The Vintage Caper
Autor Peter Mayleen Limba Engleză Paperback – 13 iul 2010
Traducerea din limba engleză ne aduce nu doar un mister bine dozat, ci și savoarea inconfundabilă a stilului de viață francez, care risca să se piardă fără o adaptare atentă la nuanțele hedoniste ale autorului. Credem că The Vintage Caper este mai mult decât un roman polițist; este o cursă contra cronometru care începe în Los Angeles și se termină sub soarele arzător al Franței. Un jaf spectaculos. O colecție de vinuri de neînlocuit. Un avocat transformat în detectiv. Reținem ritmul alert: Sam Levitt trebuie să recupereze tezaurul lichid al lui Danny Roth înainte ca urmele să dispară în podgoriile din Bordeaux. Imaginați-vă tensiunea din A Good Year, mutată într-un decor de jaf internațional sofisticat, unde miza nu este doar proprietatea, ci și onoarea unui oenofil. Ne-a atras atenția modul în care Peter Mayle folosește expertiza sa culinară pentru a puncta momentele de suspans. Față de lucrările sale documentare, precum Bon Appetit! sau memoriile Toujours Provence, aici autorul împletește dragostea pentru gastronomie cu o structură narativă de tip 'heist'. Totul este rapid. Fiecare masă este un indiciu. Fiecare pahar de vin poate ascunde o trădare. Este o evoluție firească de la observația socială către ficțiunea de gen, păstrând însă acea 'joie de vivre' care l-a consacrat.
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Specificații
ISBN-13: 9780307389190
ISBN-10: 0307389197
Pagini: 242
Dimensiuni: 132 x 203 x 15 mm
Greutate: 0.31 kg
Editura: Knopf Doubleday Publishing Group
ISBN-10: 0307389197
Pagini: 242
Dimensiuni: 132 x 203 x 15 mm
Greutate: 0.31 kg
Editura: Knopf Doubleday Publishing Group
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De ce să citești această carte
Dacă iubiți Franța și apreciați un mister inteligent care nu sacrifică plăcerile senzoriale pentru acțiune brută, această carte este pentru voi. Cititorul câștigă o incursiune fascinantă în lumea colecționarilor de vinuri și o aventură geografică superbă. Este motivul perfect pentru a începe seria de romane polițiste a lui Mayle, oferind o escapadă literară care stimulează atât mintea, cât și apetitul.
Despre autor
Peter Mayle (1939–2018) a fost un om de afaceri britanic care a abandonat lumea publicității pentru a deveni unul dintre cei mai iubiți cronicari ai vieții franceze. După succesul fenomenal al volumului A Year in Provence, Mayle s-a stabilit definitiv în sudul Franței, experiență care i-a adus distincția Legiunea de Onoare. Opera sa variază de la ghiduri educative, precum What's Happening To Me?, la romane de ficțiune care celebrează cultura gastronomică și peisajele provensale. Stilul său este marcat de un umor fin și o capacitate rară de a descrie plăcerile simple ale vieții.
Notă biografică
Peter Mayle is the author of eleven previous books, five of them fiction. He has received the Légion d’Honneur from the French government for his cultural contributions. Mayle has been living in Provence with his wife, Jennie, for twenty years.
Extras
One
Danny Roth took a final dab of moisturizer and massaged it into his already gleaming cranium, while checking to make sure that his scalp was innocent of any trace of stubble. Some time ago, when skin had first begun to take over from hair, he had toyed with the possibilities of a ponytail, often the first refuge of the balding man. But his wife Michelle had been less than enthusiastic. "Just remember, Danny," she had said, "underneath every ponytail is a horse's ass." That had persuaded him to embrace the billiard-ball look, and he had since been gratified to find himself in the company of several stars, their bodyguards, and assorted hangers-on.
Peering into the mirror, he studied the lobe of his left ear. He was still of two minds about an earring: a dollar sign in gold, perhaps, or a platinum shark's tooth. Either would be appropriate for his profession, but were they rugged enough? Tough decision. It would have to wait.
Stepping away from the mirror, he padded into his dressing room to choose his outfit for the day, something that would take him through a morning of client meetings, lunch at the Ivy, and a private screening in the evening. Something conservative (he was, after all, a lawyer) but with a devil-may-care touch of informality—he was, after all, an entertainment lawyer.
