Monica Ali’s chef’s tale falls flat like a soufflé gone wrong
Considering that there’s a mysterious death on the very first page of Monica Ali’s third novel, it’s surprising how turgid the rest of In the Kitchen turns out to be. This, on the face of it, is the story of Gabriel Lightfoot, an executive chef at the Imperial Hotel in London, a Victorian establishment that, despite several renovations, is clearly past its prime.

Gabriel Lightfoot — neither angelic nor swift on his feet — is in his early forties, with ambitions of opening a restaurant of his own, and in talks with sleazy promoters to make this come about. However, when the body of Yuri, a night porter and Ukrainian immigrant, is found in the basement, the chef’s ordered life begins to come apart at the seams. He develops a strange and intense obsession for Lena, another porter from East Europe, inviting her to stay with him. This liaison puts a strain first on his relationship with his girlfriend Charlie, a spunky nightclub singer, and then on his mental health itself.

Much of the action of the book, but by no means all of it, takes place in the hotel’s kitchen and its environs, and the author takes pains to recreate the world of an executive chef, with his gustatory and administrative responsibilities. We learn about the selection of cheeses, the preparation of desserts, the duties, grades and volatile moods of kitchen personnel, the choices leading to the determination of a menu and — pay attention, this could be important — the temperature below which custard gets lumpy.

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