I love reading anything that has to do with food. History. Reference. Cookbooks. Love stories. Culinary travel. Memoirs.
This memoir is written by Jonathan Dixon, a man who entered The Culinary Institute of America and decided to write about his experience there.
But this memoir in some ways became self-indulgent the more I read. To its credit, it did pull me into his plight at finding his true passion in life at an older age, but so did I and I am euphoric that I found it at all. Some people never do. So lucky us. Instead, it becomes evident that he is still operating under a cloud of regret. That regret and tone prevail throughout his story right to the end.
I was sad when I finished. Not because the story ended, but because for the first time in a very very long while I read a food book that did not bring me pleasure or even insight. I am rarely critical. I normally love everything, as most of you know! But this tale only provided a feeling that I had just passed through a storm and was glad to be out of it. Left with a bit of a confusing ending, I am still at sea and wishing I had been brought into the dock.
I am sorry if I have offended anyone. This is just my opinion.