Delicious. There is no better adjective to describe this book. It is simply a delicious, scrumptious, and teasingly delectable read. And the fun part? It's not really about the food. But I won't say anything more to ruin it for you. Know only that Lanchester writes with an acute and cutting wit, a diabolical intelligence, and the darkest of humors I've yet to read in a novel. Whatever you might think of the first person narrator by the end of the book, I'll bet you'll wish you knew him as much as I did. ( )

The Debt to Pleasure is one of my favorite “dark” novels. Ostensibly a narrative cookbook, this novel quickly metamorphoses into a rambling memoir that jumps, seemingly randomly, from one event to another in the unnamed narrator’s life. Bit by bit, piece by piece, the reader begins to realize that something is very wrong here.

I don’t want to give away any more than that and spoil the fun of unraveling this twisted tale. But I will say that the character of the narrator is one of the most fully realized, completely insane characters I’ve ever encountered in fiction, and in reading the novel, we fully inhabit his strange mind. Indeed, because he is telling us his story, and because he is so full of self-delusions, the only way we can get to the truth is through the little hints he drops, the occasional omissions in his tales, the gradual realization that he is deceiving us and the other characters see him very differently than he portrays himself.

This book is both a work of genius and loads of fun – subtle, dark and delicious. And if you’re at all interested in food or cooking – as any civilized person must be – there are many interesting rambles on those subjects, as well. ( )

The narrator of this dark comedy is a supercilious twit with lots to hide. The slow unfolding of the story scattered throughout an overly pretentious cookbook is very funny, and Lanchester handles it brilliantly. ( )

Tried this one but I couldn't get into it. It was a foodie book and normally I enjoy these but I had trouble staying interested. The story of the narrator's life is told through a series of seasonal menus, not just talking about the final dishes but also about the ingredients that go into each dish and the way it is prepared. I gave the book over 50 pages but the story never "caught me". ( )

"I had in mind a project for a novel which would begin in the usual manner ... except that gradually the characters' identities would begin to slip and to blur, and so would the geographical surroundings. ...Only the style of the book would remain consistent .... gradually ... the work would become more troubling ... until the appalled readers, unable to understand what was happening ... and also unable to stop reading, would watch the wholesale metastasization ... the collapse ... so that when they finally put the book down they are aware only of having been protagonists in a deep and violent dream whose sole purpose is their incurable unease." (pages 226-228)

It is not often that an author postpones his statement of purpose to the closing pages of his work, burying it within the work itself, rather than in a preface, foreword, or note from the author. But that is precisely what John Lanchester has done in this novel.

Habitual preface-skippers will miss out on essential information, as the "preface" is a note from the protagonist, not from the author. And it sets the stage for the tone of the rest of the book.

Tarquin Winot is the anti-heroic protagonist of this book -- he is, in fact, so anti-heroic that he serves as both protagonist and antagonist. Winot is verbose, opinionated, patronizing, self-aggrandizing, and quite too fond of himself. He is also faintly sinister, but the faintness of that impression steadily diminishes throughout the narrative.

(If you can call it that. If James Joyce or TS Eliot were to write a murder-mystery, this book is a good example of what would result. It's a stream-of-consciousness, flashback-ridden nightmare of a story.)

Winot is presented as a gourmet and conoisseur -- but not in a sympathetic way. He is a dark and worrying figure, and the disjointed stories of his earlier life increase the darkness and worry. What begins to emerge is a person whose life has been strangely surrounded by bizarre and inexplicable tragedies. And a person who seems to have both a morbid fascination with death and a suspicious knowledge of the intimate details of the tragedies that touch his life.

