The Butter Did It: A Gastronomic Tale of Love and Murder (Chas Wheatley Mysteries) 
asked by benzdrives on November 21, 2006 10:38 PM
Here's a mystery guaranteed to make you hungry--for the salmon-filled pasta squares that Chef Laurence Levain sells for $20 a pop at his Washington, D.C. restaurant, for the salad of curly chicory and thick chunks of country bacon that first brings Levain and American food critic Chas (for Charlotte Sue) Wheatley together in Paris, for the warm polenta salad and pan-fried three-meat dumplings served at the CityTastes benefit the night that Levain is found dead of an apparent heart attack and Chas--his lover--has to write his obituary. Washington Post restaurant critic Phyllis Richman certainly knows her food, and her skill at keeping a lively mystery plot simmering is almost as impressive.
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Oh, I just love Chas and all her foiables. She is a delight to get to know along with all the other quirky characters she comes in contact with. Love the descriptions of the dinners she partakes of as a food critic. Yum!! This is a fun romp of a murder mystery with a great twist.
reviewed by vcedwards on November 25, 2006 12:28 AM
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Listen my children and you shall hear ...
... the morning munch of a mangia mystery (following boisterous stomach rumblings).
Join me in a gourmet walkabout. I'm hedging through a garden LABYRINTH, lush with the steaming aroma of freshly buttered, almond scones; set with a collection of Italian demitasse cups of bravo-bean espresso, and whatever your stomach growls for.
The Key for this labyrinth is in Phyllis Richman's THE BUTTER DID IT, the Haut Cuisine of the culinary mystery genre.
But, wait. Go slowly. The path to the key should be more yummy than the fait accompli...
Davidson-type culinaries had always offered an effortless gateway to Goldy's world. Maybe it was my simple background causing affinity with mysteries in which the protagonist communes with friends and family, and works out her problems around lush descriptions of food preparation processes in her gourmet kitchen.
I grew up in THE MALT SHOP, a Colorado small-town restaurant (complete with ice creme fountain), Bus Depot, and Bakery owned by my mother and her two sister's. The fountain area had a long counter of green-marbled linoleum, accompanied by a collection of red-vinyl-topped stools, upon which customers could spin fast circles, and which were bolted to the floor to prevent unplanned flights into the oak-framed, glassed-front bakery cases behind the string of elevated seat tops. Sitting atop one of these stools, a customer saw his image inside a 12' X 20' heavy mirror. Also reflected were sage-green, ceramic milk-shake-mixers and a red-trimmed, silver-tin-can of pure, powdered Malt.
Oh yes. The classic scene. And I lived there. Home was a green-marbled counter-top accompanied by spinning red-stool seats.
After graduating college, and moving to Portland, Oregon with my first husband, I had been given a treasured birthday gift from my mother-in-law, who was a lovely woman named Hope. She paid for a one-evening Julia Child cooking seminar held at a Kitchen Kaboodle in Beaverton. Seated on comfy stools surrounding the teaching kitchen, seminar participants watched an exquisite, full dinner meal plus dessert being conjured by Julia, an extravaganza which was served at the culmination of the high entertainment of Julia at work with her special brand of culinary magic.
If you're like me and you must know, she seared, then roasted a pork loin in a super hot, fast oven, finishing the saliva surging meat within a half-hour, transforming it into a dark, toasty, thick crust containing a juice-dripping, blushing-pink core ...
Possibly these experiences conditioned me for a particular craving of mysteries featuring plot-active chefs as investigators, or some variation on that theme of using food preparation as part of the sensual appeal in the novel.
There is a major difference in a reading mood between visceral sensual appeal, based from the stomach and intestines, and cerebral pun/wit appeal, or other appeals based in the cranium or in the other senses. This may be why I've been pushed to look for more of Davidson's Goldy Schulz. And, now, most definitely I'll drool for more of Richman's Chas Wheatley.
I've found that many cozies on the culinary bandwagon don't cater an over abundance of food flavor fun, using word-space to work them sagely into the plot. Once I realized that Richman and Davidson were the main authors who impregnated plot with detailed chewing and cooking, I was freed to enjoy other offerings in this tasty side-genre, relishing the alternate "flavors" they provided to munch on or labyrinth through.
So far, Phyllis Richman's offerings are my favorite food flavor fix; THE BUTTER DID IT has risen to the top.
What captured me (with a huge sense of relief), beyond the fantastic food futzing, was the adult appeal. The Butter wasn't X-Rated, except for surging desire for the flavor, a pleasure which has been turned almost criminal. It featured adult professionals working with adult problems in The World. Instead of being habitually fed adolescent angst and family abuse, I was given professional machinations to chew on, situations to which the forever adolescent within me might aspire, and in the process have hormonal angst shoved into healthy accomplishment in the grown up (sort of) world. I mean, look at Davidson's Julian; he's making that transition.
