I came across this old volume while cleaning out a crowded book shelf yesterday. Intrigued by the first line ("Southern political personalities, like sweet corn, travel badly."), I ambled on ahead for a few pages - and couldn't stop reading until the very last line on the last page ("As I send this manuscript to the publisher, the grass-eaters and the nuts have taken over the streets of New Orleans.") In between first and last lines are some of the most colorful, cold-blooded, hot-tempered, loud-mouthed Southern politicians you'd ever want to meet - described first-hand in 1959 by one of the wryest, dryest, most sardonic Yankee writers you'd ever want to read.

On the cover is a picture of Earl Long - governor of Louisiana in the 'fifties and brother of the legendary Huey ("Share the Wealth") Long who was assassinated at the State Capitol during the 1930s. Earl started out underrated ("wouldn't make a patch on Huey's pants") but grew in political power to the enrichment of his cronies - and ironically, to the benefit of the state's colored people. Earl Long - as governor - was able to hold off the most vicious attacks on African-Americans in Louisiana - which for a time was less oppressive than sister strongholds of racism like Mississippi.

On the back of my book - in shirt sleeves with a glass in hand - is a black-and-white photo of the chubby, bald A. J. Liebling who started covering the 1959 campaign just after the ranting Gov. Long was steered off the floor of the state legislature and physically forced into a car and driven to a Texas insane asylum, where he was signed in as mentally unsound by his own wife, Blanche. That event drew Liebling's attention - and inspired this wild, true tale of political double-dealing, deal-making, and cynical race-baiting. Liebling came to Louisiana curious about Earl Long - and left a grudging admirer of a man who could attack the rich while thinning out their wallets, condemn black people while giving them more state jobs, and rave like a lunatic while practicing shrewd, realistic political artistry.

The raw jokes, the Southern speech-patterns, the rural metaphors, the genuine ignorance and the feined ignorance, the rich cuisine, the heat - ever the blanketing heat - are captured quickly and perfectly. This book is for you if you like politics, H. L. Mencken, brilliant stump oratory, or American history. Obviously, I enjoyed it as much as - well, to steal a phrase from Uncle Earl - as much as a hog loves slop.

A.J. Liebling has insights into politics like very few other journalists -- and all of his keen observations are on parade in this landmark book. "The Earl of Louisiana," which was originally written as a series of dispatches for The New Yorker, is, first and foremost, a rollicking story. In addition to Governor Earl K. Long, Liebling paints wonderfully colorful portraits of a number of Louisiana's political denizens, including New Orleans Mayor Maurice Delessups, singing cowboy candidate Jimmie Davis and white supremacist scoundrel Willie Rainach. Liebling wades through the bizarre political culture of Louisiana, setting his penetrating eye on all manner of rallies, dinners and barroom jaunts where politics are discussed and dissected. Particularly entertaining is Liebling's voyage into the domain of the Old Regulars, a stalwart race-fixing organization, based in New Orleans. Over the course of his long career, Liebling produced some utterly remarkable journalism. Indeed, his writings on horse-race fixer Col. John R. Stingo in "The Honest Rainmaker," or French cuisine in "Between Meals," or on the vibrancy of Chicago in "Second City" are all classic works in the field of journalism. "The Earl of Louisiana" is at least the equal of any of those, and in many ways surpasses them.

Liebling covers the Louisiana gubernatorial campaign of 1959. Reporting on what turned out to be Earl Long's final run for governor, Liebling journeys from the taverns and restaurants of New Orleans to the small, rural parishes of Louisiana, providing hysterical anecdotes about Long and relatively unpatronizing local color. A brief book, but very amusing and highly reccomended.

