Excerpt provided by Syndetics

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." Excerpted from Anything Considered by Peter Mayle All rights reserved by the original copyright owners. Excerpts are provided for display purposes only and may not be reproduced, reprinted or distributed without the written permission of the publisher.

Reviews provided by Syndetics

Library Journal Review

A high-living English rogue cons some continental types in Francophile Mayle's latest. (c) Copyright 2010. Library Journals LLC, a wholly owned subsidiary of Media Source, Inc. No redistribution permitted.

Publishers Weekly Review

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. (June) (c) Copyright PWxyz, LLC. All rights reserved

Booklist Review

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. (Reviewed April 15, 1996)0679441239Brad Hooper

Kirkus Book Review

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)

Author notes provided by Syndetics

Peter Mayle was born in Brighton, England on June 14, 1939. He began his career in advertising as a copywriter and rose to the executive ranks, but left advertising in 1975 to write educational books, including a series on sex education for children and young adults. His educational books including Where Did I Come From? and What's Happening to Me?

His travel memoir, A Year in Provence, received the British Book Awards' Best Travel Book of the Year in 1990 and was adapted into a television mini-series. His other nonfiction books included Toujours Provence, Encore Provence, Provence A-Z, and French Lessons: Adventures with Knife, Fork and Corkscrew. His fiction books included The Marseille Caper, The Corsican Caper, and A Good Year, which was adapted into a 2006 film of the same name starring Russell Crowe and Marion Cotillard. Mayle died on January 18, 2018 at the age of 78.

(Bowker Author Biography)