Quite enjoyable, with two rascally narrators. ( )

modern British humor, crime and mystery, difficult relationships, fantastic recipes -
gute deutsche Übersetzung. ( )

A very clever and hilarious story of two neighbors spending the summer in Tuscany. Gerald is a ghostwriter with a penchant for absurdly disgusting culinary creations (think of deep fried chocolate covered mussels) and Marta is an Eastern European movie soundtrack composer fleeing her overbearing Russian mob family. The book has very little plot, but the hilarious situations the characters find themselves is worth the read. The story's narration bounces back and forth between Gerald and Marta, and their preconceptions of each other is very funny. ( )

Gerald Samper, Englishman, has bought a house in Camaoire, Italy, seeking warmer weather and peace and quiet in which to write. His neighbour, Marta from Voynovia somewhere in the former USSR, has bought the neighbouring house in order to write the musical score for a film being shot by the famous director Pacini. The story alternates back and forth between the two. Alternates? Ricochets, more accurately.

Gerald swans into the novel first, instantly establishing himself as a bitchy queen with an enormous ego but with the credentials to back this up (although not the bottom he thinks he has), as a very successful ghost writer for the ‘autobiographies’ of rich and famous sports stars. He fancies himself an experimental, cutting edge gourmet cook with a beautiful tenor voice. He is a ghastly cook with a warbling falsetto. I didn’t flinch at the first recipe, mussels rolled in Valrhona dark chocolate and deep fried in olive oil with rosemary and soy sauce. But once he and Marta discover Fernet Branca between them, and Gerald begins adding it to everything, the recipes get wilder and more fantastical, featuring everything from a neighbour’s noisy daschund to smoked cat. “Add 1 ½ eggs” he sings. Half an egg? And so they go.

Marta is the daughter of a Voynovian mafia don, fleeing the compound of her father’s love and protectiveness, as well as the isolation of Voynova, to make her mark on the musical world. With her wild frizzy hair occasionally smattened down with bear grease and Voynovian food which almost matches Gerald’s for bizarre, she is the perfect target for the latter’s scorn but Marta too has her credentials in place and is a bona fide musician.

What ensues is one of the funnier books I’ve read in a long time, laugh out loud in the chiropractor’s office and have everyone look at you kind of funny. Whether Gerald is describing a mad dash to an outhouse in Peru or dealing with a UFO believing rock star, Hamilton-Paterson nails it all the way through. The refreshing thing is that there is something of an actual story in here as well, with characters (in every sense of the word) whom we come to understand as individuals, not thin pastiches designed only for a laugh.

The recipes are insane. (“...the single drop of paraffin...I have discovered that this single drop transforms the dish from merely very interesting into an unblushing classic.”) The situations are madcap. (“Down there is the world as run by a handful of corporations, an army of lawyers and millions of religious zealots. It is not a place that has a niche for Gerald Samper. Up here, thank goodness, I needn’t pretend to be a member of the human race at all and can remain minimally contaminated by its germy lies. (Yes! You recognized it! Another anagram of Lyme Regis.) I can enjoy my cold trifle of sweetbreads - tripe and blueberries were made for each other - and a glass or three of Barolo while thinking peacefully anarchic thoughts.”) The anagrams of Lyme Regis are the perfect descriptors of twitchy obsessive compulsiveness. (“It’s the only way I know how to write the world - or scribe my globe, if I want an anagram of Lyme Regis Cobb.”) The timing is perfect and the comedy spot on, whether sardonic or Pythonesque.

I understand that there are sequels, which is almost too bad, because this was complete and done like a dinner as it was. I can't imagine how anything further could need to be said.

"Cooking With Fernet Branca" by James Hamilton-Paterson is part of oddball publisher Europa Editions's sinister plot to make Murrikins like me aware of the strange and sinister world of lit'rachoor published beyond our shores. Muriel Barbery owes her Murrikin presence to them, too. We all know how *that* turned out....

Well, before moving any farther along in this review process, let me send out the call: Does anyone know how to get hold of (wicked double entendre optional) actor John Barrowman? You know, Captain Jack Harkness of "Torchwood" fame? He is literally missing the key to Murrikin stardom by not reading, optioning, and making this book into a movie. It suits every single national prejudice we have: Eastern Europeans as sinister lawbreaking peasants who eat strangely shaped, colored, and named things and call them foods (like Twinkies, Cheetos, and Mountain Dew are *normal*); Englishmen as dudis (you'll have to read the book for that translation) who do eccentric off-the-wall things with food that are repulsively named and gruesomely concocted (spotted dick? bubble-and-squeak?); and Italians as supercilious effete cognoscenti of world culture, who possess the strangest *need* for vulgarity.

The characters in this hilarious romp are the most dysfunctional group of misfits and ignoramuses and stereotypes ever deployed by an English-language author. They do predictable things, yet Hamilton-Paterson's deftly ironic, cruelly flensing eye and word processor cause readerly glee instead of readerly ennui to ensue. The whole bizarre crew...the lumpenproletariat ex-Soviet composer, the Italian superdirector long past his prime, the English snob who refers to Tuscany's glory as "Chiantishire" and "Tuscminster"...gyrates and shudders and clumps towards a completely foreseeable climactic explosion (heeheehee). And all the time, snarking and judging and learning to depend on each other. In the end, the end is nigh for all the established relationships and the dim, Fernet Branca-hangover-hazed outlines of the new configurations are, well, the English say it best...dire.

Read it. Really, do. And I dare you not to laugh at these idiots! Don't be put off by the sheer hideousness of the American edition's cover, in all its shades-of-purple garish grisliness. The charm of reading the book is that one needn't look at that...that...illustration...on the cover, but inflict it on those not yet In The Know enough to be reading it themselves.

And seriously...John Barrowman needs to know about this. Pass it on! ( )