The only reason this book is a "9" is because "10's" are reserved for the likes of Melville, Shakespeare, Bo Derek, et. al. This is a must for anyone who enjoys reading history. It is an account of World War II from the fall of Paris through the days when the U.S. entered the war and the tide began to turn. Fleeing Paris, Liebling treats the reader to a transatlantic trip aboard a Norwegian tanker and then back to the war in North Africa. Throughout Liebling maintains a witty, humane tone and devotes himself to accounts of day-to-day life among pilots, soldiers and citizens. Libling's writing is vivid and conveys to the reader a sense of "being there"

Sportswriting is generally shlock. But A.J. Liebling was no sportswriter. Perhaps the finest reporter ever, certainly one of The New Yorker's shining lights, Liebling wrote with equal grace on the swaggering cons of Broadway, his misspent youth in pre-war Paris, blood pooled in a landing craft off Omaha Beach, just about anything that caught his sharp eye and florid pen. And because Liebling wrote what he loved, he also wrote boxing. Whether he was at an obscure club fight or a marquee bout, Liebling never saw his subjects as muscled automata. His boxers were people, every fight a story, and the stories collected in the Sweet Science form a classic work of sport that no cigar-chewing sports hack ever tossed on a wire.

A.J. Liebling was a reporter's reporter. His motto was "I can write better than anyone who can write faster than me, and I can write faster than anyone who can write better than me." He covered the war in Africa and Europe among the dogfaces, and is also famous for his writings about boxing and French cuisine (he loved Paris and Normandy) after the war.

But I prefer his critiques of his own profession. After World War II, he revived a department in The New Yorker that was handled by Robert Benchley between 1927 and 1937 called "The Wayward Press." Most of the items in this book are from that column and have an autobiographical bent, at least with regard to his career as a writer for newspapers.

Besides being a terrific writer to begin with, Liebling was great at skewering the weaknesses of his own profession and colleagues. Many newspaper readers simply do not know how to read a newspaper critically -- analytically -- and the occasional datedness of Liebling's subject matter -- a meat shortage in 1946, for example -- is more than made up for by the instruction in how to be an astute consumer of news.

And he is eminently quotable. Some samples: "A newspaper gives the reader the impression of being closer to life than a book, and he is likely to confuse what he has read in it with actual experiences he has not had." The book's dedication reads: "To the Foundation of a School for Publishers, Failing Which, No School of Journalism Can Have Meaning."

"The great row over [so-and-so's story]...served to point up the truth that if you are smart enough you can kick yourself in the seat of the pants, grab yourself by the back of the collar, and throw yourself out on the sidewalk."

And finally: "Sometimes news disappears for years at a time, as in the period ... when there was nothing to write about but the Medicine Ball Cabinet and dance marathons. News is like the tilefish, which appears in great schools off the Atlantic Coast some years and then vanishes no one knows whither, or for how long. Newspapers might employ these periods in a search for the breeding grounds of news, but they prefer to fill up with stories about Kurdled Kurds and Calvin Coolidges, until the banks close or Hitler marches, when they are as surprised as their readers."

Read this, or any Liebling, as part of the essential education of a good American citizen.

Raymond Sokolov has written an extraordinary biography of A.J. Liebling, who was one of the most brilliant and elusive of the "New Yorker" legends. Writing about a writer is hard enough, but writing about this one required not only a thorough knowledge of his work (hard to find, some of his work) but a true ability to enter the man's head, as they say, and tell some of the story from that perch. A. J. Liebling was brilliant and a true connoisseur of all the things he thought were important: food, wine, friendship, writing.

Liebling joined the "New Yorker" in 1935, and wrote for it until his death in 1963. He was hired by Harold Ross and his editor was William Shawn. Both in his personal and his professional realms, Liebling was disordered and off kilter, often battered and turbulent, and generally quite exciting. He did not actually finish high school, but was accepted at Dartmouth, from where he was twice expelled for failure to meet the minimum attendance at chapel, so that he did not finish his studies there, either. But he wrote a great deal at Dartmouth, and at the insistence of his father he enrolled in courses at the Pulitzer School of Journalism at Columbia, where he managed to stay for a couple of years; while at Columbia he was assigned to cover police stories, and this lead him to serve as an assistant to well established newspaper reporters and to learn the mechanics of the trade.

He married three times, lived in France (wrote many "Letters from Paris") and reported World War II in detail (starting in 1939). He participated in the Normandy landings on D day, whence he produced a particularly memorable piece concerning his experiences on a landing craft. He was there when the Allies entered Paris, and this caused him to write afterwards: "For the first time in my life and probably the last, I have lived for a week in a great city where everybody was happy."