And, who wouldn't want (in fact or fiction) to be a restaurant reviewer in a politically posh East Coast City? Would it be torture to have a newspaper editor sign expense slips for meals tabbing up several hundred dollars each, including beverages and companions? Well, yes, as Chas dramatizes, being paid well to eat regularly a la gourmet does have its drawbacks. But, in fiction, one gets the flavor, minus reality's tragic downside (gravity). Ah, the essence of escape fiction. Such a deal! You bet!
But, did the Butter do it? Did cholesterol kill the chef with a heart condition? Precisely what did kill him, and how does that relate to the current conundrum of butter bashing?
Apologizing to the near religious pitch on global cholesterol phobia, I confess. I'm not afraid of butter. Without reservation, I love it. Forget the plastic puke in phony parodies.
Not only do I love butter; I need it for brain function. Someday we'll be reading about butter as a cure for crime. I kid you not. Casting off pseudo, Science is already jumping on the newly-painted, gloriously-gutsy gypsy wagon with brightly-colored signs:
"The brain is 90% cholesterol; it's a GOOD thing. It runs the nervous system. We in the scientific community made a mistake in interpreting the purpose of its overwhelming presence around heart problems. The cholesterol surge was actually the body's do-it-now patchwork-cure, a temporary fix until the soul could break through and begin its habit of making clearer choices for taste, on a quick, minute-by-minute basis."
(The soul's inclusion in the signs was my insert. The scientific explanation of the "until" part hasn't reached the source yet. It has distance-to-go along Quantum Mechanics Avenue.)
Truth slips out in the end, sometimes only after the slithering snot of viral viscera has had it's say.
Read THE BUTTER DID IT. Pick up the tiny clue that I'm not the only one who knew that cholesterol phobia had to be an oops due to scientific method slipping on a banana peel.
It's likely that many culinary mystery authors sense this truth. The soul craves flavor for a reason. It drives the body and it needs its treats. Learning how, what, and when to treat is the question.
I'm headed to hedge my health. I had my Ultimate Omelet this morning ("this" was in 2002 when my notes were written on this novel). Now my soul needs a Double Quarter Pounder with Cheese. Maybe I'll have a diet Coke. First, though, I'll drink a glass of sparkling water.
Also back in my 2002 I picked up Joanne Pence's BELL, COOK AND CANDLE. I've reviewed several of that series in 2005, and made a Listmania (dates for my raves are posted there) on this Angie collection with book 13 coming in February 2006, 14 in progress.
Pence's Amalfi series has become my favorite in the mystery genre, especially since she's still cooking! She may also hold a Key (Richman's Butter holds the Master Key for food flavor focus) to the design of this labyrinth, but I don't want spoil the fun of figuring out why. Her novels have a well-balanced complexity, a bit of everything, including a richly balsamic smattering of gourmet taste touches, all minus seasonal chaos or treat clashing to spoil the broth.
That said, I no longer cringe when I say, Bon Appetite!
Linda Shelnutt
... the morning munch of a mangia mystery (following boisterous stomach rumblings).
Join me in a gourmet walkabout. I'm hedging through a garden LABYRINTH, lush with the steaming aroma of freshly buttered, almond scones; set with a collection of Italian demitasse cups of bravo-bean espresso, and whatever your stomach growls for.
The Key for this labyrinth is in Phyllis Richman's THE BUTTER DID IT, the Haut Cuisine of the culinary mystery genre.
But, wait. Go slowly. The path to the key should be more yummy than the fait accompli...
Davidson-type culinaries had always offered an effortless gateway to Goldy's world. Maybe it was my simple background causing affinity with mysteries in which the protagonist communes with friends and family, and works out her problems around lush descriptions of food preparation processes in her gourmet kitchen.
I grew up in THE MALT SHOP, a Colorado small-town restaurant (complete with ice creme fountain), Bus Depot, and Bakery owned by my mother and her two sister's. The fountain area had a long counter of green-marbled linoleum, accompanied by a collection of red-vinyl-topped stools, upon which customers could spin fast circles, and which were bolted to the floor to prevent unplanned flights into the oak-framed, glassed-front bakery cases behind the string of elevated seat tops. Sitting atop one of these stools, a customer saw his image inside a 12' X 20' heavy mirror. Also reflected were sage-green, ceramic milk-shake-mixers and a red-trimmed, silver-tin-can of pure, powdered Malt.
Oh yes. The classic scene. And I lived there. Home was a green-marbled counter-top accompanied by spinning red-stool seats.
After graduating college, and moving to Portland, Oregon with my first husband, I had been given a treasured birthday gift from my mother-in-law, who was a lovely woman named Hope. She paid for a one-evening Julia Child cooking seminar held at a Kitchen Kaboodle in Beaverton. Seated on comfy stools surrounding the teaching kitchen, seminar participants watched an exquisite, full dinner meal plus dessert being conjured by Julia, an extravaganza which was served at the culmination of the high entertainment of Julia at work with her special brand of culinary magic.
