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Title: Fussy, Overwrought, and Pretentious
Review: Who knows what the point of this book is? This novel could only be considered euridite by a certain class of Brit who thinks faulty and antiquated French constitutes familiarity with the language or that the narrator's indulgences constitute some putative example of good living. It is in fact a very British take on the world and only makes sense with the contrast of France as the foil. The language is overwrought, the culinary descriptions banal, and the narrative exasperating. Apparently many reviewers here found this novel the height of intellectual elegance, which is probably a commentary on the sad state of fiction writing today (after all, Phillip Roth is considered quite brilliant by Europeans). I'm sorry to say this novel isn't worth the time it takes to read it. His other novel, Fragrant Harbour, however, is lovely.
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