bookpagedev

Review by

Between her global culinary adventures, stellar cooking skills, townhouse in SoHo (bought before the boutiques moved in) and healthy family life, it would be easy to hate Colette Rossant if she weren’t as likeable as she is. Moving to New York City from her native France in 1955, Rossant tries her hand at teaching French and covering the United Nations for a Belgian publication before the new flavors in her adopted hometown draw her into the kitchen as well as the nether regions of the city, including a growing Chinatown. This eventually leads to cooking demos on the Hudson River, a PBS series on cooking with kids, restaurant reviews for New York Magazine, several cookbooks and many other culinary pursuits. Rossant chronicles these adventures in her latest book, The World in My Kitchen: The Adventures of a (Mostly) French Woman in New York (Atria, $22, 224 pages, ISBN 0743490282). As with Apricots on the Nile, a book describing her colorful childhood in Egypt, and Return to Paris, Rossant finishes each chapter of The World in My Kitchen with recipes reflecting the events and places she describes with such warmth and humor. By the time we reach the present day, Rossant has learned to bake bread with a solar oven in Tanzania, eaten grilled grubs in the Australian outback and impressed VIP Japanese guests at the French Embassy in Tokyo with her fusion cooking. The only problem with this book is, in fact, that the sheer breadth of material covered makes it difficult to get too deep and the real meat of the story sometimes seems tantalizingly out of reach.

Between her global culinary adventures, stellar cooking skills, townhouse in SoHo (bought before the boutiques moved in) and healthy family life, it would be easy to hate Colette Rossant if she weren't as likeable as she is. Moving to New York City from her…
Review by

In Laura Lippman’s compelling and provocative psychological thriller, I’d Know You Anywhere, she explores the emotions and thoughts of a serial killer and his victim.

Eliza Benedict is a happily married stay-at-home mother of two living in a D.C. suburb when she is contacted by Walter Bowman, who kidnapped her when she was 15. A serial killer who raped and killed young girls, he now sits on death row and writes to Eliza more than 20 years after he abducted her.

Alternating between the past and the present, Lippman deftly explores the relationship between victim and perpetrator and the impact of the crime on both the victim and the victims’ families. Walter is brilliantly rendered as a disturbingly ruthless and manipulative killer who feels no guilt and rationalizes every one of his crimes to justify his actions. Eliza, who witnessed the murder of Holly, his last victim, is racked with guilt and cannot stop blaming herself for Holly’s murder. Why was she the only victim allowed to live? That question haunts her throughout the novel.

While examining the aftermath of Walter’s crimes and the fallout for all the characters, Lippman also explores the ethical issues surrounding the death penalty. Holly’s parents, who blame Eliza for their daughter’s death, will never feel that justice is done until Walter is executed. Walter’s advocate, who is against the death penalty, pressures Eliza to visit Walter before his execution. Walter, however, has his own motives for wanting to see her one last time.

This powerful novel was inspired by real-life crimes. A serial killer, as in I’d Know You Anywhere, raped and killed his victims—except for one case, according to Lippman, in which the victim, a minor, was allowed to live and witnessed the murder of another victim. Lippman asked herself, “What is it like to be that person?” She probes that question with this riveting, suspenseful page-turner.

 

In Laura Lippman’s compelling and provocative psychological thriller, I’d Know You Anywhere, she explores the emotions and thoughts of a serial killer and his victim.

Eliza Benedict is a happily married stay-at-home mother of two living in a D.C. suburb when she is contacted by…

Review by

Every decade or so, I find a novel that I sense, just by reading the basic description, will become unforgettable; after reading only 20 pages of The Gendarme, my impression was confirmed with great force. For this decade, and this reader, The Gendarme is that extraordinary, unforgettable novel, set during the Armenian genocide, a divisive, ever-evolving controversy among nations.

When he first looks into Araxie Marashlian’s eyes, one blue, one green, Ahmet Khan knows immediately that her effect upon him will be lasting. Seven decades later, when he is dying at the age of 90, she remains unforgettable. Ahmet, a Muslim gendarme guarding the exodus of Armenians out of the Ottoman Empire during World War I, and Araxie, one of thousands of Christian Armenians forced to walk more than a thousand miles toward Armenia, are as mismatched as her exotic eyes.

