While reading Peter Mayle's latest book, Encore Provence, I stumbled across the following passage that described Mayle's search for the perfect corkscrew. I thought a few of you might appreciate it:
'Laguiole is a small, pleasant town, and there is no doubt about its principal business. On the main street alone, there must be a dozen display windows bristling with knives: the classic pocket knife, the shepherd's friend (with an evil-looking spike at one end), dainty handbag-sized models for the modern woman (What would she do with an accessory knife? Emergency manicures? Opening love letters? Puncturing a gentelman's reputation?) The variety of handles was astonishing -- horn, rosewood, box, ebony, olive, and several woods I'd never heard of, like amourette, bois de serpent, and cocobolo. A knife fancier's paradise.'
'The industry started with Pierre-Jean Calmels, who made the first Laguiole knife in 1829, and the shop in the main street bearing the family name seemed a likely place to find my corkscrew. Looking at the display cases, I saw knives and nothing but knives. And so I asked the woman behind the counter if she could show me such a thing as a corkscrew. This led to one of those French moments that every visitor experiences sooner or later when revealing an ignorance of local traditions or protocol. Disdain, first expressed by the eyebrows, then by a sigh, and finally by the tone of voice. "Corkscrews?" the woman said. "No. We make knives." She turned away to another customer, an elderly lady who was fingering a set of steak knives, testing their sharpness on the ball of her thumb. Finally, she made the decision to buy, nodded to herself, and justified the purchase: "Now I can give them cheaper meat," she said.'
'Chastened but determined, I went down the street, and found not only a corkscrew but something I could never have imagined: a knife with its own permanent and highly evocative aroma. This comes from the handle, a piece of wild Pronvencal juniper, a very fine-grained wood the color of dark honey. When rubbed by the fingers, it gives off the clean, strong scent of juniper and the garrigue. Close your eyes, said the salesman, and sniff. You could be in the mountains. Not only that, he added. This knife offers some unusual protective advantages too. Because juniper wood is a natural insect repellent, the pocket in which you keep your knife will stay forever free of moths, scorpions, or infestation by ants. That, I thought, is the kind of guarantee to give a man confidence as he makes his way through an insect-riden world. Never again would I need to worry about termites in my trousers.'
This intantly became one of my favorite knife-related passages, ranking right up there with the "vorpal sword" of Jabberwocky fame. Has anyone else come across knife talk in unexpected literary sources?
'Laguiole is a small, pleasant town, and there is no doubt about its principal business. On the main street alone, there must be a dozen display windows bristling with knives: the classic pocket knife, the shepherd's friend (with an evil-looking spike at one end), dainty handbag-sized models for the modern woman (What would she do with an accessory knife? Emergency manicures? Opening love letters? Puncturing a gentelman's reputation?) The variety of handles was astonishing -- horn, rosewood, box, ebony, olive, and several woods I'd never heard of, like amourette, bois de serpent, and cocobolo. A knife fancier's paradise.'
'The industry started with Pierre-Jean Calmels, who made the first Laguiole knife in 1829, and the shop in the main street bearing the family name seemed a likely place to find my corkscrew. Looking at the display cases, I saw knives and nothing but knives. And so I asked the woman behind the counter if she could show me such a thing as a corkscrew. This led to one of those French moments that every visitor experiences sooner or later when revealing an ignorance of local traditions or protocol. Disdain, first expressed by the eyebrows, then by a sigh, and finally by the tone of voice. "Corkscrews?" the woman said. "No. We make knives." She turned away to another customer, an elderly lady who was fingering a set of steak knives, testing their sharpness on the ball of her thumb. Finally, she made the decision to buy, nodded to herself, and justified the purchase: "Now I can give them cheaper meat," she said.'
'Chastened but determined, I went down the street, and found not only a corkscrew but something I could never have imagined: a knife with its own permanent and highly evocative aroma. This comes from the handle, a piece of wild Pronvencal juniper, a very fine-grained wood the color of dark honey. When rubbed by the fingers, it gives off the clean, strong scent of juniper and the garrigue. Close your eyes, said the salesman, and sniff. You could be in the mountains. Not only that, he added. This knife offers some unusual protective advantages too. Because juniper wood is a natural insect repellent, the pocket in which you keep your knife will stay forever free of moths, scorpions, or infestation by ants. That, I thought, is the kind of guarantee to give a man confidence as he makes his way through an insect-riden world. Never again would I need to worry about termites in my trousers.'
This intantly became one of my favorite knife-related passages, ranking right up there with the "vorpal sword" of Jabberwocky fame. Has anyone else come across knife talk in unexpected literary sources?
