3 of 3 people found the following review helpful:
5.0 out of 5 stars
Sensually Sleepy Provence: Vining in Vineyards, Tussling with Truffles., August 4, 2006
This review is from: Dying On The Vine: A Culinary Mystery (Culinary Mysteries) (Mass Market Paperback)
In DYING ON THE VINE, the details of Provence, and the persona of the French people highlighted and solidified the setting, drawing me into the story with interesting tidbits about luscious matters of which I knew nothing.
The police organization in this rural area of France was especially enlightening, with several agencies, two of which were top of heap, Police National and Gendarmerie, both of which showed up in swirls of dust lifting from the vineyard grounds as the police vehicles swept to a halt to investigate the murder of Emile LaPlace.
The intriguing mystery, lush settings, and elusive vineyards took precedence over the gourmet food extravagance in the early part of this plot, but that balance worked well, even though I had begun reading with anticipation of immediate and intense tongue drips, based on the first 2 novels in this delicious series. However, as the plot plunged forward, the tongue tangs from the high gourmet end of the culinary spectrum were addressed with Peter King's usual silky syntax cream. The denouement dinner was designed to die for.
Speaking of which, there were several murders in this one and multiple attempts on The Gourmet Detective's life. He was escaping by inches so many times, I began to wonder if the author was pinching himself through his fictional detective's near misses of final exits. Why would Peter need to do that?
Imagine one of the highest levels of dreamland for a seasoned author, a la gourmet chef in the higher global echelons of the food industry:
That would be the dream of wallowing in the luxury of Provence, with its peaceful powerhouse of grass-roots, village-oriented, architectural-antiquity which has been nourished for ages by locally-grown, haute-couture Truffles, and other "get-it-from-the-soil-upon-which-you're-stepping" delights for colorful culinary palates ... AND ... this is key ... all the while writing a novel in that setting ...
As the detective approached Provence he narrated:
>> My speed had crept up and though I wasn't zigzagging from lane to lane, I was no longer a target of abuse . I exited through a busy tollbooth and went north on a country road into Provence, having left most of the vehicles to head south for the beaches.
>> The sun shown without hindrance from a cloudless azure sky. The road curled through fields of thyme, mustard, and sage while swifts hurtled over the car in ones and twos, suddenly uniting in orderly formations. I passed an ancient church with grizzled old man in blue denim overalls repairing the gate. <<
There is only one problem, thereby causing the penetrating "pinch" to be required:
Provence is not Paris, is not New York, is not London. It is not rampant rush, nor rapid rapture. It is quiet pace, haunted hollows, and so leisurely rhythm-ed, it induces desires for one "activity" above all others, possibly the healthiest one, possibly, if truth were allowed out of the picnic basket, it induces desires above even romps in the hay. In Provence, any time spent in the hay would be accomplished within a "shut-eye" venue; it would be spent in snoozing, snoring, elegant dreamland.
In fact, The Gourmet sleuth seemed to be "dozing off" frequently in this plot, often just prior to another murder attempt on his body (I admit to wondering if the author did this to help "himself" to stay awake enough to write this novel).
As an author and sometimes travel writer myself (did a 30 day B&B Inn Walkabout around Denver and Colorado Springs one hot summer in 1996), I've learned something about some types of exotic, regenerating settings. One does not want to DO ... anything at all in these atmospheres. One is driven (more like drawn) only to take long, sensual naps. Alone, or with an intimate who keeps to his side of the bed. One does not FEEL like exuding effort to write, or to even think. Putting words together is simply not part of the ambiance of certain locales. "Ugh," is the word if you try to do so.
Surrounded by the pleasantly sleepy sensations in the Provence atmosphere (and, of course the exquisite selections of ultimates in wines increased this hypnotic drain of most desires which might require effort to sustain or satisfy) the hypnotic-ly pleasant peacefulness pervaded all thought, causing eyelids to droop and drop; causing body, brain, and soul to nod off in a near constant, state-of-doze.
WARNING: In order to enjoy this novel, and it is a treasure for this, you HAVE to have access to a deeply sensual, non-speed of SAVOR, and you MUST activate it, then allow its somnambulist-ic course.
This novel is not a fast, zippy read. There's a way to eat a McD's Quarter Pounder, which I do regularly, mumbling "yum" with relish. There's a way to appreciate Provence, which I would drool to do. Peter King has given a gateway through this novel to the essence and luxury of those rare sensations of truly peaceful and simple ...
Rest.
To Yaaawwwnnnnn can be a Good Thing.
Yes, you're right. Rest is a foreign commodity to most of us. Sleep & Run; that's our motto.
Peter deserves a Purple Heart for staying awake long enough and making the enormous effort to produce a novel while not only based in, but SEEPED and steeped in ... Provence.
I've never understood what was the "big deal" of the hypnotic appeal of that place, never understood why people who've (truly) been there speak the name with such knowing and lingering longing.
Thanks to having S L O W L Y read DYING ON THE VINE, now I know. I comprendo. (That's Spanish/Italian; what's the French?)
Provence...
Where the luxury of a huge Y A W N, is a sensual act from the highest, most prized realms.
This novel is worth the price, for the final dining scene alone. Now I know (first-hand, through printed pages which did the numbers) how the haute couture of globe-trotting, gourmet chefs enjoy eating; and what and how they ...
D I N E ... with wine enhancement.
I've included below a passage describing only the bare beginning of that final dining scene which was skillfully stitched around the resolution of the multiple murders, with the attempts still in progress on the sensual life of our juicy detective :
>> The aroma of the hors d'oeuvre was enticing but I couldn't identify it from its appearance. It was a souffle and had been prepared by a master. The top was a delicious brown but not crusty. As I broke into it with my fork, I recognized it was a variant of a Normandy-style-crayfish souffle, but the flavor was so superb that for a moment, all thoughts of plots and crimes went out of my head.
>> The crayfish were so fresh they must have been flown in within the last hour or two. A salpicon of shrimp, oysters, and mushrooms had been added and the chef must have put in the eggs in the way that is authentic but rarely followed because it is time consuming and tedious - the egg yolks ... then .... makes a vast difference to the texture, but it was the taste that was stilling conversation all over the room.
>> I glanced down the table to where Joseph Tourcoing, the great chef from Paris, was nodding in appreciation. Alfred Rostaing was scooping up the souffle, oblivious to everything. The incredibly wonderful taste was clearly augmented by the thin slices of truffle. <<
Until very recently, I had no idea what Truffles were (nor how intimately and intensely they were found, cultivated, bought-and-sold). All I knew was that they were some type of pricey mushroom (when they weren't a culinary cocoa confection). I had no idea that or how (get the details throughout this novel) prime Truffles could so essentially enhance any-and-every nuance of FLAVOR.
Not many novels could be read and reread, either in a mood for fiction (for detective novel escape entertainment); or in a mode for nonfiction (for gathering exotic facts in luxuriant detail about wining and dining in a style to which I'll probably never get near being accustomed, except through THE GOURMET DETECTIVE series).
Maybe life's on the tip of your tongue.
Rest easy and live long, with grace ... and great taste,
Linda Shelnutt
P.S. This book came from Lori Phillips of Phillips Books, one of Amazon's great venders whom I recommend as being very conscientious.
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