A few minutes later, dressed in a dark-gray suit of superfine worsted, a white open-neck silk shirt, Gucci loafers, and socks of buttercup yellow, he picked up his BlackBerry from the bedside table, blew an air kiss in the general direction of his sleeping wife, and went downstairs to the granite and stainless steel splendors of the kitchen. A pot of fresh coffee and Variety, The Hollywood Reporter, and the L.A. Times, provided by the maid, had been placed on the kitchen counter. The early-morning sun was up, promising another glorious day. The world was as it should be for a member of Hollywood's professional elite.
Roth could hardly complain at the hand life had dealt him. He had a young, blond, fashionably gaunt wife; a thriving business; a pied-à-terre in New York; a ski lodge in Aspen; and—the house that he considered his headquarters—a three-story steel-and-glass pile in the gated, high-security community of Hollywood Heights. It was here that he kept his treasures.
Like many of his contemporaries, he had accumulated a selection of socially impressive accessories. There were diamonds and closets full of status clothing for his wife; three Warhols and a Basquiat for his living room walls; a strolling Giacometti for his terrace; and a perfectly restored gull- wing Mercedes for his garage. But his favorite indulgence—and, in a sense, the cause of some frustration—was his wine collection.
It had taken many years and a great deal of money to put together what was, so Roth had been told by none other than Jean-Luc, his wine consultant, one of the best private cellars in town. Perhaps the best. There were the top-level Californian reds and a wide selection of the most distinguished white Burgundies. There were even three entire cases of the magnificent '75 Yquem. But the crown jewels of the collection—and the source, understandably, of great pride—were the five hundred or so bottles of premier cru claret from Bordeaux. Not only were they first-growth; they were also from the great vintages. The '53 Lafite Rothschild, the '61 Latour, the '83 Margaux, the '82 Figeac, the '70 Pétrus—these were stored in a cellar beneath the house and kept permanently at 56 to 58 degrees Fahrenheit, with an 80 percent humidity level. Roth added to them from time to time, when the odd case came on the market, but he seldom took any of these great bottles upstairs to drink. Just possessing them was enough. Or it had been, until quite recently.
Over the past few weeks, Roth's enjoyment as he contemplated the contents of his cellar had been less keen than usual. The problem was that, apart from a very few privileged souls, nobody ever saw the bottles of Latour and Margaux and Pétrus, and those who did often were not sufficiently impressed. Only last night, a visiting couple from Malibu had been given the grand tour of the cellar—three million dollars' worth of wine!—and they hadn't even bothered to remove their sunglasses. Worse still, they had then declined the Opus One served with dinner and demanded iced tea. No appreciation, no respect. It was the kind of evening that could make a serious wine collector weep.
Shaking his head at the memory, Roth paused on his way to the garage to admire the view: west to Beverly Hills, east to Thai Town and Little Armenia, south across the endless shimmering sprawl to the toy-sized planes that came and went from LAX. Perhaps not the prettiest of views, particularly when the smog was up; but it was a high view, a long view, an expensive view, and, best of all, his view. Mine, all mine, he sometimes thought to himself, especially at night when the lights below made a shining carpet that stretched for miles.
He squirmed his way into the snug confines of his Mercedes and inhaled the perfume of well-nourished leather and polished walnut. This particular model was one of the great classic cars, so old that it predated the invention of the beverage container, and Rafael, the Mexican caretaker, looked after it as though it were a museum piece. Roth eased it out of the garage and headed for his office on Wilshire Boulevard, his mind going back to his wine cellar and that dumb couple from Malibu, whom he'd never liked anyway.
From thinking about them, it was only a short mental hop to a more philosophical consideration of the joys of ?pos?session. And here, Roth had to admit that the appreciation—even the envy—of others was crucial to his own enjoyment. Where, he asked himself, is the satisfaction of having desirable possessions that others hardly ever see? Why, it would be like keeping his youthful, blond wife locked away from public view, or sentencing the Mercedes to a lifetime of confinement in the garage. And yet, here he was, keeping millions of dollars' worth of the world's finest wines in a cellar that was unlikely to see more than half a dozen visitors a year.
By the time he reached the tinted-glass box that contained his office, Roth had come to two conclusions: first, that inconspicuous consumption was for wimps; and second, that his wine collection deserved a wider audience.
