{"product_id":"provence-az-isbn-9781400095698","title":"Provence A-Z","description":"The ultimate “dictionary” for lovers of Provence: Peter Mayle's personal selection of the foods, customs and words he finds most fascinating, curious, delicious, or just plain fun.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThough organized from A to Z, this is hardly a conventional work of reference. In more than 170 entries, Peter Mayle—bestselling author of \u003ci\u003eA Year in Provence\u003c\/i\u003e—writes about subjects as wide-ranging as architecture and \u003ci\u003ezingue-zingue-zoun\u003c\/i\u003e (in the local patois, a word meant to describe the sound of a violin). And, of course, he writes about food and drink:\u003ci\u003e vin rosé\u003c\/i\u003e, truffles, olives, melons, bouillabaisse, the cheese that killed a Roman emperor, even a cure for indigestion. \u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003eProvence A-Z\u003c\/i\u003e is a delight for Peter Mayle's ever-growing audience and the perfect complement to any guidebook on Provence, or, for that matter, France.“Mayle's affection for lavender fields and languid lunched continues unabated-and so does his influence.” —\u003ci\u003eUSA Today\u003c\/i\u003e“Mayle's magpie dictionary yields amusing facts . . . and useful information. . . . You'll soon succumb to his road-tested charm.” —\u003ci\u003eThe New York Times Book Review\u003c\/i\u003e“Whether he's smacking his lips in gustatory contentment or mock exasperation, Mayle's affection runneth over. . . . If there is anything charmless or depressing in all of Provence, its secret is safe with him.” —\u003ci\u003eThe Boston Globe\u003c\/i\u003e“After nearly two decades of writing about the character and the characters of Provence, Mayle's love for this rich and colorful region is undiminished.” —\u003ci\u003eThe Christian Science Monitor\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cp\u003ePeter Mayle is the author of fifteen books, nine of them novels, including the beloved bestseller \u003ci\u003eA Year in Provence\u003c\/i\u003e. A recipient of the Légion d’Honneur from the French government for his cultural contributions, he lived in Provence with his wife, Jennie, for more than twenty-five years. Mayle died in 2018.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003ca name=\"iti1\"\u003e\u003c\/a\u003e\u003cb\u003eTapenade\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003eIt has been called the black butter of Provence (although it may frequently be green), and it is one of those happy gastronomic inventions that sharpen both appetite and thirst. Normally, therefore, you will find it served with your apéritif before you get down to the serious business of making your way through the menu. \u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003eThe name comes from the Provençal word tapeno, or caper, and capers are an essential part of every tapenade recipe. Other ingredients can vary slightly according to taste, but I recommend following the instructions of Monsieur Meynier, the Marseille chef who invented tapenade more than a century ago. Here's his original recipe: \u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e 200 grams black olives, pits removed\u003cbr\u003e100 grams unsalted anchovy filets\u003cbr\u003e100 grams tuna in oil\u003cbr\u003elarge spoonful strong mustard\u003cbr\u003epinch of \u003ci\u003efines herbes\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e200 milliliters olive oil\u003cbr\u003ea glass of Cognac\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eTake 200 grams of black olives, with their pits removed. Crush the olives, using mortar and pestle, together with 200 grams of capers, 100 grams of unsalted anchovy fillets, 100 grams oftuna in oil, a large spoonful of strong mustard, \u003ci\u003e\"pas mal de poivre,\"\u003c\/i\u003e and a pinch of \u003ci\u003efines herbes\u003c\/i\u003e.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAs you crush, add, little by little, 200 milliliters of olive oil.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe final touch: mix in a glass of Cognac.\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003eThe resulting thick and wonderfully pungent black paste, gleaming with oil, is traditionally spread on small pieces of toast. But it would be a shame to restrict tapenade to toast. Try it with hard-boiled quail's eggs, with tomatoes, with fresh goat cheese, with plain grilled fish, or a cold vegetable omelette. I have also seen it used as a dip for potato chips and eaten, on its own, by the spoonful. It is that good. \u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003eAccent\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThere is a popular misconception that the language spoken in Provence     is French. It resembles French, certainly; indeed, in written form it    is almost  identical. But remove it from the page and apply it to the    ear, and Provençal  French might easily be another language. If words    were edible, Provençal speech  would be a rich, thick, pungent verbal    stew, simmered in an accent filled with  twanging consonants; a \u003ci\u003ecivet\u003c\/i\u003e,    perhaps, or maybe a\u003ci\u003e daube\u003c\/i\u003e.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eBefore coming to live  in Provence, I acquired a set of Berlitz tapes    in order to improve my grasp of  French, which I hadn’t studied since    my schooldays. Evening after evening, I would  sit and listen to    cassettes of the most mellifluous, perfectly enunciated phrases—spoken,  I believe, by a lady from Tours. (I was told that the accent    of Tours is considered  a jewel among accents, the most polished and    refined in France.)