This is a hard book to read, and it was only sheer, teeth-gritting determination that got me through the first two chapters. And then I couldn't stop reading, even though I wanted to. I needed to understand what was being hinted at. I needed to know the end, even though it was all-too-baldly foreshadowed. If you can work your way through the page-long periodic sentences with their frequent interruptions and asides, you will, as the author suggests, find yourself waking from "a deep and violent dream," afflicted by "incurable unease." ( )

I'm re-reading this book after a gap of several years. I'm enjoying the intensely verbose narrator, even though he's repugnant in many ways, for his misanthropy, right wing views, conservatism, and of course my (dawning) recollection that the book doesn't have a happy ending.
It takes a little bearing with to allow the book to get under your skin, but it's having an effect as I've spent the evening eating tasty cheese and drinking a rather fine Pinot Gris, in the manner of the (anti) hero of the book. I promise not to murder anyone tomorrow, even if they annoy me... ( )

"I have to admit, I read this book because a friend of mine loved it and couldn't find anyone who would read it. I figured I can read almost anything, so borrowed her copy and started reading.

It was odd, sometimes strangely amusing, and ... I ... was ... not... getting...through... it.

BUT THEN - something weird happened in the book, and I thought, "huh?" and finished the book (don't peek!), said "oh WOW"... and then turned to the front and read the whole book through again.

Yeah. It's that kind of book. I can't tell you what happens, or it will ruin the ending. But what you will find is an extremely self-centered narrator taking you on a sort of food tour. I have two favorite lines in the book. The first one is "I myself have always disliked being called a 'genius.' It is fascinating to notice how quick people have been to intuit and avoid this term." The second quote is the last line of the book (don't peek!).

If you are a fan of unreliable narrators, I highly recommend this book." ( )

This starts a little slow. A man who is obviously very, very full of himself, expounding on his particular fascinations about food and drink. He has a singular point of view and doesn't allow for much deviation. I found his food snobbery hilarious, although I would not have wanted to share a table with him...especially considering what is to come.

As the story progresses, there is a sense that something is going on just under the surface. Perhaps I'm slow on the uptake, but I was 3/4 of the way through the book before I realized just what was going on - and the ending took me completely by surprise! Great fun. ( )

brilliantly funny ( )

Whilst taking me quite a while to get into it, i thoroughly enjoyed this book, especially more toward the end.
A fictional memoir written as a seasonal menu, relating his life to certain recipes. A fantastic use of the English language, it had me picking up my dictionary quite a few times. Also, a lot of cooking terms i was unfamiliar with, and i did have to polish up my french as well.
A gastronomical feat of literary genius. ( )

Absolutely hilarious (in a dark, wicked kinda way) and well worth the time. ( )

I love reading about food - whether it be a description in a novel or a book specifically written about food. This is somewhere in the middle - a novel which is a parody of the foodie memoir.
The narrator Tarquin is a self-important snob, travelling from the UK to his home in Provence. He shares his thoughts on food and recipes, and also fills in the reader about his past. We learn that not only is he deluded about his own ability and living under the shadow of his world-renowned artist brother; but slowly we discover he is a very devious character as well.

This is a well written, funny story, and has the requisite yummy food writing (highly inspiring!) but it loses a star because of Tarquin's long winded philosophical discourses. I know it's a parody but.... ( )

Do you know that word "barbecue" originates from Haitian "barbacado" that refers to a rack-frame system leaving off the ground a bed? Do you know that tomatoes, if imminently picked and allowed to ripe during transport, will turn plasticky and insipid? Do you know that the thickness requirement in preserving the juice in barbecued meat is an inch to 3 inches? Have you ever wondered why starch (such as rice) and fruits, and not a glass of iced water, serve to subdue the spiciness of curry?
John Lanchester's The Debt of Pleasure not only deftly answers all the above questions but also, in impeccable and painfully beguiling prose, embraces his readers into the world of Tarquin Winot. Strictly speaking, the book, which is nothing more than a scrumptious culinary reflection in thoughtful menus arranged by the seasons, cannot be deemed as a work of fiction if Winot is a real chef. From his menus, which embody different cultures, capture a man's psychology and thus his impulse to order, and witness the come-and-go of dining trends; Winot related the story of his life to the preparations of food.

The writing is as insatiating and titillating as the menus. Winot retreated to southern France and reminisced, papered his thoughts on the subject of food that evoked his childhood, his parents, his brother Barthomelow the artist, the beloved maidservant Mary-Theresa, and the home cook Mitthaug. Aroma of a particular dish could graciously tug his memory and coalesce the disparate locations of Winot's upbringing. Woven into his painfully and haughtily opinionated meditations on food was disheartening anecdotes of his family. His brother struggled as an artist who, like other artists in history, never felt adequately attended to for his work and died a tragic death of fungus poisoning. His parents, in a multiplying series of mishaps that primarily involved leaving all the kitchen gas taps on and a full-scale leak from the gas boiler, died in an explosion triggered by turning on a light switch.

