The Booker Prize, that grand arbiter of literary worth, has this year crowned a novel about food. The decision has been met with a collective nod of approval from the British literary establishment, who celebrate the culinary narrative as a legitimate form of high art. But what does this say about us, as a nation of readers and eaters?
For decades, the Booker has oscillated between the politically urgent and the quietly domestic. This year's winner leans heavily into the latter, placing food at the centre of the human experience. The novel, we are told, is not merely about recipes or gastronomic indulgence; it is a meditation on identity, memory and the intimate rituals that bind us. It is a story seasoned with longing and loss, served on a plate of prose.
The decision feels timely. We live in an age where food has transcended its basic function. It is now a status symbol, a medium for rebellion, a canvas for artistry. The rise of the celebrity chef, the cult of the sourdough starter, the endless scroll of #foodporn: these phenomena speak to a cultural shift where what we eat defines who we are. The Booker's choice merely reflects this reality.
Yet one must ask: is this a genuine evolution of literary taste, or a symptom of a broader trend? The literary establishment has long been accused of being out of touch, clinging to dusty precepts of what constitutes 'serious' fiction. By embracing a novel about food, they may be signalling a desire to connect with the everyday lives of readers. Or they may be engaging in a form of virtue signalling, a nod to the populism that now pervades every corner of public life.
On the street, the reaction is more nuanced. In the cafes of Bloomsbury, literary types are discussing the novel with the fervour usually reserved for a new restaurant opening. 'It's about time,' says a young editor, her hand wrapped around a flat white. 'Food is the new politics.' Over in Hackney, a group of aspiring novelists debate whether this marks the death of the traditional novel. 'Next year it'll be a book about gardening,' one of them quips.
But the real human cost lies with the overlooked novels, the ones that grapple with war, poverty or love in a time of crisis. They will now have to compete for attention with a book that makes you hungry. Is this the democratisation of literature, or its trivialisation? The answer, perhaps, lies in the quality of the writing. If the novel is truly excellent, it will transcend its subject matter. If it is merely trendy, it will be forgotten.
The cultural shift is undeniable. We are a society obsessed with food, from the farm-to-table movement to the endless television cooking competitions. Our literary prizes are now reflecting that obsession. Whether this is a good thing or a bad thing depends on your appetite for change. As for me, I will reserve judgement until I have turned the final page. But I will read it with a good meal by my side.
