The Last Chinese Chef. Rating: Lamentable.

“Could the food in China be truly exceptional? It was possible, she thought now.”

I did not read this book alone. I read it at the same time as my closest (only) friend, the doorman at the old office building. As he opened the door in the morning, we'd briefly discuss the chapter we'd read the night before. 'Derivative!' he'd cry. 'Overwrought!' I'd respond. Then, I would be off into the abyss of the elevator, preparing my soul for another day of compression. How I miss our little doorstop book club! I have not seen my friend since the last day that the building stood intact.

I digress. The book is not good.

It could have been good. It could have been great. There's a reason it garnered a rating of "lamentable" rather than "execrable" - there is a lovely story hidden under the layer of smeary residue that was deemed necessary to market this book. I almost want to write two reviews - one for the demoralizing book that I read, and one for the striking story that could have been.

The Last Chinese Chef by the presumably dismayed Nicole Mones

...could have been a beautifully written multigenerational family drama nestled in a crisp bed of gorgeous food writing. Here is the story that would be revealed if the author scraped off the film of ordure disguising it as an irredeemable disappointment: an American-born Chinese chef leaves home and heads to China, to learn the Imperial style of cooking mastered by his grandfather. He battles through arduous cooking lessons from his uncles, learns about his family and himself through the lens of a completely different philosophy of cooking, immerses himself in the traditions of Chinese culinary culture. He reconnects with his father and, regardless of the outcome of the cooking contest around which the plot is anchored, he learns the true triumph of connection to family, history, and cultural identity. 

That is the story that could have been. I adored every chapter that was centered around Sam Liang, his family, his ancestral records, and - most importantly - the food that tied them all together. There were also a few standalone chapters exploring China's cultural identity before, during, and after the Great Leap Forward. These chapters were wonderful, insightful, and compelling. Had that been the book published, I would be giving Mones a standing ovation. 

But. At some point during the process of the publication and editing of this book, some enterprising fool must have said "we need to put a white lady on this. Eat-Pray-Love it." Enter the abhorrent Maggie McElroy.

Suddenly, that crisp and compelling multigenerational family drama is weighed down by an albatross masquerading as a necessary lens of accessibility. A White Lady, whose only distinguishing feature is that she is a widowed food journalist, is sent to Explore The Orient, Discover Herself, Learn to Love Again. Reader, I have eaten tripe, and it is far more appealing than this nauseating feature of contemporary American fiction. We are presented with a woman who has apparently never been in the vicinity of a Chinese person. Her naivete extends almost into the realm of genre parody. Every bite of foreign food that she eats is described in insipid amazement - all of it is stunning, life-altering, perfect and oh-so-different. Maggie gets a massage from a nameless, faceless, Magical Chinese Person, and her body is suddenly awakened to the mysteries of human touch.

This character describes listening to Chinese conversation as akin to overhearing beautiful birdsong. How I wish that I was being facetious.

There are two outrages here. First (and most prominent), the enfeeblement of Liang's story by the addition of the Navel-Gazing White Lady. Second (and far less important, but still upsetting), the unmitigated anemia of what could have been a nuanced female character who is, for the first time, in a place that she doesn't understand. If one must stick a white lady onto the front of a wonderful plot, one could at least go so far as to give her any dimension at all to excuse her otherwise inexplicable presence. Instead, Maggie is a Lisa Frank sticker applied to a Qiu Ying scroll; she is a smear of ketchup on a perfectly crafted char siu bao.

I cannot go on describing this aspect of the novel. It is far too upsetting to continue. I shall move on.

Now, for Spoilers.

There is a romance. 

Of course there is. Of course this book could not close without putting a seal on the most predictable facet of an already repellent trope. Throughout the book, Sam Liang and Maggie McElroy impose upon the reader a regular, glaring insistence that they are and shall always remain 'just friends'. As the book clearly states, Liang never-ever-never looks at Maggie in the "man-woman way". I shall refrain from commentary on  this Tarzanesque allusion to sexual desire in the man who repeatedly delivers morsels of steaming, succulent meat to the food journalist's eagerly parted lips. Evidently, the reader is meant to be shocked when the two protagonists, without any prior display of believable chemistry, fall mechanically into bed together.

I suppose it is impossible that Liang could have been redeemed through a deeper and better understanding of his family history; in forging a connection with his distant father; with his acceptance of the imperfections of his family relationships. He could not possibly find contentment in his own journey of discovery. Instead, he must serve as the pinnacle of Maggie's journey of self-discovery. He is the man who reawakens her body and soul through food, lust, and (eye-rollingly, wearily trudging across the finish line) maybe even love.

Reader, I am nauseated. Which is shameful - the passages in this book that turn a focus on food are written with such skill and depth that nausea should be an impossible achievement. I am pained on behalf of the author - whatever impulse or individual moved her to include such a threadbare romantic plot in what could otherwise have been a gorgeous novel was absolutely undeserving of her attentions, much less her obedience. I can only hope that a revision is released - a director's cut, if you will - and that it reveals the tale that should have been told.