A first-time novelist, Mark T. Mustian made the brilliant artistic decision to develop two disparate narratives in alternate chapters: the progress of Ahmet’s battle with a fatal disease in America in the present and the progression of the death march of Araxie’s people until they bog down in Aleppo in Syria in the past.

Scenes set in the present, mostly in the hospital, reveal Ahmet’s fears as a dying 90-year-old and his strained relationship with his daughter. Scenes in the past, during the horrendous march out of Anatolia and into the ancient city of Aleppo, dramatize his faltering efforts to win Araxie’s love and his conflict with Mustapha, a vicious fellow gendarme. But from the first few pages, Mustian meshes Ahmet’s agony in the present with his desperate attempts to recapture in fine detail his submerged memories of Araxie. The unusually fast-paced, crystal-clear and fine-tuned style Mustian has forged to render internal and external events is superb.

Having immersed himself and the reader in memories of his bizarre, wondrous love affair, Ahmet sets out to find Araxie and ask her forgiveness for failing to protect her from maltreatment by his countrymen. Mustian has imagined a final chapter that is inventive, unforgettable and shockingly surprising, for both Ahmet and the reader. One can only eagerly await what he’ll come up with next.

 

Every decade or so, I find a novel that I sense, just by reading the basic description, will become unforgettable; after reading only 20 pages of The Gendarme, my impression was confirmed with great force. For this decade, and this reader, The Gendarme is that…

Review by

<B>Talkin’ bout his Baby Boom generation</B> Because they grew up in an age in which media particularly network television connected them with a common diet of images and attitudes, members of the Baby Boom are more aware of themselves as a distinct group than any preceding generation. They are more self-absorbed, too, Steve Gillon contends in <B>Boomer Nation: The Largest and Richest Generation Ever, and How It Changed America</B> (Free Press, $27.50, 384 pages, ISBN 0743229479). A former Yale and Oxford professor and currently a professor of history at the University of Oklahoma, the author includes within this much-anatomized populace those who were born between 1946 and 1964 a horde that now accounts for 39 percent of Americans over the age of 18 and 29 percent of the total population.

Gillon, who also hosts the weekly public affairs show <I>History Center</I> on A&andE’s History Channel, weaves his study around representative Boomers. They are Bobby Muller, a severely wounded vet who helped found the Vietnam Veterans of America advocacy group; Fran Visco, a Philadelphia lawyer who turned her own battle with breast cancer into a national crusade; Elizabeth Platter-Zyberk, an architect with strong ideas of how communities should be designed for social good; Marshall Herskovitz, co-creator of the Boomer-based TV series, "thirtysomething"; Alberta Haile Wilson, a black activist turned religious fundamentalist turned teacher; and Donny Deutsch, whose advertising agency excelled at speaking the language of his generation. Raised amid rising national prosperity and the mood of self-confidence it nurtured, Boomers display certain common values, according to Gillon, among which are a sense of entitlement, willingness to experiment, distrust of authority, self-reliance, internal motivation, idealism and a preference for doing things their own way. When these values were brought to bear in the 1960s and ’70s, they helped achieve civil rights for minorities and women, create greater social and economic justice and end the Vietnam War. But, the author argues, these impulses were not always progressive. They also gave rise, in many instances, to religious fundamentalism and fiscal conservatism, both logical extensions of the group’s deeply entrenched go-your-own-way ethic. "The Boomer ascendancy," Gillon writes, "contributed to the shattering of the New Deal coalition, the end of the solid Democratic South, and the rise of ticket-splitting independents." As Gillon traces the six Boomers through their life trajectories, he examines how family, school, jobs and media converged to shape their outlook and how this outlook, in turn, has forced them to assess their own degree of worth and success. Predictably, some major contradictions emerge. "Baby Boomers want less government," he says, "but they also want Washington to find jobs for everyone who wants to work. They want government to do more for the poor, but not expand welfare. They want it all: new social programs, lower taxes, and a balanced budget. The gap between what they expect of government and what they are willing to pay for it mirrors what they expect of themselves compared to what they achieve." On June 13, A&andE will broadcast its documentary version of <B>Boomer Nation</B>, a program that also features Gillon’s six representative Boomers. The film will begin with the pivotal question, "Where were you on November 22, 1963," a reference, of course, to the day President Kennedy was assassinated. While many Boomers are close to retirement, they are still vital enough, rich enough and determined enough, Gillon shows, to affect the nation’s social policies for years to come. <I>Edward Morris reviews from Nashville.</I>

