Wells, the author of 10 accessible, never-intimidating cookbooks, has had the enviable life of residing in France since 1980 and serving as restaurant critic for the International Herald Tribune, where her husband, Walter, was a top editor until 2007. She's the only American to be a reviewer for the Parisian weekly L'Express, heady praise from the French.
Alas, if you suffer from Mayle malaise, the fatigue induced by reading yet another book about the discomforts of living in France launched in 1989 by Peter Mayle's A Year in Provence, then this book is not for you.
Even the Wellses' title, We've Always Had Paris . . . and Provence, is too precious for its own good. And this is a shame, and a wasted opportunity, because Patricia Wells, like her friend Ina Garten, has always seemed a homey, welcome guide without any of the hauteur that might come from her success.
Wells and her husband, who write in alternating sections, remain likable enough, but their seamless good luck does drone on. Unlike the entertaining Bill Bryson and Anthony Bourdain, they fail to tell engaging stories of interesting chefs, farmers and craftspeople, a crime in a country with such a rich history, exacting gastronomy, and enough characters to fuel Balzac.
Curiously, the Wellses have done the one thing I thought impossible: They've managed to make the French seem dull.
Really, does anyone want to hear about the problems of installing a new kitchen in an 18th-century farmhouse, especially one with a wood-fired oven? "I do know that being abandoned by a workman in the middle of a job is as crippling as being abandoned by a lover," Patricia Wells writes. "And it may be harder to find a replacement."
Get out the smallest violin, or cheese grater, in the world.