The lighter side of the book tells of Winot's aspiration to becoming a chef. He attributed such biographical significance to a chance visit to his brother's boarding school in England. The food served was a nightmarish demonstration of culinary banality and a stark confirmation of Captain Ford's quote in 1846 "The salad is the glory of every French dinner and the disgrace of most in England." A more humorous side would be Winot's rash denunciation of sweet-and-sour dishes (lupsup, meaning garbage) that dominated the English dining. As a native of Hong Kong, the notion truly hit home as any violent combination such as the sweet-and-sour taste is immediately deemed as inauthentic.

Read it as a novel "masquerading" as a cookbook, as a memoir, as food critics, as secretive cooking knacks, as word of caution (such as the roasting of apple seeds will release toxins), as an indispensable companion to your conventional cookbook, an eccentric philosophical soliloquy of the culinary art. I vouch that anyone who reads this book will find the recipes zestfully flirting with the tastebuds and liberating the senses. Exquisitely written. ( )

I loved this "food for thought" book. ( )

It is a remarkable first novel about a man who is the epitome of good taste, refinement, sensitivity to the cross-links between and among cultures in language, customs, and especially cooking, being himself a gourmet cook with an encyclopedic knowledge of food ingredients, their histories and their usages. The writing has some wonderful passages:

The gleaming banks of seafood on display at the great Parisian brasseries are like certain politicians in that they manage to be impressive without necessarily inspiring absolute confidence.

The process of ripening in cheese is a little like the human acquisition of wisdom and maturity: both processes involve a recognition, or incorporation, of the fact that life is an incurable disease with a hundred percent mortality rate-- slow variety of death.

And in one revealing passage, the author sums up the attitude and approach of the protagonist:

the Loire...is France's least obvious and therefore most compelling wine river, and the fact that is unnavigatable--too shallow and too treacherous to be a means of transportation--it is beautifully unsullied by any human presence...and therefore the Loire is a mirror or metaphor of the human psyche--treacherous, unnavigable, resistant to banal ideas of use, its superficial calm masking unconvenanted depths, hidden velocities.

This describes well the protagonist, Tarquin Winot, who in addition to the characteristics noted above, and who takes the reader through a wonderful exploration of food and recipes, is a murderer. He has either instigated suicide (by framing a favourite servant), or outright murdered people, with considerable forethought and planning, including his parents and his brother. A large part of the story, although it takes a while to emerge, is that Winot is stalking a couple; she is supposed to be his biographer, and when he has them as guests at his house, he feeds them poisoned mushrooms for which there is no antidote, and the effects of which take place some hours after ingestion, thus providing a wonderful alibi. The books ends: "By the time I got there the murdered couple had gone around the corner onto the main road, leaving behind them a slow cloud of settling dust". An intriguing book, very well written, and a fine exploration, almost by osmosis rather than direct exposition, of a pure sociopath. The contrast between the inner and outer worlds of Tarquin Winot could not be more striking, even though he masks the former, even to himself, in philosophic terms, for example when he expounds upon his theory and philosophy of murder and death in comparison to other forms of art.

A gorgeous, dark, and sensuous book that is part cookbook, part thriller, part eccentric philosophical treatise, reminiscent of perhaps the greatest of all books on food, Jean-Anthelme Brillat Savarin's The Physiology of Taste. Join Tarquin Winot as he embarks on a journey of the senses, regaling us with his wickedly funny, poisonously opinionated meditations on everything from the erotics of dislike to the psychology of a menu, from the perverse history of the peach to the brutalisation of the palate, from cheese as "the corpse of milk" to the binding action of blood. --Sue Sheph

Draws the reader, through descriptions of food and cooking, into a world of murder and art. Narrated by Tarquin, an ironist, epicurean and a snob, this novel is constructed around a series of seasonal menus, which unfold his autobiography.