<B>Talkin' bout his Baby Boom generation</B> Because they grew up in an age in which media particularly network television connected them with a common diet of images and attitudes, members of the Baby Boom are more aware of themselves as a distinct group than any…

Review by

In François Lelord’s utterly charming Hector and the Search for Happiness, a psychiatrist wants to know what makes people happy. He visits friends and keeps a list of observations—comparing your toys with a friend’s toys can make you unhappy, sun and sand can make anyone happy, happiness is caring for the people you love. Wealth and status seem to hurt some of the psychiatrist’s friends; for example, a businessman works 80 hours a week and becomes dependent on alcohol. Other characters have a gift for happiness: The psychiatrist encounters laughing, impoverished people at a picnic and wonders how they can overlook their own suffering and experience pleasure. Most notably, a very ill friend of the psychiatrist is able to forget that she is dying, enjoy her final days and inspire the people around her.

Hector and the Search for Happiness turns psychological research into a fast-paced, enchanting story. Lelord himself is a psychiatrist, and his interest in the human mind is infectious. He writes as if he were telling a bedtime story—calmly, authoritatively. His story makes you ask: Am I happy? How could I change to make myself happier?

Already an international hit, Hector and the Search for Happiness will be turned into a feature film in 2011. Fans of Eat, Pray, Love and The Elegance of the Hedgehog won’t want to miss this gem of a book.

 

In François Lelord’s utterly charming Hector and the Search for Happiness, a psychiatrist wants to know what makes people happy. He visits friends and keeps a list of observations—comparing your toys with a friend’s toys can make you unhappy, sun and sand can make anyone…

Review by

Two baby girls, dubbed by one mother as the “birthday sisters,” are born on the same day in a rural Vermont hospital. Somehow the baby who becomes a tall blonde winds up in a family of short brunettes, while the short brunette finds herself the daughter of a leggy young blonde. Hmm. But suspicious readers shouldn’t be worried—the unfolding of this story is a journey well worth taking.

At the center of the novel are two families, the Planks and the Dickersons. On the surface, they couldn’t be more different. The Plank family has lived on the same piece of Vermont soil for generations—and throughout the scope of the novel (roughly from 1950 through the present day) they face the plight of the small farm trying to compete with corporate supermarkets. Meanwhile the Dickersons seem incapable of staying in one place, and they are thoroughly modern in a way that mystifies the more traditional Planks. But underneath the happy-go-lucky exterior, desperate poverty follows them at every turn.

On July 4, 1950, Ruth Plank and Dana Dickerson arrive into their respective families. The story is told in short chapters, alternating perspectives with each protagonist. While occasionally sounding the tiniest bit contrived, the shifting point of view is, on the whole, believable and engrossing. We follow Ruth and Dana from childhood through adulthood, and each emerges as an independent, likable woman, both of whom long to be good daughters while struggling with a nagging sense that something in their families is deeply wrong.

Maynard’s excellent storytelling keeps readers eagerly turning the pages, and she raises some interesting questions along the way: How much of who we are is shaped by our family background? How do our families limit who we may become? Ultimately, Maynard suggests that every family story is fraught with complications—and that it is the responsibility of the good daughter to create her own identity in spite of them.

 

Two baby girls, dubbed by one mother as the “birthday sisters,” are born on the same day in a rural Vermont hospital. Somehow the baby who becomes a tall blonde winds up in a family of short brunettes, while the short brunette finds herself the…

Review by

Dylan Schaffer knows how to hook a reader. Not really a surprise, given that his previous two books were mysteries. But his latest book, Life, Death &andamp; Bialys: A Father/Son Baking Story, is a departure from the legal thriller genre; it is instead a memoir focused on dysfunctional parents, midlife reconciliations and making crusty artisan bread.

