In a decision that has sent ripples through the literary establishment, the Booker Prize has been awarded to a novel whose central character is not a person, but a dish. 'The Last Course' by Ada Limón (no relation to the poet) is an ambitious work that traces the history of a single recipe through centuries, from a medieval feast to a modern-day pop-up restaurant. The judges praised its 'sensuous prose and profound meditation on memory, migration, and the meaning of home'. The critics, however, are less certain.
At the heart of the debate is a question that has simmered for years: can a book about food be considered 'serious' literature? The Booker has long been a bastion of highbrow fiction, rewarding novels that grapple with politics, war, and the human condition. But here is a book that luxuriates in descriptions of saffron-infused sauces and the perfect crumb of a shortbread biscuit. It is about taste, not trauma. And yet, as I watched the winner announcement in a crowded bookshop in Bloomsbury, I saw readers nodding with recognition. One woman, clutching a signed copy, told me: 'This book made me remember my grandmother's kitchen. It's not less than a war novel. It's just different.'
This is the cultural shift beneath the news. We are living through a moment where the boundaries between high and low culture are dissolving. The same week the Booker was announced, a documentary about a Michelin-starred chef topped the streaming charts, and a podcast series on the history of the potato went viral. Food, once the domain of recipe books and weekend supplements, has become a lens through which we examine everything: class, empire, diaspora. 'The Last Course' is not a book about cooking. It is a book about how we create ourselves through what we eat.
But the literary gatekeepers are uneasy. In a recent op-ed, a prominent critic argued that the Booker was 'devolving into a mere lifestyle prize' and predicted a glut of 'gastro-fiction'. He is not entirely wrong. There is a risk that the novel becomes a vehicle for trendiness rather than substance. And yet, I cannot help but recall the words of the author herself, who said at the awards ceremony: 'We are all made of meals. The first thing we ever do is feed. And the last thing we do, for many of us, is remember the taste of something.'
On the streets of London, the reaction is more pragmatic. At a café in Soho, a group of literature students debated the book's merits over avocado toast. 'It's not that it's bad,' one said. 'It's that it's not what we expect from the Booker. But maybe that's the point.' Perhaps. In an era where the novel competes with Netflix and TikTok for attention, the Booker's decision to embrace a book about food is a recognition that the way we tell stories is changing. The human cost of this shift is the discomfort of those who feel the canon is slipping away. But the cultural gain is a wider, more inclusive definition of what a novel can be.
As for the book itself, I devoured it in two sittings. It is not flawless: some passages meander, and the historical sections can feel researched rather than felt. But at its best, it captures something essential: the way a flavour can unlock a memory, the way a meal can be an act of love or resistance. Whether it deserved the Booker is a matter for debate. But it has certainly earned its place at the table.
