few francs, desperate to stay in France. He places an ad promising "anything considered," a wealthy truffle entrepreneur hires him for slightly illicit work, and the plot is off--a combination of a thriller, romance, and page turner. And through it all emanates the whiff of lavender, the curve of country hills, the bubble of champagne, and the sounds and tastes of Provence.
From Publishers Weekly
Again venturing into the wryly humorous thriller territory of Hotel Pastis, Mayle has produced another caper heavily larded with local color and gastronomic adventures. And again, as in his novels and his nonfiction evocations of Provence, truffles play a crucial role. Here his protagonist is Bennett, a Brit expatriate on his uppers. Having lost his savings in an investment scam, he is intent on finding the means to reside in Saint-Martin in Provence. He advertises his services: "Anything considered except marriage"-and is hired by Julian Poe, a stupendously wealthy fellow Brit, who needs help in evading the French income tax. Pretending to be Poe in the latter's Monaco apartment, Bennett becomes involved in the hijacking of a case containing the secret formula for the successful cultivation of the elusive black truffle. When the Italian Mafioso who stole the formula auctions his loot aboard his yacht, Poe, scheming to substitute a fake, sends Bennett to steal it back. He also sends Anna, a savvy and sexy mercenary enforcer from New York, to help protect his interests. After they recover the formula, Anna persuades Bennett to up his fee to a cool million. With the furious Italians joining Poe in the hot pursuit, the now romantically involved extortioners gormandize their lusty way across the south of France while outwitting their pursuers. Mayle makes froth highly palatable in this larky chronicle of sybaritic pleasures and larcenous activities. 150,000 first printing; BOMC and QPB selections. Copyright 1996 Reed Business Information, Inc.
From Library Journal
The Mayle charm, once so delightful and original in A Year in Provence (LJ 4/1/90) and Toujours Provence (LJ 5/1/91), has grown thin over the years as the author, a veritable one-man tourist board, has churned out one book after another about sunny, romantic Provence. That charm is now stretched to the breaking point with this third novel. Like his first, Hotel Pastis (LJ 9/1/93), it features an expatriate Englishman, a sexy but smart woman, a millionaire, and lots of peasants, goons, and gendarmes. Instead of a bank robbery, the plot this time focuses on a stolen formula for producing truffles, those very rare and very expensive gastronomic delicacies. Mayle writes smoothly and cleverly (the result of 15 years as an advertising copywriter and executive), but the result is a book that is as phony as its promotional copy. Mayle needs to break out of his rut and choose a new topic?perhaps the colorful inhabitants of Long Island, where he now lives. Buy only if there is demand.-?Wilda Williams, "Library Journal"Copyright 1996 Reed Business Information, Inc.
The New York Times Book Review, Alan Riding
An entertaining thriller that moves along apace ... it is, of course, vintage Mayle: all the twists and turns that follow revolve around something to eat.
From Booklist
Place and pace are key words in explaining the virtues of Mayle's latest novel, following the amusing and delectable Hotel Pastis (1993) and A Dog's Life. His adopted homeland in France, the lovely, Mediterranean-kissed region of Provence, serves as a backdrop for a fluidly unfolding comedy of financial intrigue that would have been a perfect vehicle for Cary Grant. The Grant-type character here is one Bennett, an Englishman who turns his back on a nine-to-five life for more creative but decidedly less lucrative ways of making ends meet, including as a property agent and house sitter. At a foundering point in his financial instability, Bennett takes on a seemingly no-brainer job, offered to him by a wealthy English businessman, who, for tax purposes, wants Bennett to live for six months in his Monaco condo and pretend to be him. The lap of luxury turns out to be not so conducive to rest and relaxation as Bennett involuntarily gets involved up to his cravat-tied neck in high jinks centered on the artificial cultivation of truffles, those megaexpensive fungi considered a delicacy by French gastronomes. Exhilarating plot turns and charming characters--and, of course, the balmy South of France atmosphere--all brew into an entrancing read. Brad Hooper
From Kirkus Reviews
A sinister plot to corner the truffles market provides the backdrop for another delightful trek through the French countryside in this third novel from the ever-popular Mayle (Hotel Pastis, 1993; A Dog's Life, 1995, not reviewed). An easygoing expatriate Brit with a career in film production behind him, Luciano Bennett couldn't be happier with his new, ambition-free life as a house-sitter in the tiny French village of Saint-Martin. Dreading a return to London once his meager savings run out, Bennett places an ad in the International Herald Tribune tendering his services. The ad is answered by the mysterious, extremely wealthy Julian Poe, who offers Bennett a luxurious, all- expenses-paid life in his Monaco bachelor pad in exchange for performing an occasional errand. Hardly believing his luck, Bennett throws himself wholeheartedly into a rich man's life--driving Poe's Mercedes around town and dining at the best restaurants on Poe's tab. What Bennett doesn't realize is that Poe plans to use him as the drop man for a secret formula for artificially cultivating truffles--a formula that will enable Poe to wrest control of the lucrative truffles market from the French. When Sicilian gangsters intercept the delivery of the formula, the enraged Poe threatens to kill Bennett if he doesn't recover it. A Keystone Kopsstyle chase across France ensues, involving half a dozen international gangsters, the French police, and a very unusual order of monks. Fortunately, Poe has arranged for lovely Anna Hersh, a former Israeli Army sergeant, to act as Bennett's accomplice, thus enabling Bennett to enjoy a number of deliciously romantic repasts in cafes throughout southern France before his final triumph over the bad guys. It is this gustatory travelogue, rather than the unabashedly silly caper, that will keep Mayles's loyal readers satisfied. Stylish and amusing as ever. (First printing of 150,000; Book- of-the-Month/QPB selection) -- Copyright ©1996, Kirkus Associates, LP. All rights reserved.