Schaffer sets up his premise quickly, in a three-page prologue: His dad, who walked out on Schaffer and his mom 30 years ago, calls him and proposes that the two attend a week-long bread-making class at a top New York culinary school. What is never mentioned during the phone call is that his father has end-stage lung and bladder cancer and according to the doctors, long before [my dad] can discover the secrets of baking beautiful and distinctive artisan breads, he will be dead. Amazingly, Schaffer’s father, Flip, survives to attend the class at the French Culinary Institute. The book tracks their seven days of learning the intricacies of yeast, starters, kneading, shaping and baking. It also documents their nights together eating, walking the city and attempting to come to terms with their pasts. Schaffer is clearly on a mission to gain information from his father, mainly an explanation for how his father could abandon him to the care of his mother, who was mentally unwell. Flip is also on a mission, to say goodbye to his son, as well as finally learn to make his favorite bialy.

Schaffer’s lively writing and sense of humor (often black) keep Life, Death &andamp; Bialys from becoming maudlin. But the second half of the book bogs down when he abandons the framing device of the baking class and focuses almost entirely on the psychological underpinnings of his relationship with his parents. Most of the classmates so colorfully described in the beginning of the book, as well as the baking instruction, are pushed to the back burner as Dylan’s anger and barbed wit take over. Although uncomfortable to read at times, this is a book that offers a realistic glimpse at coming to terms with a parent’s death. Lisa Waddle is a pastry baker in Nashville who knows her bialys from her bagels.

Dylan Schaffer knows how to hook a reader. Not really a surprise, given that his previous two books were mysteries. But his latest book, Life, Death &andamp; Bialys: A Father/Son Baking Story, is a departure from the legal thriller genre; it is instead a memoir…
Review by

“American Woman Weds Man She Shot” is an irresistible newspaper headline from 1932 about Alice de Janzé, the Chicago heiress who married second husband Raymund de Trafford after previously shooting him in a crime of passion. A member of the decadent Happy Valley crowd in Kenya, de Janzé lived a life of privilege and bad behavior. But was she capable of murder?

Paul Spicer’s The Temptress seeks to answer this question by reopening the case of Joss Hay, Lord Erroll, whose 1941 murder in Kenya has never been solved. Readers may remember Erroll as Lady Idina Sackville’s third husband from Frances Osborne’s The Bolter, the dramatic story of Sackville’s louche life in Happy Valley. While unhappy husbands, spurned mistresses and even Britain’s secret MI6 service are all potential candidates for Erroll’s murder, Spicer builds a case against the mentally unstable de Janzé, one of Erroll’s former lovers.

Spicer is uniquely situated to tell this story, as his mother had been a friend of de Janzé’s in Kenya in the 1920s. The book, however, works better as true-crime than it does as biography. Spicer’s case against de Janzé, while compelling, is hardly airtight: The narrative doesn’t tell us much about the actual relationship between de Janzé and Erroll, and Spicer relies too often on speculation. The second half of The Temptress is much more exciting than the first, as Spicer dives into the court records surrounding Erroll’s murder.

Nonetheless, it’s hard to get Alice de Janzé wrong: Any woman who travels to Paris from Kenya accompanied by a lion and a baboon offers a delectable subject for biography. Readers of The Bolter will happily snap this book up for more of the same scandalous behavior.

“American Woman Weds Man She Shot” is an irresistible newspaper headline from 1932 about Alice de Janzé, the Chicago heiress who married second husband Raymund de Trafford after previously shooting him in a crime of passion. A member of the decadent Happy Valley crowd in…

Review by

It can’t be easy to be the daughter of a legend, with all the pressure and scrutiny that entails. On the other hand, you can gain a certain kind of instant cred if you enter the music business and your dad is Johnny Cash. All things considered, Rosanne Cash seems to have managed a balancing act that allowed for a legitimate singing career and also an interesting, sophisticated and full personal life.

In Composed, Cash recounts her life, which (at 55) is hardly near its end, though in pop music today she is considered something of an elder stateswoman—a respected artist who in her day carved out a comfortable niche in country crossover and continued to keep the Cash name front and center even as her dad was in decline.

As Cash makes clear, she was really a child of the Beatles, and growing up mainly in California, she was shaped by her parents’ divorce. Later, she claimed her birthright as the writing/performing daughter of the iconic Cash, though one gets the feeling here that Rosanne was more seduced by the biz and available opportunity than driven by the inspiration of a committed artist. She wrote and sang hits, recorded good albums, got married and divorced, had children, and in later years assumed a matriarchal presence as kith and kin died off, especially her father and his wife, June Carter Cash.

