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Isn’t It
Romantic by Ron Hansen Rating: ••• (Recommended) |
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Franco-American Treats Ron Hansen continues to display his
versatility and well-developed writing skills in his latest book, Isn’t It
Romantic. Unlike the seriousness of Hansen’s earlier books, there are
scenes in Isn’t It
Romantic that will have readers laughing out loud. Written well in
advance of the current tension in French-American relations, the arrival of
French visitors to a small town in Midwestern America creates the right scene
for wet and wild humor, and a well-told romance. Here’s an excerpt (pp. 42-49) of a scene
where Nebraska garage mechanic and vintner, Owen, takes Pierre, heir to a
fine French winery, on a tasting tour of Owen’s best offering: Hanging from the fluorescent ceiling light was a
sign that read, HUSKER FOOTBALL SPOKEN HERE. Owen lifted off some cash
receipts that were stabbed onto an upended wooden block with a ten-penny nail
pounded through it. He got serious for a few seconds as he effected
arithmetic, then he shoved them inside the cash register, saying, "When
I'm hither and yon, I'll let folks fill up on their own and leave me IOUs. We
have that kind of town." Next to the video tapes was a door marked Private
and he motioned for Pierre to follow him as he sidestepped to it through the
high walls of clutter. With his hand on the doorknob, Owen stopped and peered
at Pierre solemnly. "You gotta say, 'Go Big Red.'" Pierre just stared at him. "It's what we say in honor of our four-time
national champs. You try it now: 'Go Big Red!'" Pierre, just mimicking, said, "Go beeg
uhr-red." "Now say, 'What game you watching, ref?'"
But Owen laughed and the door gave way to a bungalow attached to the gas station. The
front room seemed furnished wholly in red blankets, bleacher cushions,
jackets, banners, pens, glassware, and framed posters of the Nebraska
Cornhuskers. Even the lamps and red telephone were particular to the team.
Owen heaved his sizeable self down on his blanketed sofa and with fresh eyes
surveyed the magnificence of what he had created there. "I just wish I
could be looking at all this like you are now. I'm kinda jaded after all
these years. There's fancy touches I hardly see anymore. And the thrill of a perfectly
unified interior motif isn't there like it once was." Pierre was in scan mode and unsure of his emotions. "C'est
de'gueulasse," he said. (It's disgusting.) Owen got up and went to a bookcase that held his
many tomes on wine as well as Husker memorabilia and annuals that went back
to the days when Bob Devaney so brilliantly coached. "What 'd you say
your surname was?" Hearing nothing from Pierre, he asked. "Pierre .
. . what?" "Smith,"
Pierre said. "Are you funning me, Pete?" "It is that we are British on my father's
side." Owen frowned like a welfare worker. "Was that a
burden when you were a boy? " Pierre shrugged and did that puffy French thing with
his mouth. "They could not pronounce. I was called Smeet." Owen
seemed to get the shivers. And then he hunted up the Smith name in his
vintner's directories as Pierre fascinatedly wandered about the bungalow,
examining the Husker
paraphernalia. Wallpaper borders
bore the Nebraska Cornhusker
logo. A dining room sideboard was filled with Husker dishware and glassware
and steins. A signed picture of Doctor Tom Osborne hung there like a
household saint. The bathroom was painted red. Pierre switched on the light
and heard the Husker theme song of “There is no place like
Nebraska" harangue him from the overhead vent before he hurriedly
switched it off. A sponge finger gesturing that the team was #1 was on the
commode's flush handle and the seat cover was furred in red. Pierre
hesitantly lifted it like someone fearing the worst in a horror movie. There
was no blood, no floating head. Owen went to another book. "Here we are. Pierre
Smith, neego-see-ant." Walking out of the bathroom, Pierre corrected his
pronunciation: "Negociant." "Why, for goodness sakes, you're the WalMart of
wines over there!" "But no. That is my big father." "Your beeg fahzer? Oh, your grandfather! But
you're inheriting the business, right? "Peut-etre," (Perhaps.) Owen
was all but overtaken by delirious joy. "You could not know this, but
it's been my life's work and my great big impossible dream to someday
chaperone my wines into the loving embrace of a fancy wine importer, and lo
and behold from out of the blue comes waltzing into my life the MVP of the
wholesale market!" "Yes?" Owen put a Budweiser football schedule marker at his
name and solemnly placed the directory in his bookcase. With wet eyes he
said, "I have a feeling of reverence about this occasion. I mean, what
are the odds of meeting you here, now, without a handy boost from good ol’
divine providence? You represent my ship coming in, Mon-sir Pierre Smith. And
me? I represent the flat-out best new wine you'll ever taste." Pierre registered that with great disbelief, and a
feeling of What-else-can-go-wrong? "You are makings the wines?" "Absolutely!" "Here?" "You bet!" Pierre pointed to the floor. "In Nebraska~ Owen
crooked his finger in a hithering gesture and hustled out back through the
kitchen and screen door to the yard while getting out his padlock key. Pierre
hesitantly followed. Owen called behind him, "Experimented with sixty
percent cabernet sauvignon grape and about thirty percent merlot, plus some
cabernet franc and malbec to keep it true to the soft and fruity Bordelaise
style." He unlocked a padlock to a root cellar whose doors were aslant
at his feet. "But what I happened on by sheer accident was the petit
verdot grape, which doesn't yield all that much so it's not commercially
viable, but you add about five percent of that to the mix and you get
surprising depth of character and a rich, reddish-black color in an otherwise
fragile wine." Pierre understood just enough to be speechless. Owen heaved up the cellar doors and paused.
