In a move that has sent shockwaves of digestive satisfaction through the literary establishment, the Booker Prize has been awarded to a novel about food. Yes, you read that correctly. A book that probably contains more descriptions of béchamel sauce than existential dread has won the most prestigious award in British letters. The judging panel, apparently consisting entirely of people who confuse flavour profiles with moral philosophy, declared the novel "a bold exploration of the human condition through the medium of gastronomy." Or, as the rest of us might put it, "a book that makes you hungry."
Let us pause to consider the sheer absurdity of this. For centuries, the Booker Prize has been a bastion of highbrow literary fiction, rewarding works that grapple with the crushing weight of existence, the futility of love, and the bleakness of the human soul. Now, it seems, they've decided that the pinnacle of artistic achievement is a well-crafted description of a soufflé. The literary world, ever eager to pat itself on the back for its 'daring' choices, has collectively burped its approval. Critics are falling over themselves to praise the novel's 'sensuous prose' and 'visceral storytelling,' which is critic-speak for "I was really, really hungry while reading this."
One can only imagine the panic in the hallowed halls of publishing houses. Editors are now frantically rifling through their slush piles for manuscripts about cheese boards. Agents are demanding that their clients include recipes in their next novels. The next Man Booker longlist is likely to include such titles as 'The Sorrows of Steak,' 'The Remains of the Day's Meal,' and 'Mrs. Dalloway's Dinner Party.' The Booker Prize has effectively become the literary equivalent of a Michelin star, and I, for one, cannot wait for the inevitable cookbook adaptation of 'The Unbearable Lightness of Being Hungry.'
But let us not be too harsh. After all, this is the same prize that once gave the award to a book about a man who turns into a fly, so perhaps we should have seen this coming. The British literary world is celebrating its bold choice, but let's be honest: it's not bold, it's a desperate attempt to seem relevant in an age where people would rather watch cooking shows than read novels. The judges have essentially admitted that the only way to get the public to read is to write about something they can eat. Next year, I fully expect the Booker Prize to go to a pamphlet on how to properly brew a cup of tea.
In the meantime, I shall be making a pilgrimage to the nearest gastro-pub to mourn the death of serious literature. Wash it down with a decent gin, of course. Because if you can't beat them, you might as well get drunk and enjoy a good meal.
