The covers are wrapped in a jacket with stereotype prints — tropical blooms; idling tuktuks; bowls of condiments; produce-laden boats guided by paddy field hats; a luggage-burdened minibus.
When I first hefted the book, I ‘read’ the cover as tongue-in-kitschy-cheek. I took the assurances of “ultimate culinary adventure”, was exhilarated by the promise of “50,000 miles, 10 countries, 800 dishes, and 1 rogue monkey”. Even the inside flaps extended promise: award-winning cookery writers on a global gastronomic tour, with the “intelligence and humour of Anthony Bourdain” and the “charm and insight of Frances Mayes”.
Silly, gullible me, judging a book by its cover! Or the first few pages. Because initially, the blow-by-blow prep theatre seemed promising. Surely, people who went to the trouble of amassing 2,20,000 flyer miles apiece and who have co-authored three of Houghton Mifflin’s Best Places to Stay guides are expert, savvy travellers!
A carefully crafted illusion. At first I ignore my inner grammar grandma, who gripes at the use of the third person for both Cheryl and Bill, in a 20-page introduction written in first person. The ‘culinary adventurer/authors of a dozen cookbooks’ foghorn is blown often and in vain. And then comes the bit that leaves you first giggling appreciatively at what you take for a wry joke, then wondering at their seriousness in stretching it so far, finally aghast at the realisation of earnest intent — the five-page primer on looking “un-American” whilst seeking “protection” against myriad threats of pilfering and tropical poisons. Fake credit cards and Canadian luggage tags! Insecticide-impregnated socks! Tide to Go stain-remover sticks to treat food spills! All to boldly go to such uncharted wildernesses as The Oriental Hotel in Bangkok, Amanpuri in Phuket, Albert Court in Singapore, Ulun Ubud in Bali. The wildest of these may be Australia’s Barossa farmers’ market and mid-Diwali Mumbai. Though surely it is frighteningly naïve for self-proclaimed non-rubes to be surprised that Diwali is in full swing in India just after Singapore has had its pre-Diwali light-up.
As for the 80 dinners, they are lost in the puffing, pop psychology, pigeon-holing and paraphernalia. The count is never insisted on anyway. Who knows, it may have been more readable had the authors stuck closely to their self-avowed brief of enumerating and describing the foodie experiences. Then again, given the pervasive superfluity and superficiality, who knows indeed?
One wonders by the end of it all: what were the editors at William Morrow thinking? The result is a trite dish so botched up that no amount of garnish can rescue it. As for Bill and Cheryl going ‘Let’s Do it Again’ by page 255, I say ‘spare us and burn the book!’