Crime

"Here you are, Messere!" The host's voice took his mind off his worries. The man placed a wooden platter in front of him, containing slices of dark bread soaked in a reddish slop. On top were two slabs of cheese with a thick, moldy rind. "And here is some wine, true nectar of Saint Dennis!" he exclaimed, setting down a moist earthenware jug.
"Dionysus," Dante muttered.
"Saint Dionysus?"
"No, Dionysus the god."
"By God, Messere, you are right; the other was Saint Damian."
The prior dismissed him with a nod and looked around for a spoon. He resigned himself to using his fingers, and after having rolled up his sleeves, scooped up and swallowed a dripping mouthful. Not so bad, aside from the mold on the cheese, and not too different from what the kitchens of the Priors' Palazzo dished out, he thought as he fell upon the wine.

-The Mosaic Crimes by Giulio Leoni, Anne Milano Appel

There are some books which sound good in the description, but wind up being disappointing to me. Sad to say, this is one of those. I typically enjoy reading books that are along the lines of The Last Cato, The Da Vinci Code, or Labyrinth. They are not exactly what I would call fine literature, but they are entertaining and keep me on the edge of my seat.

This book, centered around Dante Alighieri and his quest to solve a handful of mysterious crimes, never swept me into the story. Dante was portrayed not as a hero, but more as a self-centered jerk and in the end did little that was impressive. The only real impressive thing was how often he managed to be in a tavern and seem to only subsist on wine. The above quote is the only mention of food in the entire book (at least that I recall).

They looked at each other now, husband and wife, with such a depth of feeling that the eight feet separating them shrank to nothing. Then, slowly, with a darkling gleam in her eye, Mrs. Marquis raised her plate above her head...and let it drop. A canvasback bone flopped free, the stewed apples few straight up, and the plate blew into a dozen pieces scattered across the red linen tablecloth.

-The Pale Blue Eye by Louis Bayard

Edgar Allan Poe has always been one of my favorite poets. His poems, while dark and often morbid, have a certain draw to them. I guess I am not much for flowery poems - anyone can write that sort of thing - but Poe's poems are other-worldly and mysterious. So when I saw that there was a novel out there to be consumed that had Poe as one of its main characters, I had to grab it. I'm glad I did. This fiction of crime was written in a style that is more reminiscent of authors who wrote novels decades ago, and it had very unexpected twists. Poe was an interesting fixture; he seemed like one of those guys in high school or college that just doesn't fit in, but goes on to amaze people later in life. He was not the main character, however. That was left to an older, charming man (Gus Landor), who, sadly, probably never existed in real life. This murder mystery was an easy read, and hopefully we'll see Poe and/or Landor again. Good job, Mr. Bayard. I'm sure to read more of your novels.

The van's doors were open, and several bags of contraband were heaped in the back, all taped up in clear plastic bags. A few of them had already been transferred to a waiting wheelbarrow. Tarquin was looking around furtively as another bear wearing faded Levi's and a BEARZONE T-shirt cut open a packet of the contraband and carefully drew out a spoonful. He sniffed it suspiciously, mixed it with milk and heated it over a lighter before adding some brown sugar and salt, then sipping the result.
"This is good," he said at last in a deep voice, making a few lip-smacky noises. "How much you got?"

-The Fourth Bear by Jasper Fforde

Reading Jasper Fforde's novels is like watching Monty Python or a Leslie Nielsen film (Naked Gun movies come to mind) - the comedy is cheesy and completely funny, but mostly the language and dialog are clearly representative of a writer who loves wordsmithing.