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"Without Remorse or Recipe" is how I would translate this title. Wolfram Siebeck, the influential German journalist and restaurant critic, was someone I already knew in my childhood; I read his restaurant reviews in my parents' papers. After I had left my parents home, I heard less of him, but later met someone who had even cooked together (or was it against?) Siebeck.
This blog reflects how I read fewer and fewer books over the time; the last entry about one is even 4 years ago. My parents know this, and their birthdays gifts are now mostly not books, or ones that can be consumed in little portions on the loo, for instance.
But about this one, when they gave it to me on my birthday, my father said, I know you are not really reading books any more. But still, you actually should read this one!
So I did, mostly on my commute, meaning but twenty minutes (the uninterrupted time on the train) two times weekly. Still, I managed to read it to the end, and actually this wetted my appetite for reading more books again. That is good!
Now this book is rather not as significant as my father made it sound. It is interesting to some degree, it is somewhat entertaining, but if Siebeck hadn't been in my mind since the 70s, I might as well have found it a bit boring.
Siebeck comes across as someone with a curious intellect, but also vain, arrogant in parts, not necessarily the most likeable character, and not one out to save the world — and he knows it. That he paints this picture of himself with some self-mockery makes it bearable, but then he *is* a snob when it comes to eating, cars, people, and ways to live.
The more interesting and central parts are, apart from his account of the end of the war, in which he was involved as a 16-year-old, his portrayal of the rise of fine dining after the war, and journalism's increasing interest about it. His narration about the places where he lived, mainly that cottage in south France, and all the hassle with it, isn't, so much.
In the end I found the book somewhat interesting and entertaining (he can write, after all), but far from being a must. I don't regret spending the time to read it, but I could have done without it.
This blog reflects how I read fewer and fewer books over the time; the last entry about one is even 4 years ago. My parents know this, and their birthdays gifts are now mostly not books, or ones that can be consumed in little portions on the loo, for instance.
But about this one, when they gave it to me on my birthday, my father said, I know you are not really reading books any more. But still, you actually should read this one!
So I did, mostly on my commute, meaning but twenty minutes (the uninterrupted time on the train) two times weekly. Still, I managed to read it to the end, and actually this wetted my appetite for reading more books again. That is good!
Now this book is rather not as significant as my father made it sound. It is interesting to some degree, it is somewhat entertaining, but if Siebeck hadn't been in my mind since the 70s, I might as well have found it a bit boring.
Siebeck comes across as someone with a curious intellect, but also vain, arrogant in parts, not necessarily the most likeable character, and not one out to save the world — and he knows it. That he paints this picture of himself with some self-mockery makes it bearable, but then he *is* a snob when it comes to eating, cars, people, and ways to live.
The more interesting and central parts are, apart from his account of the end of the war, in which he was involved as a 16-year-old, his portrayal of the rise of fine dining after the war, and journalism's increasing interest about it. His narration about the places where he lived, mainly that cottage in south France, and all the hassle with it, isn't, so much.
In the end I found the book somewhat interesting and entertaining (he can write, after all), but far from being a must. I don't regret spending the time to read it, but I could have done without it.