He stepped out of the elevator and walked toward his corner office, bracing himself for the daily mano a mano with his executive secretary, Cecilia Volpé. Strictly speaking, she was not quite up to the job. Her spelling was lamentable, her memory frequently patchy, and her attitude toward many of Roth's clients one of patrician disdain. But there were consolations: she had the most spectacular legs, long and permanently tanned, made even longer by a seemingly inexhaustible supply of four-inch heels. And she was the only daughter of Myron Volpé, the current head of the Volpé dynasty that had pounced upon the movie business two generations ago and that still maintained considerable influence behind the scenes. As Cecilia had been heard to say, the Volpés were the closest it got in Hollywood to a royal family.
And so Roth tolerated her for her connections, despite her lengthy personal calls, her frequent makeup breaks, and that atrocious spelling. As for Cecilia, for whom work was something to do between dates, her duties were largely decorative and ceremonial. Roth's office provided a socially acceptable base, undemanding tasks (she had her own personal assistant who dealt with all the tiresome but essential details), and the occasional buzz from meeting the famous and the notorious who made up Roth's list of clients.
Friction between Roth and Cecilia was mild, and usually limited to a brisk exchange at the start of each working day over the schedule. So it was this morning.
"Look," said Roth as they checked the first name in his appointment book, a movie actor now enjoying a second career in television. "I know he's not one of your favorite guys, but it wouldn't kill you to be nice to him. A smile, that's all."
Cecilia rolled her eyes and shuddered.
"I'm not asking for genial. I'm just asking for pleasant. What's the matter with him, anyway?"
"He calls me 'babe' and he's always trying to grab my ass."
Roth didn't blame him. In fact, he'd frequently had thoughts in that direction himself. "Boyish enthusiasm," he said. "Youthful high spirits."
"Danny." Another roll of the eyes. "He admits to sixty-two."
"OK, OK. I'll settle for glacial politeness. Now listen—there's a personal project you could help me with, a kind of celebrity lifestyle thing. I think it's the right moment for me."
Cecilia's eyebrows, two perfectly plucked arcs, were raised. "Who's the celebrity?"
Roth continued as though he hadn't heard her. "You know I have this fabulous wine collection?" He looked in vain for some change in Cecilia's expression, some quiver of appreciation from those impassive eyebrows. "Well, I do, and I'm prepared to give an exclusive interview, in my cellar, to the right journalist. Here's the angle: I'm not just a business machine. I'm also a connoisseur, a guy with taste who appreciates the finer things in life—châteaus, vintages, Bordeaux, all that great cobwebby French shit. What do you think?"
From the Hardcover edition.
Danny Roth took a final dab of moisturizer and massaged it into his already gleaming cranium, while checking to make sure that his scalp was innocent of any trace of stubble. Some time ago, when skin had first begun to take over from hair, he had toyed with the possibilities of a ponytail, often the first refuge of the balding man. But his wife Michelle had been less than enthusiastic. "Just remember, Danny," she had said, "underneath every ponytail is a horse's ass." That had persuaded him to embrace the billiard-ball look, and he had since been gratified to find himself in the company of several stars, their bodyguards, and assorted hangers-on.
Peering into the mirror, he studied the lobe of his left ear. He was still of two minds about an earring: a dollar sign in gold, perhaps, or a platinum shark's tooth. Either would be appropriate for his profession, but were they rugged enough? Tough decision. It would have to wait.
Stepping away from the mirror, he padded into his dressing room to choose his outfit for the day, something that would take him through a morning of client meetings, lunch at the Ivy, and a private screening in the evening. Something conservative (he was, after all, a lawyer) but with a devil-may-care touch of informality—he was, after all, an entertainment lawyer.
A few minutes later, dressed in a dark-gray suit of superfine worsted, a white open-neck silk shirt, Gucci loafers, and socks of buttercup yellow, he picked up his BlackBerry from the bedside table, blew an air kiss in the general direction of his sleeping wife, and went downstairs to the granite and stainless steel splendors of the kitchen. A pot of fresh coffee and Variety, The Hollywood Reporter, and the L.A. Times, provided by the maid, had been placed on the kitchen counter. The early-morning sun was up, promising another glorious day. The world was as it should be for a member of Hollywood's professional elite.
Roth could hardly complain at the hand life had dealt him. He had a young, blond, fashionably gaunt wife; a thriving business; a pied-à-terre in New York; a ski lodge in Aspen; and—the house that he considered his headquarters—a three-story steel-and-glass pile in the gated, high-security community of Hollywood Heights. It was here that he kept his treasures.
