[W. W. Norton & Company; 2011]

On the day before an epic bacchanal held in Berlin’s Tempelhof Airport, a notorious master of ceremonies in the culinary world, a character named Didier Laxalt (otherwise known as Le Basque), shares his philosophy of pleasure. His story goes like this: A master winemaker named Pike once experienced a moment where he had it all: “The sea was blue, the sky stretched tight, the air was hot, and he could smell the girl, the leather, and the sea. Ecstasy was guaranteed.” At this moment leading up to pure 100% bliss, Pike decides to abandon his fortunes, climbing out of the sports car and walking away, saying, “It doesn’t get any better than this.” Le Basque explains: “human pleasure comes from opening a door, not from walking through it.”

Le Basque’s remark sums up how I feel about DBC Pierre’s third novel, Lights Out in Wonderland.  What starts off as high-velocity gastronomical odyssey, “more splendid than any since the fall of Rome” settles into a muddled but flavorful satire of late capitalism’s thriving foodie culture. The book’s opening chapters and the anticipation of what’s to come, is far more exciting than reading through the rest.

On the first page, our narrator Gabriel Brockman makes a bold promise: he says that he will kill himself – but not immediately. As a 25-year-old, anti–globalization activist and a self-proclaimed “bad poet” currently checked into a rehab facility, Gabriel feels anything but guaranteed ecstasy. With no imaginable escape from the various prisons of capitalistic society, or of human nature, he surrenders to what he calls “limbo.” He chooses intoxication over moral responsibility, stating, “All happiness not derived from intoxicants is false.”

Fleeing England with amphetamines, depressants and $5000 of stolen cash from anti-capitalist activist fund, Gabriel heads to Tokyo seeking unbridled debauchery in the form of his childhood friend, Nelson Smuts.  A renowned chef who specializes in preparing torafugu, a poisonous blowfish, Smuts introduces Gabriel to a vibrant underworld of culinary geniuses. Together, Smuts and Gabriel imbibe an extremely rare wine called Marius, a wine that makes you feel like you’re walking through the vines where it was conceived. The night spins out of control; a gangster is poisoned, sexual escapades occur in a fish tank and at the end of the night, Smuts ends up in jail.

Departing from these vibrant beginnings, the middle section of the book is bogged down by the tedium of party planning, rather than party reveling. As a curator of food experiences for the uber-elite, Le Basque is the only person who has the insider connections to get Smuts out of jail. Gabriel offers La Basque a banquet venue like no other in the world, in exchange for Smut’s freedom. From there, Gabriel pokes around Berlin first in search of a venue through his father’s former business partner Gerd Specht, and then as he works with Le Basque to orchestrate the novel’s end game: an explosive banquet similar to the one Gabriel dreamed of in the beginning.

The food does not disappoint. On the menu: Olive Ridley Turtle Necks in Parmesan and Brioche Crumbs, Confit of Koala Leg with Lemon Saffron Chutney and Caramelized Milk-Fed White Tiger Cub, among other dishes. But even with all of these enticing delicacies and baroque happenings, the ending fails to reach the same level of mayhem attained in the book’s opening chapters.

It may have been Pierre’s intention to stymie our consumer experience. After all, the story functions as a satire and it wouldn’t be appropriate to blindly indulge in food fetishes without critical distance.  The problem is that Gabriel’s moral turning point, his realization that that “destruction is a team sport” and that “some things do matter” is facilitated by a romance that is flimsy at best. It might have been better if he mysteriously walked away at the apex, like Pike.

Despite an imperfect ending, what makes the novel a pleasure to read is the chaotic force of Gabriel’s narration.  He describes himself as “Ebenezer Scrooge on a moral tour of Culture Present” and indeed he seems possessed by contradictory spirits. At times he is the raving poet, erupting in hallucinatory similes, “this is a Salvador Dali girl, someone to fold over the branch of a tree.” At other times, he takes on the role of the gad fly, lecturing on social theory:

History’s best thinkers eventually concluded that our flaws were too powerful to trust with freedom. Thus we’ve been groomed as hamsters in a wheel that benefits a laughing few. No more great works will be accomplished under the regime, because beauty is not democratic or profitable.

It is Gabriel’s love for the excess he despises that ultimately captures the spirit of our times.

 

 


 
 
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