"A Year in Provence"

I could have sworn I made more notes than this. Of course there's all the food and wine, but Peter Mayle's lovely portraits of the locals also stand out.

• A television set chattered in the corner, the radio chattered back from the kitchen, and assorted dogs and cats were shooed out of the door as one guest arrived, only to sidle back in with the next.
• Buckshot in the edible parts of the fox can cause chipped teeth—Massot showed me two of his—and indigestion.
• It would break his heart, unless—he looked at me closely, pale eyes watery with sincerity—unless he could render me a service by making it possible for one of my friends to buy his house.
• Fortunately, his salesman’s instincts overcame his relish for a bureaucratic impasse, and he leaned forward with a solution:
• “That pleases me,” he said, “because it is minus five degrees, the roads are perilous, and I am fifty-eight years old. I am staying at home.” He paused, then added, “I shall play the clarinet.” This he did every day to keep his fingers nimble and to take his mind off the hurly-burly of plumbing,
• Everyone remembers when Mitterrand first came to power; the rich went into financial paralysis, and sat on their cash.
• If the rocking develops into an agitated waggle, he’s really talking about next week or God knows when, depending on circumstances beyond his control. These unspoken disclaimers, which seem to be instinctive and therefore more revealing than speech, are occasionally reinforced by the magic word normalement, a supremely versatile escape clause worthy of an insurance policy.
• And he rode with us into Lacoste, his lean old legs, shaved bare in case of falls and grazes,
• This occasionally achieved the length and solemnity of an obscure aristocratic title, as with Jean-Pierre the carpet layer, who was officially known as Gaillard-Poseur de Moquette.
• Dust and rubble and tortured fragments of piping marked his daily passage like the spoor of an iron-jawed termite. The fuel man drew himself up in outrage, parrying Menicucci’s wagging finger with his own, oily and black-rimmed at the tip. “My fuel is already triple-filtered. C’est impeccable.” He made as if to kiss his fingertips and then thought better of it.
• Before dinner that night, we tested it, dripping it onto slices of bread that had been rubbed with the flesh of tomatoes. It was like eating sunshine.
• What we should do was to invite the builders to a party to celebrate the end of the job. But not just the builders; their wives must come too.