Like many of his contemporaries, he had accumulated a selection of socially impressive accessories. There were diamonds and closets full of status clothing for his wife; three Warhols and a Basquiat for his living room walls; a strolling Giacometti for his terrace; and a perfectly restored gull- wing Mercedes for his garage. But his favorite indulgence—and, in a sense, the cause of some frustration—was his wine collection.
It had taken many years and a great deal of money to put together what was, so Roth had been told by none other than Jean-Luc, his wine consultant, one of the best private cellars in town. Perhaps the best. There were the top-level Californian reds and a wide selection of the most distinguished white Burgundies. There were even three entire cases of the magnificent '75 Yquem. But the crown jewels of the collection—and the source, understandably, of great pride—were the five hundred or so bottles of premier cru claret from Bordeaux. Not only were they first-growth; they were also from the great vintages. The '53 Lafite Rothschild, the '61 Latour, the '83 Margaux, the '82 Figeac, the '70 Pétrus—these were stored in a cellar beneath the house and kept permanently at 56 to 58 degrees Fahrenheit, with an 80 percent humidity level. Roth added to them from time to time, when the odd case came on the market, but he seldom took any of these great bottles upstairs to drink. Just possessing them was enough. Or it had been, until quite recently.
Over the past few weeks, Roth's enjoyment as he contemplated the contents of his cellar had been less keen than usual. The problem was that, apart from a very few privileged souls, nobody ever saw the bottles of Latour and Margaux and Pétrus, and those who did often were not sufficiently impressed. Only last night, a visiting couple from Malibu had been given the grand tour of the cellar—three million dollars' worth of wine!—and they hadn't even bothered to remove their sunglasses. Worse still, they had then declined the Opus One served with dinner and demanded iced tea. No appreciation, no respect. It was the kind of evening that could make a serious wine collector weep.
Shaking his head at the memory, Roth paused on his way to the garage to admire the view: west to Beverly Hills, east to Thai Town and Little Armenia, south across the endless shimmering sprawl to the toy-sized planes that came and went from LAX. Perhaps not the prettiest of views, particularly when the smog was up; but it was a high view, a long view, an expensive view, and, best of all, his view. Mine, all mine, he sometimes thought to himself, especially at night when the lights below made a shining carpet that stretched for miles.
He squirmed his way into the snug confines of his Mercedes and inhaled the perfume of well-nourished leather and polished walnut. This particular model was one of the great classic cars, so old that it predated the invention of the beverage container, and Rafael, the Mexican caretaker, looked after it as though it were a museum piece. Roth eased it out of the garage and headed for his office on Wilshire Boulevard, his mind going back to his wine cellar and that dumb couple from Malibu, whom he'd never liked anyway.
From thinking about them, it was only a short mental hop to a more philosophical consideration of the joys of ?pos?session. And here, Roth had to admit that the appreciation—even the envy—of others was crucial to his own enjoyment. Where, he asked himself, is the satisfaction of having desirable possessions that others hardly ever see? Why, it would be like keeping his youthful, blond wife locked away from public view, or sentencing the Mercedes to a lifetime of confinement in the garage. And yet, here he was, keeping millions of dollars' worth of the world's finest wines in a cellar that was unlikely to see more than half a dozen visitors a year.
By the time he reached the tinted-glass box that contained his office, Roth had come to two conclusions: first, that inconspicuous consumption was for wimps; and second, that his wine collection deserved a wider audience.
He stepped out of the elevator and walked toward his corner office, bracing himself for the daily mano a mano with his executive secretary, Cecilia Volpé. Strictly speaking, she was not quite up to the job. Her spelling was lamentable, her memory frequently patchy, and her attitude toward many of Roth's clients one of patrician disdain. But there were consolations: she had the most spectacular legs, long and permanently tanned, made even longer by a seemingly inexhaustible supply of four-inch heels. And she was the only daughter of Myron Volpé, the current head of the Volpé dynasty that had pounced upon the movie business two generations ago and that still maintained considerable influence behind the scenes. As Cecilia had been heard to say, the Volpés were the closest it got in Hollywood to a royal family.
And so Roth tolerated her for her connections, despite her lengthy personal calls, her frequent makeup breaks, and that atrocious spelling. As for Cecilia, for whom work was something to do between dates, her duties were largely decorative and ceremonial. Roth's office provided a socially acceptable base, undemanding tasks (she had her own personal assistant who dealt with all the tiresome but essential details), and the occasional buzz from meeting the famous and the notorious who made up Roth's list of clients.
Friction between Roth and Cecilia was mild, and usually limited to a brisk exchange at the start of each working day over the schedule. So it was this morning.
