Book 42: Chop Chop

Chop Chop

Simon Wroe

If I'm being totally honest, I must confess to watching a healthy (or perhaps unhealthy) amount of reality television that involves cooking, and to a few employment experiences in the (very) low-rent end of the culinary world. This book, with its promised blend of sarcasm, profanity, and insight into London's culinary underworld, seemed like a good option for lighthearted, modern book to counter the more serious classics I've been reading in the past few weeks. Irreverent, Chop Chop most certainly is; as for the rest of it, I'm not quite convinced. It's clear from the first page, which kicks off a visceral description of a culinary process involving pork (not for the squeamish!), that Wroe intends to pull no punches, and indeed he doesn't. The language is unapologetically brutal as our protagonist-narrator- dubbed Monocle on account of his English degree- reluctantly joins the staff of a somewhat aspirational restaurant, The Swan, in Camden. Wroe immediately and convincingly drops readers directly into the world of high stakes restaurants, profane chefs, questionable sanitation practices, underpaid and mistreated assistants, and the underemployed.

It is here that Wroe truly shines. He offers an uncompromising, and quite unflattering, peek behind the curtain, and his kitchen is full of unsavory characters who are, despite the exaggerations that drive their descriptions, uncomfortably believable. The cursing may become a bit uncomfortably misogynistic and homophobic at times, but it does effectively create and maintain appropriate atmospherics and can largely be forgiven. The book does contain a few truly disturbing scenes that are, perhaps, a bit too amoral and upsetting, though I acknowledge that they are effective displays of a villain's utter depravity. Many of the book's punches are delivered with a dry, English wit that suits the book's somewhat bleak- yet strangely hopeful- outlook; there's some subtlety and craft at work, and the restaurant-based portions of the book establish and maintain a strong tone that carries the plot quite effectively. Add this to a lively ensemble cast that runs the gamut from the head chef's relentless cruelty to the sex-obsessed Ramilov and the aptly named, musical-loving Racist Dave, and it's a recipe for success. The book isn't, perhaps, as continuously funny as it aspires to be, but the restaurant parts offer a solid, evolving plot, interpersonal intrigue, and hijinks galore.

Wroe, however, aspires to more than satire, and these more lofty goals tend to derail, rather than strengthen, the book. Too much of the book focuses on Monocle's relentless (and annoying) self-doubt, and we witness too little change too late to salvage the story of his emotional maturation; readers are constantly a few steps ahead of him and can be forgiven for losing their patience as he remains stagnant for page after page. The book also suffers from uneven pacing and plot; somehow, it seems bloated despite its relatively small size (276 pages in my hardback edition), and it loses much of its momentum permanently after the first act. Though Wroe has Monocle's personal and professional stories to juggle, the family- and restaurant-centric chapters barely seem to influence each other and never achieve a proper sense of balance. The stories don't quite come together, despite the author's best intentions, and each thread's respective resolution leaves a lingering note of dissatisfaction. The novel is, by turns, appropriately and effectively humorous and serious, but it cannot quite reconcile its two moods.

Wroe also errs in making Monocle's narration a bit too self-aware, hinting that two of the book's major players have access to the text throughout its creation. Rather than offering readers this external commentary and context (with one notable, and successful, exception), Wroe filters their comments through Monocle, resulting in a sense of self-indulgence that adds nothing constructive to the book. The editors' impact is ambiguous at best, and Monocle's only clear indication of their influence is a statement blatantly ignoring it at the story's climax. Offering alternate perspectives could be a clever narrative trick, if the author made a legitimate attempt to do it, but as they are these references cheapen the novel and make it seem patently artificial- almost certainly the opposite effect than what was intended. Even more egregious are the author's constant reminders that Monocle is, in effect, writing an ex post facto memoir; the reader doesn't need to be told- repeatedly!- that the plot will thicken, the events will escalate, and things will get very interesting indeed. At some point, the story needs to speak for itself, and the author's lack of confidence inspires little in the reader. One gets the feeling that Wroe would do well to rely on his talents, which are many and evident, and not on his tricks.

Chop Chop is an interesting novel, but it is plagued by too many faults to be considered great; it ultimately suffers from its glut of good intentions. In attempting to write a coming-of-age story wrapped in a rollicking satire, Wroe loses the far more interesting plot at hand and creates a bit of a muddle. The characterization and satirical elements are often top-notch, as are many of the book's metaphors, and there are a few truly touching points of emotional resonance that betray the author's talents. Monocle's lingering guilt over his brother's childhood death, long past, feels viscerally real, as do the death's pivotal effects on the family, but at some point even these raw emotional observations become lost in the noise. In another novel, perhaps, they would ring clearly. Chop Chop contains the makings of a few good novels within it, but its ingredients never quite come together to make a satisfying dish.

Grade: B-