Cash includes the text of her eulogies for both here, and she proves to be a sensitive and more than competent prose stylist in the general coverage of her privileged life. She also indulges a strange predilection for describing her clothing, invoking such names as Prada and Yohji Yamamoto. That kind of attention to superficial detail seems out of place for a woman who appears so intent on being taken seriously, but perhaps fashionistas will relate.

Cash doesn’t hang her hat in laid-back Nashville. Both Los Angeles and New York City have been her most comfortable stomping grounds for years, and her current life in Gotham is more textured and intellectual than Music City could probably offer her. She has had some recent physical travails (including brain surgery in 2007) but is ever rebounding, and Composed serves as testament to a thoughtful lady who traveled country roads to arrive at big-city peace of mind.

 

It can’t be easy to be the daughter of a legend, with all the pressure and scrutiny that entails. On the other hand, you can gain a certain kind of instant cred if you enter the music business and your dad is Johnny Cash. All…

Review by

For a time before the Civil War, Reuben Hyde Walworth was one of the most powerful men in the United States. He held the odd, now-defunct legal position of Chancellor of New York, which, according to Geoffrey O’Brien, essentially gave him sole authority over the disposition of wills, settling of disputed contracts and adjudication of property rights. Such was Walworth’s power that litigants frequently made the journey from New York City to Saratoga Springs, where the Chancellor had constructed a courtroom in his mansion.

When his first wife died, the 62-year-old Chancellor courted and then married 39-year-old Sarah Hardin of Kentucky, a well-connected cousin of Mary Todd Lincoln. Several years later, Sarah’s daughter Ellen married the Chancellor’s son Mansfield. It was a marriage made in hell. Mansfield, snotty and self-absorbed, concocted grandiose schemes and wrote lurid potboiler novels that enjoyed small success. Ellen maintained appearances and endured. But after years of abuse and separations, she filed for divorce. Mansfield moved to New York City and penned increasingly violent threats to his ex-wife, many of which were intercepted by their oldest son, Frank. In June 1873, 19-year-old Frank took the train to NYC to confront his father and ended up shooting Mansfield to death. This patricide and Frank’s subsequent trial riveted the public.

In O’Brien’s well-researched account, the focus is less on the details of the murder and the trial than on the Walworth family saga and the family’s place in a tumultuous era of American history. Probably because the historical records are spotty in places—and because O’Brien is too scrupulous to speculate—a number of questions are left unanswered: Was the family possessed of a streak of insanity? What was the impact of family members’ conversion to Catholicism in a country that still possessed virulent strains of anti-Catholicism? Like so many questions about the past, these may simply be unanswerable.

But two things are certain. First, it is in the end a very sad family saga. And second, Ellen somehow managed to keep the family functioning. In later life she blossomed into an extraordinary individual. In fact, so compelling a figure does she become that she probably deserves a book all her own.

 

For a time before the Civil War, Reuben Hyde Walworth was one of the most powerful men in the United States. He held the odd, now-defunct legal position of Chancellor of New York, which, according to Geoffrey O’Brien, essentially gave him sole authority over the…

Review by

In the United States, we say that someone is “as rich as Rockefeller.” Cubans, even today, say someone is “as rich as Julio Lobo.” It’s their folk memory of a sugar-industry magnate who died in sad exile in Madrid in 1983, but endures as a symbol of his country’s pre-Castro highs and lows.

Lobo, who was worth $200 million in 1960 currency before he lost almost everything to the Revolution’s confiscation, dominated the sugar market. Che Guevara asked Lobo, known for his honesty in a corrupt culture, to stay in Cuba to run the sugar industry as a top bureaucrat; Lobo, a loner and a natural risk-taker, fled the country the next day with a single suitcase rather than comply.

British journalist John Paul Rathbone is ideally suited to write The Sugar King of Havana, a colorful, even-handed account of Lobo and his Cuba. Rathbone’s mother is a Cuban exile who grew up in Lobo’s upper-class Havana circle and was a friend of his younger daughter. His book is really a dual biography, of Lobo and of his own interesting, lively Cuban family.