\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eEvery morning  in front of the mirror while shaving, I would do my    best to imitate this accent,  pursing my Anglo-Saxon lips until they    could pronounce something close to the  Gallic u, practicing the growl    from the back of the throat that is so necessary  for the rolling    Gallic r. Little by little, I thought, I was making progress.  And    then I left England to come south.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eIt was an instant farewell to the lady  from Tours, because the sound    of the words I encountered in Provence was unlike  anything I had    heard before. And to make matters even more incomprehensible, these     words were delivered with an incredible velocity, a vocabulary gone    berserk.  My ears were in shock for months, and for at least a year I    was unable to conduct  any kind of sustained conversation without a    dictionary. This I used much as a  blind man uses a white stick: to    identify obstacles and try to find my way around  them.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eTo this day, many years later, there are times when words, even    sentences,  pass me by in a glutinous blur of sound. Living as I do in    the country, I have  noticed that the rural accent is perhaps a little    thicker—or, some might say,  purer—than in bastions of urban    civilization like Aix or Avignon. But then there  is Marseille, a    special case. Here the unsuspecting visitor will have to contend  not    only with the accent but with an entire sub-language. How, I wonder,    would  the lady from Tours react if she were offered a \u003ci\u003epastaga\u003c\/i\u003e,    directed to the nearest  \u003ci\u003epissadou\u003c\/i\u003e, cautioned against employing a    \u003ci\u003emassacan\u003c\/i\u003e, accused of being \u003ci\u003eraspi\u003c\/i\u003e, invited  to a \u003ci\u003ebaletti\u003c\/i\u003e, or admired    for her \u003ci\u003ecroille\u003c\/i\u003e? Like me, I suspect, she would find it  all extremely    puzzling, even \u003ci\u003ecomac\u003c\/i\u003e.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Translations:\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003ci\u003e pastaga\u003c\/i\u003e = pastis\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003epissadou\u003c\/i\u003e = toilet\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003emassacan\u003c\/i\u003e = a bad worker\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003eraspi \u003c\/i\u003e= miserly\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003ebaletti\u003c\/i\u003e = a small dance; what used to be known as a bal populaire\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003ecroille\u003c\/i\u003e = arrogance,  effrontery, chutzpah\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003ecomac\u003c\/i\u003e = extraordinary\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003eAil\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eIt has been said that  Provence is a region that has been rubbed with    garlic. Whether you think of garlic  as \u003ci\u003ele divin bulbe\u003c\/i\u003e or the stinking    rose or the poor man’s panacea, there’s no getting  away from it—in    soups, in sauces, in salads, with fish, with meat, with pasta,  with    vegetables, on or in bread. And if there isn’t quite enough of it for     your taste, you can always resort to this old Provençal habit: Take a    clove of  garlic (probably the one you always carry in your pocket for    just such a gastronomic  emergency), peel it, and hold it between the    thumb and index finger of your right  hand. With your left hand, hold    a fork with its tines facing downward on a plate.  Grate the garlic    briskly across the tines until you have enough aromatic juice  and    fragments on your plate to season the food to your liking.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWhen considering  garlic’s history and reputation, it is often    difficult to sort out fact from legend.  We are told that the laborers    building the pyramids of ancient Egypt went on strike  because their    garlic ration was late in being distributed. This is confirmed by     several sources and is probably true. On the other hand, you have the    vampire-repellent  theories—carry a head of garlic with you at all    times, and rub garlic on window  frames, door handles, and the floor    around your bed for nocturnal protection—which  probably aren’t. Other    slightly dubious claims include garlic’s supposed ability  to    neutralize snake and insect venom; to cure leprosy, asthma, and    whooping  cough; and to protect against cholera and the evil eye \u003ci\u003e(“Bon    ail contre mauvais  oeil”)\u003c\/i\u003e.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eBut nothing in the medical history of garlic, at least in Provence,    is  quite as impressive as the tale of the four thieves. It takes    place in Marseille  in 1726, when hundreds of inhabitants were    dropping like flies from the plague.  Our four thieves (today their    nearest equivalent would be ambulance-chasing lawyers)  visited the    empty houses of the recently dead and ransacked them. Growing    careless,  the thieves were eventually caught and brought to trial.    Fortunately for them,  the judge had an inquiring mind. How was it, he    asked them, that you were able  to enter all those contaminated houses    without being stricken yourselves by the  plague?\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ePlea-bargaining ensued. In exchange for leniency, the thieves    revealed  their secret, a powerful elixir that made them immune from    the plague. It must  have seemed at the time as miraculous as the    discovery of penicillin, and from  that day on it was called\u003ci\u003e le    vinaigre des quatres voleurs\u003c\/i\u003e, or four thieves’ vinegar.  