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?