Rathbone is able to see with both sympathy and detachment the two sides in the never-ending conflict between those Cubans who believe Castro’s dictatorship destroyed a paradise and those who believe the Revolution brought education, health care and independence to a country strangled by American economic imperialism. He argues that both views are distortions of real-life complexities.

On one point, Rathbone is unflinching: Today’s Havana is dismal and repressed compared to the vibrant, sophisticated city that was Lobo’s home, and that still lives in the pages of The Sugar King of Havana.
 

In the United States, we say that someone is “as rich as Rockefeller.” Cubans, even today, say someone is “as rich as Julio Lobo.” It’s their folk memory of a sugar-industry magnate who died in sad exile in Madrid in 1983, but endures as a…

Review by

Women in Amy Boesky’s family die young, and they die specifically. The threat of ovarian cancer has hung over the heads of Amy and her two sisters for as long as they can remember. It killed their grandmother, their aunts, their great-aunts. The hallway of their childhood home was filled with the sepia photos of dead relatives, what Boesky calls her “ill-fated, all-female family tree.” All three young women have lived with a heightened timeline, urged by doctors to finish having babies and get preventive surgery by age 35.

The beauty of Boesky’s thoroughly compelling memoir is that she deals matter-of-factly with her horrible, random family inheritance and dwells not on pity but on the life that is lived even underneath its looming shadow. A literature professor, Boesky writes elegantly, almost poetically, about the year in her life during which she had her first child, her sister lost one daughter and gave birth to another, and her mother was diagnosed with cancer (in a cruel twist, it’s not ovarian cancer).

Boesky perfectly captures the prickly, competitive, always loving way she and her sisters cope with their own genetic code and their mother’s illness. They are not above gallows humor (they call their mother’s chemotherapy drug F-U) and the occasional neurotic lapse, sure that any lump or bump is a sign of doom. As satisfying as any novel, What We Have is about coming to terms with the fact that living life means facing down time.

Women in Amy Boesky’s family die young, and they die specifically. The threat of ovarian cancer has hung over the heads of Amy and her two sisters for as long as they can remember. It killed their grandmother, their aunts, their great-aunts. The hallway of…

Review by

Murder-mystery fans would kill for entry to the Vidocq Society, the Philadelphia-based crime-probing organization Michael Capuzzo describes in The Murder Room. Imagine the thrill of being in the same room with some of the world’s most resourceful detectives, coroners, profilers, polygraph experts and forensic artists when they’re presented details of a particularly perplexing homicide and challenged to put their formidable minds to solving it.

The society, which takes its name from pioneering French detective Eugene Francois Vidocq, was established in 1990 by former Philadelphia cop and FBI agent William Fleisher, self-taught forensic artist Frank Bender and psychologist/profiler Richard Walter. Strictly an advisory group to law enforcement agencies, the society had consulted on more than 300 cases by 2009, Capuzzo reports, and solved 90 percent of them.

Rather than present a dry chronological narrative, Capuzzo tells his story on three interlocking and time-shifting levels—the murders at issue, the society as both a professional and a social organization and its three colorful founders. Fleisher emerges as the genial but relentless father figure who holds the society together; Bender is the intuitive (he might say psychic), bohemian artist; Walter is the chain-smoking cynic who anatomizes the criminal mind but never romanticizes it.

The murders cited are truly horrifying. Among the grisliest is the “boy in the box” murder from 1957 that united and still haunts the three principals. Capuzzo recounts several such crimes and their resolutions with panache, always seeming to be at the investigators’ elbows as they slog through to victory. But what he fails to clarify is which details he’s actually witnessed, which he’s been told about and which he merely surmises.

As the book went to press, Bender was suffering from a terminal case of pleural mesothelioma, which, the acerbic Walter observed, might just be another of his flamboyant friend’s bids for attention. If there’s not a movie in the works about this charmed circle of cold-casers, someone is missing the boat.

 

Murder-mystery fans would kill for entry to the Vidocq Society, the Philadelphia-based crime-probing organization Michael Capuzzo describes in The Murder Room. Imagine the thrill of being in the same room with some of the world’s most resourceful detectives, coroners, profilers, polygraph experts and forensic artists…

Sign Up

Stay on top of new releases: Sign up for our newsletter to receive reading recommendations in your favorite genres.

Trending Features