Anything Considered (Random House Large Print) - Softcover

Mayle, Peter

Softcover

ISBN 10: 0679758828 ISBN 13: 9780679758822

Publisher: Random House Large Print, 1996

Synopsis

A joyous return to Peter Mayle country, a rollicking caper set on the Cote d'Azur and in the luscious landscape of Provence.

Bennett, an English expatriate living in France, has champagne tastes and a vin ordinaire bankroll. He has abandoned a successful career and found an ideal village in which to idle. But when a business scheme fails to work out, he finds himself broke.

Not a man to be downhearted, he places an advertisement in the International Herald Tribune volunteering his services-anything considered. The most attractive response comes from a rich Englishman named Julian Poe, who has developed a means of producing superb truffles and is close to cornering the lucrative truffle market.

Bennett signs on and -- bliss! -- he finds himself in Monaco and able to live in a style to which he has wished to become accustomed. But soon -- sniffing the financial potential of the truffle -- Sicilian and Corsican Mafiosi intrude. Life gets somewhat hectic. Ham-fisted goons, gendarmes working at cross-purposes, French village busybodies, and an order of Monks dedicated to the god Bacchus all play a role in a surprising and satisfying denouement.

A generous, delicious serving of vintage Mayle.

Peter Mayle is the author of A Year in Provence and Toujours Provence, as well as the novels Hotel Pastis and A Dog's Life.

About this title

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.

From the Inside Flap

urn to Peter Mayle country, a rollicking caper set on the Cote d'Azur and in the luscious landscape of Provence.

Bennett, an English expatriate living in France, has champagne tastes and a vin ordinaire bankroll. He has abandoned a successful career and found an ideal village in which to idle. But when a business scheme fails to work out, he finds himself broke.

Not a man to be downhearted, he places an advertisement in the International Herald Tribune volunteering his services-anything considered. The most attractive response comes from a rich Englishman named Julian Poe, who has developed a means of producing superb truffles and is close to cornering the lucrative truffle market.

Bennett signs on and -- bliss! -- he finds himself in Monaco and able to live in a style to which he has wished to become accustomed. But soon -- sniffing the financial potential of the truffle -- Sicilian and Corsican Mafiosi intrude. Life gets somewhat hectic. Ham-fisted goons, genda

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."

Edition details

• Publisher: Random House Large Print
• Publication date: 1996
• Language: English
• ISBN 10: 0679758828
• ISBN 13: 9780679758822
• Binding: Paperback
• Number of pages: 325