Liebling was probably the first to take advantabe of the penumbral area in which fiction and reality are barely discernible from one another, and to exploit it in his writing. Capote followed.

He wrote about writing, too, in his classical "Wayward Press" columns of the "New Yorker." He was, in fact, the first serious critic of the press, a job he clearly relished. In people he gravitated towards the odd, the slightly weird, and the eccentrics who had found niches in life from which they they sometimes prospered, often not: in other words, the low life. In New York and London and Paris he consorted and maintained society with strange people, in relationships that spanned decades. These people thought highly of Liebling and what he stood for; what he stood for contained much decency and a total lack of pretension. He spoke to people by remaining silent and letting them speak, something which appears easy but is not. He wrote about the many things he got to understand from these poeple, using clear, simple prose. He was meticulously accurate in his work, aided in this by a formidable memory which allowed him to quote verbatim hours of conversation, long after it had taken place.

Sokolov's biography of A.J. Liebling is as complete and exacting as no doubt his subject would demand. It contains a bibliography, an index and chapter notes. This is an enhancing book: one feels better after reading it.

Before purchasing this book, I read all the customer comments which gave nothing but praise. I just don't get it. I wish one of the reviewers would have given me tips on how to stay awake while plodding through each sentence/paragraph, along with where to find a single nugget in these pages worth remembering. Okay, I'll probably always wonder how the author's love of boxing was deemed worth inclusion, but then I wonder why the entire book was printed. I feel suckered! And can't think of anything to recommend this book. My advice is to spend your money on ANYTHING written by M.F.K. Fisher, "The Tummy Trilogy" by Calvin Trillin or "Blue Trout and Black Truffles" by Joseph Wechsberg for much more pleasurable reading.

I have to say that I did not find Liebling's book as much of an enthralling delight as the other reviewers. Much of that could simply be due to the fact that I was expecting a book about eating in Paris and about the joys of French food. The subject matter of the book was neither Paris of the 1920s nor French food, though both crop up with great frequency in his essays. The essays are more personal riffs on Mr Liebling's own life experiences which happen to be in Paris and of which food played a major part.

However, I frankly did not find Mr Liebling's life to be so interesting that I wanted to read about it. Nor did I find his writing to be particulary humourous or engaging. This could well be due to my lack of sympathy for Mr Liebling's view of the world. In particular, his espousal of the virtues of being fat, and his disparaging remarks on the form of the 50s woman I found exceedingly disconcerting.

So, yes, I do realise that he is supposed to be a classic food writer of his age, but I will say that perhaps he has not worn well with time. (Although if I wanted to read a writer of about the same period, I'd go to M K Fisher any day!)

My Personal Rating Scale:
5 stars: Engaging, well-written, highly entertaining or informative, thought provoking, pushes the envelope in one or more ways, a classic.
4 stars: Engaging, well-written, highly entertaining or informative. Book that delivers well in terms of its specific genre or type, but does not do more than that.
3 stars: Competent. Does what it sets out to do competently, either on its own terms on within the genre, but is nothing special. May be clichéd but is still entertaining.
2 stars: Fails to deliver in various respects. Significantly clichéd. Writing is poor or pedestrian. Failed to hold my attention.
1 star: Abysmal. Fails in all respects.

Much of Between the Meals, as the title suggests, is about what happens between meals, though the meals are always there in the background. When Liebling talks about friendship and love, he is superb; when he describes his apprenticeship in eating, however, he is incomparable. Others (a few) may write as well; others may have as sensitive a palate, but no serious writer can match Liebling's perverse determination in the pursuit of culinary pleasure and gigantic appetite. This is the finest book on eating ever written by an American. Being a Francophile, Liebling was mistaken in asserting that France is superior to China in its culinary art. He forgot that he was describing the--as he puts it-- "late silver" age of French cuisine, the 1920s, during which most people in China were starving. Today, of course, France is probably in the Bronze age; and the Chinese have just recovered from famines. But that mistake aside, this book is thoroughly satisfying, highly recommended for those,i.e. all of us, who must accept mediocre cooking everyday.