The    ingredients are vinegar, absinthe, rosemary, sage, mint—and,    naturally,  garlic. (Absinthe is difficult to find nowadays, but    pastis would probably be  an acceptable substitute.) Not surprisingly,    the Marseillais quickly found themselves  among the most enthusiastic    consumers of garlic in France. They still are.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThere  is no doubt about some other, less dramatic health-giving    properties. Garlic is  an antiseptic, a disinfectant, and an inhibitor    of bacteria. It is rich in vitamins  B1 and C. Medical studies suggest    that garlic eaters show a lower incidence of  stomach cancer, may be    less prone than average to strokes and cardiovascular disease,  and    possess blood of exceptional purity.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAlas, the same cannot be said for their  breath. Garlic-induced    halitosis has been something of a social obstacle ever  since man    popped that first clove in his mouth thousands of years ago. King     Henri IV of France used to eat a clove every morning. It was said by    one of his  contemporaries that his breath could knock over a steer at    twenty paces. And yet  he was also a renowned ladies’ man, which leads    me to believe that his lady friends  had discovered the only truly    effective solution to the problem of garlic breath  in others. Which    is, of course, to eat garlic—and plenty of it—yourself.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003eAioli\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe Provençal poet Frédéric Mistral, a man with a lyrical turn of    phrase  and a practical turn of mind, praised \u003ci\u003eaioli \u003c\/i\u003efor possessing,    among its many other  virtues, the ability to keep away flies. I have    also known it occasionally to  repel humans, particularly those    delicate souls accustomed to a cuisine that is  largely innocent of    garlic.\u003ci\u003e Aioli\u003c\/i\u003e is not for those with timid taste buds.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eTechnically,  it is mayonnaise. But it is mayonnaise with guts, and to    compare it to conventional  mayonnaise is like comparing a slice of    processed cheese to a ripe Camembert.  This classic recipe explains why:\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eFor eight people, you will need sixteen cloves  of garlic, the yolks    of three eggs, and nearly half a liter of the best olive  oil. Peel    the garlic, put the cloves in a mortar, and crush them to pulp. Add     the egg yolks and a pinch of salt, and stir until the yolks and    garlic are  thoroughly blended. Then, drop by drop, start adding the    oil, stirring (and never  stopping) as you go. By the time you’ve used    about half the oil, the \u003ci\u003eaioli\u003c\/i\u003e should  have thickened into a dense    mass. The rest of the oil can now be added (and stirred)  in a    continuous, steady flow. The \u003ci\u003eaioli\u003c\/i\u003e becomes thicker and thicker,    almost  solid. This is how it should be. Add a few drops of lemon    juice and serve with  potatoes, boiled salt cod, peppers, carrots,    beetroot, hard-boiled eggs, and maybe  some Provençal snails, \u003ci\u003eles    petits gris\u003c\/i\u003e.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAs you can imagine, a plateful of this  poses a significant challenge    to the digestion, and you may wish to follow the  advice of one    Provençal writer who recommends a \u003ci\u003etrou provençal\u003c\/i\u003e in the middle of  the    meal. This is a small glass of marc that has the effect of cutting    through  the pungent ointment of eggs and oil to form a hole, or \u003ci\u003etrou\u003c\/i\u003e,    through which the  rest of the meal can pass. The practical Mistral    would surely approve. But I wonder  what he would think of a recent    development in the social life of \u003ci\u003eaioli\u003c\/i\u003e that I  find fascinating,    although I haven’t so far had the chance to experience it personally.     It is an event—one can hardly dismiss it as a mere meal—known as an    \u003ci\u003eaioli dansant.\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eIf one takes this literally, it sounds like a dangerous combination,    mixing the  careless rapture of the dance with the consumption of a    rich, heavy, oily dish  that is quite difficult to eat accurately even    when sitting still. But perhaps  it is an athletic substitute for the    \u003ci\u003etrou provençal\u003c\/i\u003e: an exercise to shake down  what has been eaten to make    room for second helpings. Who knows? It might even  take over from the   \u003ci\u003e paso doble\u003c\/i\u003e that is traditionally danced at village fetes.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003eAir\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eA man in a bar once told me that the air in Provence was the purest     air in France, perhaps even in the world. He was a large and somewhat    aggressive  man, and I thought it wise not to argue with him. In fact,    I was delighted to  believe what he had told me, and for several years    I would pass on the good news  to friends and visitors. “Every breath    you take of Provençal air,” I used to say,  “is like ten euros in the    bank of health.” It wasn’t until I started to research  the subject    that I discovered the truth.