Book Description
eter Mayle sets his latest irresistible tale in the thyme- and lavender-scented south of France. Bennett, a suave if slightly threadbare English ex-patriot who is fast approaching the end of his credit, advertises his "services" in The International Herald Tribune. In no time, he is being paid handsomely to impersonate the mysterious and very wealthy Julian Poe. "A lark that's perfect for summer reading."--Baltimore Sun.
From the Inside Flap
Peter Mayle sets his latest irresistible tale in the thyme- and lavender-scented south of France. Bennett, a suave if slightly threadbare English ex-patriot who is fast approaching the end of his credit, advertises his "services" in The International Herald Tribune. In no time, he is being paid handsomely to impersonate the mysterious and very wealthy Julian Poe.
"A lark that's perfect for summer reading." --Baltimore Sun.
About the Author
Peter Mayle spent fifteen years in the advertising business, first as a copywriter and then as a reluctant executive, before escaping Madison Avenue in 1975 to write educational books for children. In 1990, Mr. Mayle published A Year in Provence, which became an international bestseller. He is also the author of Toujours Provence, Hotel Pastis, A Dog's Life, Encore Provence and Chasing Cezanne. In addition to writing books which have been translated into more than twenty languages, Mayle has contributed to the Sunday Times, Financial Times, Independent, GQ and Esquire. He and his wife and two dogs live in the South of France.
Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.
The young wild boar, basted until it shone, had been spit-roasted in the kitchen fireplace and was now lying on a wooden platter in the center of the table, a large baked potato in its mouth. Father Gilbert carved, and served chunks of the dark, gamy flesh onto plates of battered pewter, the sleeves of his habit rolled up above his elbows, his face glowing in the candlelight. Glasses were filled, and the fat, round loaves of country bread were sliced thick. The only indications of the twentieth century were the two visitors, in their modern clothes. Everything else, everyone else, could have come from the Middle Ages.
The conversation was mostly of country matters -- the prospects for this year's vintage, the vagaries of the weather, the threat of mildew on the vines, the productivity of the monastery vegetable garden. There were no arguments, no raised voices to disturb the air of contentment that hung over the table. Anna was intrigued. Where had they come from, these men who seemed happy to live in a medieval time warp?
"We are all fugitives from the world of business," said Father Gilbert. "I myself used to work for the Banque Nationale de Paris. Others have come from Elf Aquitaine, IBM, the Bourse, Aerospatiale. We hated corporate life. We loved wine. Fifteen years ago, we pooled our resources and bought the monastery, which had been empty since before the war, and we became monks." He winked at Anna. "Rather informal monks, as you can see."
She was looking puzzled. "Can I ask you a question? Didn't any of you have wives?"
Father Gilbert leaned back in his chair and considered the shadows cast by the candlelight on the vaulted ceiling. "That was another bond we discovered," he said. "The delights of female companionship are not for us. Remind me -- how is that described in your country?"
"Gay?" said Anna.
"Ah, yes. A most inappropriate use of a charming word." He shook his head. "Gay. How ridiculous. I suppose, then, that one could say we are living in a state of perpetual gaiety. That will be a considerable comfort to us all, I'm sure." He laughed and raised his glass to Anna. "Here's to gay days, and many of them."The young wild boar, basted until it shone, had been spit-roasted in the kitchen fireplace and was now lying on a wooden platter in the center of the table, a large baked potato in its mouth. Father Gilbert carved, and served chunks of the dark, gamy flesh onto plates of battered pewter, the sleeves of his habit rolled up above his elbows, his face glowing in the candlelight. Glasses were filled, and the fat, round loaves of country bread were sliced thick. The only indications of the twentieth century were the two visitors, in their modern clothes. Everything else, everyone else, could have come from the Middle Ages.
The conversation was mostly of country matters -- the prospects for this year's vintage, the vagaries of the weather, the threat of mildew on the vines, the productivity of the monastery vegetable garden. There were no arguments, no raised voices to disturb the air of contentment that hung over the table. Anna was intrigued. Where had they come from, these men who seemed happy to live in a medieval time warp?
"We are all fugitives from the world of business," said Father Gilbert. "I myself used to work for the Banque Nationale de Paris. Others have come from Elf Aquitaine, IBM, the Bourse, Aerospatiale. We hated corporate life. We loved wine. Fifteen years ago, we pooled our resources and bought the monastery, which had been empty since before the war, and we became monks." He winked at Anna. "Rather informal monks, as you can see."
She was looking puzzled. "Can I ask you a question? Didn't any of you have wives?"
Father Gilbert leaned back in his chair and considered the shadows cast by the candlelight on the vaulted ceiling. "That was another bond we discovered," he said. "The delights of female companionship are not for us. Remind me -- how is that described in your country?"
"Gay?" said Anna.
"Ah, yes. A most inappropriate use of a charming word." He shook his head. "Gay. How ridiculous. I suppose, then, that one could say we are living in a state of perpetual gaiety. That will be a considerable comfort to us all, I'm sure." He laughed and raised his glass to Anna. "Here's to gay days, and many of them."
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