If you're like me and you must know, she seared, then roasted a pork loin in a super hot, fast oven, finishing the saliva surging meat within a half-hour, transforming it into a dark, toasty, thick crust containing a juice-dripping, blushing-pink core ...
Possibly these experiences conditioned me for a particular craving of mysteries featuring plot-active chefs as investigators, or some variation on that theme of using food preparation as part of the sensual appeal in the novel.
There is a major difference in a reading mood between visceral sensual appeal, based from the stomach and intestines, and cerebral pun/wit appeal, or other appeals based in the cranium or in the other senses. This may be why I've been pushed to look for more of Davidson's Goldy Schulz. And, now, most definitely I'll drool for more of Richman's Chas Wheatley.
I've found that many cozies on the culinary bandwagon don't cater an over abundance of food flavor fun, using word-space to work them sagely into the plot. Once I realized that Richman and Davidson were the main authors who impregnated plot with detailed chewing and cooking, I was freed to enjoy other offerings in this tasty side-genre, relishing the alternate "flavors" they provided to munch on or labyrinth through.
So far, Phyllis Richman's offerings are my favorite food flavor fix; THE BUTTER DID IT has risen to the top.
What captured me (with a huge sense of relief), beyond the fantastic food futzing, was the adult appeal. The Butter wasn't X-Rated, except for surging desire for the flavor, a pleasure which has been turned almost criminal. It featured adult professionals working with adult problems in The World. Instead of being habitually fed adolescent angst and family abuse, I was given professional machinations to chew on, situations to which the forever adolescent within me might aspire, and in the process have hormonal angst shoved into healthy accomplishment in the grown up (sort of) world. I mean, look at Davidson's Julian; he's making that transition.
And, who wouldn't want (in fact or fiction) to be a restaurant reviewer in a politically posh East Coast City? Would it be torture to have a newspaper editor sign expense slips for meals tabbing up several hundred dollars each, including beverages and companions? Well, yes, as Chas dramatizes, being paid well to eat regularly a la gourmet does have its drawbacks. But, in fiction, one gets the flavor, minus reality's tragic downside (gravity). Ah, the essence of escape fiction. Such a deal! You bet!
But, did the Butter do it? Did cholesterol kill the chef with a heart condition? Precisely what did kill him, and how does that relate to the current conundrum of butter bashing?
Apologizing to the near religious pitch on global cholesterol phobia, I confess. I'm not afraid of butter. Without reservation, I love it. Forget the plastic puke in phony parodies.
Not only do I love butter; I need it for brain function. Someday we'll be reading about butter as a cure for crime. I kid you not. Casting off pseudo, Science is already jumping on the newly-painted, gloriously-gutsy gypsy wagon with brightly-colored signs:
"The brain is 90% cholesterol; it's a GOOD thing. It runs the nervous system. We in the scientific community made a mistake in interpreting the purpose of its overwhelming presence around heart problems. The cholesterol surge was actually the body's do-it-now patchwork-cure, a temporary fix until the soul could break through and begin its habit of making clearer choices for taste, on a quick, minute-by-minute basis."
(The soul's inclusion in the signs was my insert. The scientific explanation of the "until" part hasn't reached the source yet. It has distance-to-go along Quantum Mechanics Avenue.)
Truth slips out in the end, sometimes only after the slithering snot of viral viscera has had it's say.
Read THE BUTTER DID IT. Pick up the tiny clue that I'm not the only one who knew that cholesterol phobia had to be an oops due to scientific method slipping on a banana peel.
It's likely that many culinary mystery authors sense this truth. The soul craves flavor for a reason. It drives the body and it needs its treats. Learning how, what, and when to treat is the question.
I'm headed to hedge my health. I had my Ultimate Omelet this morning ("this" was in 2002 when my notes were written on this novel). Now my soul needs a Double Quarter Pounder with Cheese. Maybe I'll have a diet Coke. First, though, I'll drink a glass of sparkling water.
Also back in my 2002 I picked up Joanne Pence's BELL, COOK AND CANDLE. I've reviewed several of that series in 2005, and made a Listmania (dates for my raves are posted there) on this Angie collection with book 13 coming in February 2006, 14 in progress.
Pence's Amalfi series has become my favorite in the mystery genre, especially since she's still cooking! She may also hold a Key (Richman's Butter holds the Master Key for food flavor focus) to the design of this labyrinth, but I don't want spoil the fun of figuring out why. Her novels have a well-balanced complexity, a bit of everything, including a richly balsamic smattering of gourmet taste touches, all minus seasonal chaos or treat clashing to spoil the broth.
That said, I no longer cringe when I say, Bon Appetite!
Linda Shelnutt
reviewed by anexpert on November 29, 2006 1:50 AM