A novel this time titled At Poupon’s Table. Some have asked, where did Poupon come from? For openers, Lulu Peyraud is not a character in Poupon, but my new book would not exist if not for her. We met in 1977. Once she learned I was bookish (she was, too), she gave me a French paperback I could not read titled Ma Provence en Cuisine—still available in France, by the way, but never translated. Every once in a while I’d notice its orange cover in my office bookcase until finally (decades later, when I had more confidence in my French), I pulled it out, opened it up, and my oh my, what a treat! A fun read like you hope they’ll all be. The author, Charles Blavette, lived in Bandol. So did the great Provençal actor Raimu, and both were regulars in Marcel Pagnol’s films, whose works were filmed close to my own home in Provence. La Femme du Boulanger was shot five minutes from my place. What I loved most about Blavette’s book were the scenes from daily life back in the day in that part of Provence. Blavette might wake up, walk down to the port of Bandol and order an espresso. As he finishes it, he sees the sizeable Raimu walking purposefully down one of the piers. Blavette moseys over to see what’s up. “The fishing boats are heading in,” Raimu says. As one of them sails past, a crew member tosses a bundle onto the pier at Raimu’s feet. He and Blavette stomp a wooden carton into pieces and light a fire, over which they grill a couple of dozen sardines and eat them on the spot with their fingers. They look up at each other and nod. Back to the bar they go for an appropriate glass or two of cold Cassis blanc. Which starts them beginning to consider the crucially important decision: what to do about lunch?
     Since 1986 I’ve lived six months a year near Bandol, and many of my experiences could be considered Pagnol-esque. For example, a neighbor threatening to cut off my water supply (see Pagnol’s Manon des Sources, a great movie). So, I wondered, why not write a memoir about my life in Provence? No, I decided. Not enough material to fill a book. But what about a novel? Voilà, the solution. I could make things up. Fiction. Letting my imagination loose, then a ton of work to fashion a novel from what emerged.
     Could it be that all this life of mine trying to put beauty into your glasses was wasted? What if I’m better at writing novels? There’s only one way you can find out. Yes, buy the darned thing and read it. There’s food and wine on almost every page, so it shouldn’t be a task to read it down to the last drop.