"Look," said Roth as they checked the first name in his appointment book, a movie actor now enjoying a second career in television. "I know he's not one of your favorite guys, but it wouldn't kill you to be nice to him. A smile, that's all."
Cecilia rolled her eyes and shuddered.
"I'm not asking for genial. I'm just asking for pleasant. What's the matter with him, anyway?"
"He calls me 'babe' and he's always trying to grab my ass."
Roth didn't blame him. In fact, he'd frequently had thoughts in that direction himself. "Boyish enthusiasm," he said. "Youthful high spirits."
"Danny." Another roll of the eyes. "He admits to sixty-two."
"OK, OK. I'll settle for glacial politeness. Now listen—there's a personal project you could help me with, a kind of celebrity lifestyle thing. I think it's the right moment for me."
Cecilia's eyebrows, two perfectly plucked arcs, were raised. "Who's the celebrity?"
Roth continued as though he hadn't heard her. "You know I have this fabulous wine collection?" He looked in vain for some change in Cecilia's expression, some quiver of appreciation from those impassive eyebrows. "Well, I do, and I'm prepared to give an exclusive interview, in my cellar, to the right journalist. Here's the angle: I'm not just a business machine. I'm also a connoisseur, a guy with taste who appreciates the finer things in life—châteaus, vintages, Bordeaux, all that great cobwebby French shit. What do you think?"
From the Hardcover edition.
Descriere scurtă
From Hollywood to Marseille with delicious stops in between, Peter Mayle’s latest novel is filled with the culinary delights and entertaining characters that make him our treasured chronicler of French food and life.
The story begins high above Los Angeles at the impressive wine cellar of lawyer Danny Roth. Unfortunately, after inviting the Los Angeles Times to write an extensive profile extolling the liquid treasures of his collection, Roth finds himself the victim of a world-class wine heist. Enter Sam Levitt, former lawyer and wine connoisseur, who follows leads to Bordeaux and Provence. The unraveling of the ingenious crime is threaded through with Mayle’s seductive rendering of France’s sensory delights—even the most sophisticated of oenophiles will learn a thing or two from this vintage work by a beloved author.
The story begins high above Los Angeles at the impressive wine cellar of lawyer Danny Roth. Unfortunately, after inviting the Los Angeles Times to write an extensive profile extolling the liquid treasures of his collection, Roth finds himself the victim of a world-class wine heist. Enter Sam Levitt, former lawyer and wine connoisseur, who follows leads to Bordeaux and Provence. The unraveling of the ingenious crime is threaded through with Mayle’s seductive rendering of France’s sensory delights—even the most sophisticated of oenophiles will learn a thing or two from this vintage work by a beloved author.
Recenzii
Praise for Peter Mayle and The Vintage Caper:
“Wine and food aficionados will find much to savor. . . . Light, funny, and packed with a menu’s worth of scrumptious descriptions of exceptional dinners and drinks.”
—USA Today
“A succession of excellent repasts and leisurely ambles, which Mayle depicts with painterly ease and signature savoir vivre. . . . Pure Provence.”
—National Geographic Traveler
“A lighthearted romp . . . in which picking the right restaurant, choosing the best dish on the menu and, of course, finding the perfect wine (and female companion) to accompany the feast is every bit as important as catching the thief.”
—Los Angeles Times
“A smooth ride you’ll enjoy from beginning to end. . . . Peter Mayle’s love of France is infectious. . . . The vintages are a fine complement to the action.”
—The Washington Post
“Cinematic. . . . Meals are lovingly described, scenery comes to life, paragraphs take long floral detours. And everyone is blessed with hypersensitive taste buds. . . . By the time Levitt returns to America, readers will have learned much about the history of winemaking, the key wine regions, various auction houses, critics and books—and even how to lift fingerprints from bottles.”
—The New York Times Book Review
“Provides a delightful behind-the-scenes tour of France and its wines, a satisfyingly satirical view of materialistic excesses in America, a mystery that keeps the reader guessing, and a pleasing, robust finish.”
—The Philadelphia Inquirer
“Mayle [is] something of a wonder . . . chronicling the scene around him in irresistible prose . . . the joys of a bountiful climate, brilliant sun and a splendid cuisine.”
—Time
“Sexy is the name of the game in this book, from the sensually and lavishly appointed wines and gourmet foods to the well sculpted women. . . . This is a book that celebrates wine, food and excess of all kinds.”