"Say, 'Go Big Red!"' Pierre began, "Go . . ." but Owen
elbowed him. "I was just joshing ya." He let the doors bang wide,
scattering indignant insects whose only home is the grass. "My reds are
big, I'll grant you," he said, "but they're also surprisingly
complex, with just a hint of black currant and a strong, durable
finish." Owen and Pierre rumbled down the wooden steps to an
underground root cellar that held tall racks of hundreds of bottled wines.
Owen screwed an overhead sixty-watt light-bulb tight to illuminate the
cellar, and Pierre considered his precise arrangements and his orderly tools
and charts. At least here Owen was perfectly organized. Pierre
asked, "Tous ces vins. . . . Yours?" Owen nodded. "You want a taste?" Pierre shrugged noncommittally, like a high school
kid trying to be cool. And then curiosity carried the day and he said,
"Okay." Owen went to a rack, got out a high-shouldered bottle,
and proudly held it up to Pierre. "Big Red, that's our brand name. And
see here on the label? Miss in boo-telly ow chat-o." Pierre corrected, "Mise en bouteille
au chateau. "Means I make it right here. And on the flip
side," Owen said, delicately giving it a half revolution, "the
complete Husker football scores for that vintage." "I'll
just open her up. Well, not that one." Owen got another. "Here we
go." Owen uncorked the wine with great effort and gently decanted it
over a candle flame while saying, "Maybe you and me could get some kind
of deal going. I mean, I didn't just fall off the turnip truck. Who's going
to take a red wine serious if it comes from Nebraska? We aren't especially
known for our viticulture here, and you have to go clear to Omaha to find a
good oenologist. But if you were to put your name on the label or just
represented it some way, you could get my lovely darlings the admiration I
personally think they deserve." Owen handed him a half-filled, red
plastic cup. "At least those are my main bullet points. You can take the
agenda any way you want from here." Pierre suspiciously assessed the aroma of the
purplish wine. "Ce nest pas du vin, c'est
du sarcasme," (This isn't wine, it's sarcasm.) "Don't judge that pretty miss too quick now.
You gotta give the shy ones a second or two to introduce themselves." Pierre sniffed again. "C'est charmant.
D'une maniere brouillonne.” (Charming. In a slovenly
way.) Owen assumed praise. "You don't know how it
pleases me to hear you say that. All my friends think my reds are real tasty,
but you, you've got a highly trained palate and an Old World discrimination
that's woefully lacking in these climes." Hopelessly, Pierre drank as if to debase himself, as
if he were quaffing Sterno. He was prepared to wince, and his hand shot to
his mouth as he forced a swallow, but then he just stared ahead, wide-eyed
and mystified, for the finish of the wine was excellent, wholly unlike the
poison he'd expected. "She has changed clothes!" he said. "Oh, much better than that," Owen said,
smiling. "She's shucked them off, and she is sheer beauty." "Mais oui,” he said, "it's so!" Owen
swished the wine from side to side in his mouth with a milk churning sound
and then let it ooze down his throat. "A hint of cherries and green
cigar in this one, isn't there?" "lly a quelque chose." (There is
something.) "The secret's the water. All my grapevines are
fed from Frenchman's Creek. We got our own little microclimate along those
ruddy banks." Pierre sipped again, evaluated, and offered flatly, "C'est
bon." (It's good.) "Music to my ears," Owen said. After finishing his plastic cup, Pierre handed it to
Owen for more. Owen got down another bottle of Big Red and grinned
as he examined its vintage. "We beat Florida State in the Orange Bowl this year." We can all find love in some of the
strangest places, and it’s worth taking a dip into Frenchman’s Creek’s magic
waters as you read Isn’t It
Romantic. Steve Hopkins, March 25, 2003 |
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ã 2003 Hopkins and Company, LLC The
recommendation rating for this book appeared in the April 2003
issue of Executive
Times URL
for this review: http://www.hopkinsandcompany.com/Books/Isn't
It Romantic.htm For
Reprint Permission, Contact: Hopkins
& Company, LLC • 723 North Kenilworth Avenue • Oak Park, IL 60302 E-mail: books@hopkinsandcompany.com |
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