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHere it is: The \u003ci\u003edépartements\u003c\/i\u003e of Bouches-du-Rhône,  the Vaucluse, Alpes-   de-Haute-Provence, and the Var make up one of the four most  polluted    zones in Europe, a distinction they share with Genoa, Barcelona, and     Athens. (Source: Greenpeace France.) Apart from the emissions coming    from heavy  traffic on the \u003ci\u003eroutes nationales\u003c\/i\u003e and the \u003ci\u003eautoroutes\u003c\/i\u003e, the    principal villains are  to be found in the industrial complex—\u003ci\u003el’industrie-sur-mer\u003c\/i\u003e—that straggles along the  coast from Marseille to    the Gulf of Fos and the oil refineries at Berre.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHow  bad is it? By August 2003, there had been thirty-six days during    the year on which  the level of air pollution exceeded the official    limit of 240 micrograms per cubic  meter. More was to come as the    summer heat wave continued. And, so we were told,  the pollution was    not necessarily confined to the area immediately around those  who    produced it, but could spread as far away as sixty to ninety miles.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eSince  each of us breathes about thirty pounds of air each day,    statistics like this  make uncomfortable reading. And yet, walking    every day in the Luberon as I do,  it’s difficult to believe that such    a thing as pollution exists. The air looks  clear and tastes good.    Vegetation seems untouched. Butterflies thrive. Birds and  game go    about their business, apparently in rude health. Can it be that the     mistral is protecting us by blowing away the foul breath of industry?    I must  consult the man in the bar. He will know.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003eAlpes et Alpilles\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eOnce upon a time,  geographical names had a certain logic about them.    They indicated, with varying  degrees of accuracy or sometimes    optimism, the physical or historical characteristics  one might expect    to find in that particular place. For instance, the town of L’Isle-    sur-la-Sorgue is surrounded by the river Sorgue; Pernes-les-Fontaines    has thirty-six  fountains; Vaison was settled more than two thousand    years ago by the Romans,  and eventually became known as Vaison-la-   Romaine. These were names that made sense.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eOther names, however, seemed to have made too much sense, and here we    have a  good Provençal example. For many years, the \u003ci\u003edépartement\u003c\/i\u003e to the    west of the Vaucluse  was known as the Basses Alpes. It was a name    that reflected the fact that in the  neighboring \u003ci\u003edépartement\u003c\/i\u003e,    immediately to the north, there were significantly higher  mountains    whose height was officially confirmed by their title—the Hautes    Alpes.  This clearly rankled in the Basses Alpes, and local pride was    bruised. It is possible  that some of the more sensitive residents    developed alp envy. Whatever the reason,  the name of the \u003ci\u003edépartement\u003c\/i\u003e was changed in 1970 to Alpes-de-Haute-Provence, which  had the great    advantage of suggesting a certain alpine loftiness without being  too    specific.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHow high does a bump in the landscape need to be before it can  be    classified as an alp? The dictionary is of no help here, defining the    alp  simply as “a high mountain” without telling us how high. This, of    course, is open  to interpretation, and therefore very useful to those    whose task it is to provide  names for natural outcroppings. One can    imagine such a man, many hundreds of years  ago, scratching his head    as he gazed at the range of sun-bleached limestone crags  that runs    from west to east between Fontvieille and Saint-Rémy-de-Provence. His     problem was that the crags were certainly taller and more impressive    than mere  hills. And yet not really high enough, at 900–1,200 feet,    to be described as mountains,  let alone alps. Our man sat and pondered.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWho knows what caused inspiration to strike?  Possibly the dazzling    limestone reminded him of the snow-covered peaks of the  Swiss Alps.    Ah yes, that was it; what he was gazing at, in fact, was a miniature     alpine range. Fortunately, in his search for a name he chose to    ignore the  dinky French habit of adding -\u003ci\u003eette\u003c\/i\u003e as a diminutive suffix—\u003ci\u003ealpettes\u003c\/i\u003e somehow sounded  too much like a group of female mountaineers—   and so he decided to call them Les  Alpilles.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThey are charming, picturesque, small enough to be almost cozy    despite  their jagged silhouettes. Harsh white rock, dark green    maquis, deep blue sky,  brilliant light—it all seems like another    world from the sunflowers and fields  van Gogh painted in the softer    countryside just a few kilometers away.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eIf you  have the legs for it, the best way to explore Les Alpilles is    to leave the car  behind and rent a bicycle. This will let you    appreciate the smell of the scenery—thyme  and rosemary and warm stone—as you make your way up and down the D5 on the twists  and turns    between Saint-Rémy and Fontvieille. A morning of this is an excellent     preparation for lunch.","brand":"Vintage","offers":[{"title":"Default Title","offer_id":46301269000421,"sku":"NP9781400095698","price":18.0,"currency_code":"USD","in_stock":false}],"thumbnail_url":"\/\/cdn.shopify.com\/s\/files\/1\/1842\/7735\/files\/9781400095698.jpg?v=1767735186","url":"https:\/\/k12savings.com\/es\/products\/provence-az-isbn-9781400095698","provider":"K12savings","version":"1.0","type":"link"}