—Chattanooga Times Free Press
“[Mayle is] a writer of grace and good humor.”
—The New Yorker
“Abundant with luscious descriptions of the gastronomic delights of France . . . Mayle’s international caper is the vehicle for his exposition of all things French: countryside vineyards, brilliant sunsets, chateau wine cellars, exquisitely prepared dishes, and, of course, wine.”
—Fredericksburg Free Lance-Star
“Relentlessly entertaining. . . . Mayle has concocted a shameless guilty-pleasure bonbon in The Vintage Caper.”
—Raleigh News-Observer
“Whether you’re going to France or just to eat, Mayle is worth reading.”
—San Jose Mercury News
“[Mayle] knows his wines and cuisines, evident in this mystery featuring gourmand-investigator Sam Levitt. Readers can vicariously enjoy world travel, great meals and memorable bottles of vino.”
—Sacramento Bee
“Mayle’s prose bubbles with the pertness of champagne and teems with sumptuous delights. . . . His story has as many unexpected twists as the wending streets of France that are featured throughout the novel, making this one countryside romp that will both thrill and transport oenophiles and armchair travelers alike.”
—Bookpage
“This light and funny mystery novel about food and wine is satisfying. . . . Aficionados will find much to savor in The Vintage Caper.”
—Visalia Times-Delta (California)
“Wine and food aficionados will find much to savor. . . . Light, funny, and packed with a menu’s worth of scrumptious descriptions of exceptional dinners and drinks.”
—USA Today
“A succession of excellent repasts and leisurely ambles, which Mayle depicts with painterly ease and signature savoir vivre. . . . Pure Provence.”
—National Geographic Traveler
“A lighthearted romp . . . in which picking the right restaurant, choosing the best dish on the menu and, of course, finding the perfect wine (and female companion) to accompany the feast is every bit as important as catching the thief.”
—Los Angeles Times
“A smooth ride you’ll enjoy from beginning to end. . . . Peter Mayle’s love of France is infectious. . . . The vintages are a fine complement to the action.”
—The Washington Post
“Cinematic. . . . Meals are lovingly described, scenery comes to life, paragraphs take long floral detours. And everyone is blessed with hypersensitive taste buds. . . . By the time Levitt returns to America, readers will have learned much about the history of winemaking, the key wine regions, various auction houses, critics and books—and even how to lift fingerprints from bottles.”
—The New York Times Book Review
“Provides a delightful behind-the-scenes tour of France and its wines, a satisfyingly satirical view of materialistic excesses in America, a mystery that keeps the reader guessing, and a pleasing, robust finish.”
—The Philadelphia Inquirer
“Mayle [is] something of a wonder . . . chronicling the scene around him in irresistible prose . . . the joys of a bountiful climate, brilliant sun and a splendid cuisine.”
—Time
“Sexy is the name of the game in this book, from the sensually and lavishly appointed wines and gourmet foods to the well sculpted women. . . . This is a book that celebrates wine, food and excess of all kinds.”
—Chattanooga Times Free Press
“[Mayle is] a writer of grace and good humor.”
—The New Yorker
“Abundant with luscious descriptions of the gastronomic delights of France . . . Mayle’s international caper is the vehicle for his exposition of all things French: countryside vineyards, brilliant sunsets, chateau wine cellars, exquisitely prepared dishes, and, of course, wine.”
—Fredericksburg Free Lance-Star
“Relentlessly entertaining. . . . Mayle has concocted a shameless guilty-pleasure bonbon in The Vintage Caper.”
—Raleigh News-Observer
“Whether you’re going to France or just to eat, Mayle is worth reading.”
—San Jose Mercury News
“[Mayle] knows his wines and cuisines, evident in this mystery featuring gourmand-investigator Sam Levitt. Readers can vicariously enjoy world travel, great meals and memorable bottles of vino.”
—Sacramento Bee
“Mayle’s prose bubbles with the pertness of champagne and teems with sumptuous delights. . . . His story has as many unexpected twists as the wending streets of France that are featured throughout the novel, making this one countryside romp that will both thrill and transport oenophiles and armchair travelers alike.”
—Bookpage
“This light and funny mystery novel about food and wine is satisfying. . . . Aficionados will find much to savor in The Vintage Caper.”
—Visalia Times-Delta (California)
Descriere
Set in Hollywood, Paris, Bordeaux, and Marseille, Mayle's newest and most delightful novel is filled with culinary delights, sumptuous wines, and colorful characters.