My rating: 5 of 5 stars

This book was awesome. First and foremost, it is hilarious. It is the kind of hilarious that is enhanced with a pinch of abject horror, but it is not sad like the way watching The Office is sad and soul-crushing. No, there is something strangely… uplifting about Bourdains account of his drug-ridden, half-crazed, sleep-deprived, machismo-driven careen through cookdom.

I like its contrasts. Sometimes it is fast and noisy action, other times it’s quiet introspection. Topics swing wildly between the gory and brutal realities of dinner rush in the kitchen, and sweetly touching descriptions of Bourdain’s love for food and all those who share this love. In one chapter, Boudain will be reveling in the playful, hubristic terrors of his crazed, drug-induced reckless young life, the next, he’ll be feeding himself platefuls of humble pie.

Though the writing style is extreme and pocked with exaggeration, he is great at maintaining perspective so I am content to romp along through his accounts of gasp-worthy excesses and crimes. Because I know by the end he will be able to wrap them up into some sort of personal critical response. Crazy as Bourdain’s life was, he has clearly done some soul-searching and introspectating, and the results are written all over this book.

He’s a great writer and has a surprisingly handy and beautiful way with words. It borders on the poetry of the insane. Because his background is what he says it is, I am never sure if the occasional gem of a turn-of-phrase is the effect of some lingering crack in his bloodstream or if he really is just that smart of a writer. Actually that is dumb; of course he is very smart. It comes through in the way he refers to important historical events like they were everyday household concepts. I kept having to look stuff up on Wikipedia, and not just the French words. And there’s also that endearing self-deprecation he constantly foists upon himself. Nothing says “smart guy” like someone who knows the limit of their smartness.

Finally, he’s made me want to learn French cooking. He’s turned me off of silly platings with squeezie bottles and towering stacks of scallops for a bit, but I do want to know how to make a good demi-glace, ever so much. Now where can I get me some veal bones in the US?

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Persepolis 1: The Story of a Childhood by Marjane Satrapi

My review
rating: 5 of 5 stars

This was good. Marjane Satrapi is a talented artist, story-boarder, and narrator. Before getting into this, I thought the art style was simple to the point of crudeness, but now I have a hard time imagining it any other way. It’s surprising how evocative eyes drawn with just a circle and a dot can be. She has somehow made all the characters and events feel very human, multi-layered, and complex, despite the simplifying/condensing/caricaturing that often comes about in the comic medium. For some reason, I am particularly enamored with her portrayal of children and their dialogue — somehow she has captured that naive innocence with a deftness that defies her age and her life experiences.

Other than that, I finally understand what Jess meant when she said that reading novels and stories helps her understand history better than news or non-fiction could.