Rating: Lamentable. 

Possible ratings: Magnificent, Divine, Satisfactory, Tiresome, Lamentable, Execrable. This is a blog about words, what rating system did you expect?

The Storied Life of A.J. Fikry. Rating: Magnificent.

“No Man Is an Island; Every Book Is a World.”

If you were going to run away from your old life forever, taking with you only a crate of 400 books, your life's savings, and a wide brimmed hat - I would recommend that this be one of the 400 books. Not because it is light to carry or will fit well among the other books without causing a fuss in the cramped quarters, but because it is a book that you will cherish reading during blissfully solitary evenings in your cash-rent studio apartment in a city far away.

If you are not planning an escape from the suffocation of your current job and life and shadowy past, read it anyway. The Storied Life of A.J. Fikry is, beyond question, one of the most lovable books I have ever laid eyes on. I start with this book not because it is the most recent one that I have read but because it is exactly what I hope this blog will be: a love letter to books. I love books - have always loved books - and they have treated me well in exchange for my affections. I am not overly selective in my reading, and consume literature at a voracious pace (especially now that I do not have that job to overshadow the hours of my days which I could otherwise spend afloat on a sea of books).

So. Down to business.

The Storied Life of A.J. Fikry by the brilliant Gabrielle Zevin

 ...is quite simply wonderful. It tugged me gently past skepticism at the style into an overwhelming investment in every character. The primary protagonist - for there are many, in my esteem - is the middle-aged A.J. Fikry, whose life is summarily decaying. He is doing an excellent job of thoroughly wallowing in the mourning of his late wife, two years dead when we join the story. His bookstore, located on sleepy Alice Island, is failing - thanks in no small part to his abject snobbery. He is not a terrifically likeable character at first blush.

Let me digress from synopsis for a moment to highlight something critical to my own literary experience (and, I hope, to yours) - it is absolutely unnecessary to like a protagonist. In fact, I dislike novels in which I like the protagonist too much (see my upcoming review of the deplorable "Last Chinese Chef"). The best, of course, is to love a protagonist without liking them too much. That way, you can truly enjoy their growth and development and failure in equal measures.

Back to business. The novel bumps quickly into a plot when the unpalatable A.J. Fikry has change thrust upon him by replacement of his most valuable possession with his most inexplicable and burdensome one. His prized copy of Poe's "Tamerlane" is stolen, and as he wonders what else could possibly go wrong in his downward-spiraling life, someone (aptly enough) leaves a child in the children's section of his store. She does not at first awaken a previously silent part of him that discovers love and affection through the magic of her laughter, and thank goodness or I would have quit the book immediately. Instead, through the mere fact of being an Interesting Development, the child draws Fikry's community around him in an unrejectable way. Through the love and generosity of his community, the curmudgeonly Fikry discovers fellowship and the quiet kind of joy that comes with it. Without his consent or realization, his isolation dissolves, and Fikry has a family and friends that love and care for him deeply. At some point (which I shall not disclose) the format of the novel becomes clear - at first, it seems a bit overwrought and purposeless, but it rapidly becomes one of the most moving parts of the reader experience.

Now, for Spoilers.

A critical factor in my judgment of any book is it's ending. You've been warned. 

This ending is one of the best I have read. It is well attended to but not overly tidy; there are no loose plot points, but not every piece of the end is what the reader thought she hoped for. There is deep and inescapable sadness, because the story (rightly) continues well past the point at which it could have ended. There is a wedding - not perfect in every way, not overly magical, but lovely regardless - the point at which a contemporary feature film would roll credits. 

And then the story goes on to a more natural, if less romantic, endpoint. Death, as it always does, intrudes. Like the unwelcome boss who pokes his head into your office to find out if you have time for a chat, you dread it's arrival, pray that it will not come - but come it does. The death seems almost to be escapable, but it is not. It is the saddest death - the kind that we all dread - a slow loss of ability to tell the people you love the fact of your affection. It is deeply, permanently moving. I had to set down the book, go and make myself a cup of tea, and soothe myself before coming back to the book. It was a perfect, devastating death.

Then, the story goes on.

That is perhaps one of the things I love best about The Storied Life of A.J. Fikry - the story goes on. It goes on past natural end points, not in the aggravating style of the last Lord of the Rings film, not in a series of afterwords and epilogues, but because the story is not yet over. Just as we must go on after the wedding, just as we must go on after death, just as we must go on to the next town to escape notice - the story must continue. 

In summary, this book is abjectly beautiful. As Fikry himself would say: "Every word the right one and exactly where it should be. That's basically the highest compliment I can give." 

Rating: Magnificent. 

Possible ratings: Magnificent, Divine, Satisfactory, Tiresome, Lamentable, Execrable. This is a blog about words, what rating system did you expect?