I usually like a good food memoir from a famous chef or food writer – even as a kid, they seem to have always has the most fascinating meals, and you can usually get some vicarious foodie fun out of those stories. I’ve read some of Reichl’s other work (from the timeframes before and after this book is set), and enjoyed those in that foodie spirit.
Not so much this book. I suspect it’s a generational thing. I’m at the younger end of Gen X, and Reichl is firmly Baby Boom. This book transitions from the time she was living in a commune in Berkeley, CA to becoming a food writer – something a little too much “for the man” for the people she had been living with. It’s the transition from hippie to yuppie, I suppose. And I just can’t get into it. I think it’s both too close, and too far from my experience. I actually had to read this book on alternate nights with another one to get through it – it was annoying me that much. There’s some interesting food writing interspersed with the personal stories, but this was just too much personal story for me.