Natalie Tan’s Book of Luck and Fortune is what I’d describe as women’s fiction with magical realism. It also has pages upon pages of yummy food descriptions. While the writing is evocative and every foodie’s dream, the weak romantic subplot, haphazard emotional resolution, and frequent repetition of phrases diminished a majority of the shine of the atmosphere and writing.
Natalie Tan returns to her childhood home in San Diego’s Chinatown following the death of her agoraphobic mother. Natalie’s dream has always been to become a chef; her grandmother ran a very successful restaurant in Chinatown. After her grandmother’s death, Natalie’s mom let the business close down and that grief kept her from supporting Natalie’s dream. Natalie thought she could make it on her own while attending culinary school, but wound up failing out of her program. Unable to return home a failure, especially after her mother had expressed vocal doubts, Natalie spends her life traveling the world, taking up odd jobs, and working in kitchens.
Upon arriving in Chinatown to address her late mother’s affairs, she finds a letter from her mom. In it, she gives her blessing for Natalie to reopen her grandmother’s restaurant. The community is close knit and are hesitant about Natalie’s return. They feel she abandoned her mother and they don’t trust her motivations for reopening her grandmother’s famous cafe.
Doubting herself, Natalie turns to one of Chinatown’s inhabitants, Miss Tai, who runs a lucrative tea shop. Miss Tai also has an “other shop,” as she calls it, that does divinations. Miss Tai tells Natalie that if she uses her cooking to help three of Chinatown’s residents, the cafe will prosper. Armed with her grandmother’s recipe book, Natalie gets to working reacquainting herself with the people of Chinatown, their needs, and what she can do to help the rapidly gentrifying neighborhood.
At first, the magical realism is incredibly subtle, so much so that I didn’t even know it was happening until an opening scenario repeated itself. Natalie refers to her tears as “teardrop crystals.” The second time this is mentioned, she physically scoops them up and puts them in a bowl. She was literally crying crystals; the first mention, though, I thought was a turn of phrase.
A majority of the magic is in the food. Dishes have certain properties wherein they can open minds for discussion, increase happiness, or bestow good luck. When people eat certain foods, their skin may steam or glow, and I loved this exaggerated personification of how food and eating made people feel.
However, there were other parts of the magical realism that didn’t quite fit for me. The teardrop crystals, for one, and then the addition of a spirit later on in the story. I didn’t understand the boundaries or limitations of the magic, or where it came from. At one point, Natalie is literally shedding crystals from her eyes in the back of a cab and no one says anything. I was never able to get a handle on whether the whole world was magical, how deep the magical realism permeated every day life for other people, and how cognizant the other characters were of Natalie’s cooking magic.
I will say that the writing is really beautiful and I loved the use food metaphors to describe things.
A gathering fog brewed at the base of the gate the way steam rises from a perfect bowl of noodle soup.
I was home.
I should have gone straight to the apartment, but I feared the finality of what awaited me there. Instead, I kept my head down, veering by my old front door, speed walking past the familiar shops of our neighborhood, hoping the fog would thicken like salted duck congee to conceal my arrival.
Natalie uses food descriptions to illustrate both moments of hesitation (as above) and the effects her dishes have on those who eat it. In one scene, Natalie cooks a crab dish for a local bookstore owner to give him courage:
Older Shen wiped his mouth, pulling his shoulders back, straightening his spin as if he were being pulled upward by an invisible string. The faded threads of his tweed jacket shifted, vibrating until the color saturated, blooming into a bold palette. The sweeping change traveled onto his skin, leaching away the pallor, tempering the grays in his hair, adding a spark in his faraway eyes. Chi gathered around him. Tiny, almost invisible motes of energy clung to his presence like garlands of Christmas lights.
Food permeates everything Natalie is and does, but food is also what caused a rift between her grandmother and mother. Food also damaged her own relationship with her mom. But where the scenes with food get all the bells and whistles, other moments become lackluster because of noticeably repetitive phrases. The cafe once run by Natalie’s grandmother was once “the jewel of Chinatown,” cooking was “in her blood,” and the concepts of “filial piety” and obligations are repeated at length.
The latter contributed to my disappointment in how Natalie addressed her unresolved relationship with her mother. She doesn’t allow herself to fully grieve that they never were able to repair their connection. Her mother’s agoraphobia kept her in her house 24/7 and yet I never felt any resentment, anger, or really any complicated feelings in regards to her childhood from Natalie. Instead, she expresses more emotion at the fact she never had a father in her life than a mother who let her down.
Natalie realizes her mother was consumed by grief and depression following the disappearance of her husband and her grandmother’s sudden death, and how her mother’s mental illness were exacerbated by the lack of therapy.
Mental illness was a foreign concept in my culture. To my people, superstitions were more real than depression or anxiety. Instead of therapists, we saw doctors, herbalists, feng shui consultants, and acupuncturists. We would rather believe in spirits, luck, ghosts, and demons than the discipline of psychology. Perhaps it wasn’t that my grandmother had refused to see my mother’s condition, but rather she could not see it.
I definitely understand this concept, where certain cultures or generations of family members view mental illness with a different lens. However, that revelation for Natalie doesn’t have any payoff. What about therapy for herself? How about addressing her own feelings of abandonment? We never get that and I had wanted that moment to mean more to Natalie. I wanted to know how this revelation affected Natalie’s relationship and memory of her mom, how it affected her grief, and this image she’s cultivated of a grandmother she never met. The payoff I was wanting never came. She realizes so many things about her relationships in hindsight, but doesn’t do anything with those realizations.
As I mentioned earlier, there is a romantic subplot, but it’s a small percentage of Natalie’s journey. Dedicated romance fans will feel cheated by its existence because it is rather cute, though it lacks significant time to breathe and grow. There are only four or so scenes between Natalie and her beau, Daniel, and during their first official date, Natalie is already telling Daniel that her mother would have liked him. Their relationship progressed incredibly quickly for such a short amount of time, and all while Natalie is trying to kickstart her own restaurant and re-acclimate herself to the community. It wasn’t entirely necessary to include a romantic interest for Natalie.
I’m curious what author Roselle Lim has next, but this debut novel faltered in its execution. Food-centric stories and magical realism are one of my very favorite combinations, and I was really excited to read this one. But with so many uninspiring elements–a middling romance, confusing moments of fantasy, and a heroine who never seems fully own her emotions or allow them to inform future decisions–it strayed from what made the book wonderful to begin with, which was the transformative properties of good food.
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I haven’t read this book yet, but I’m disappointed in this review and feel that it very much centers the white gaze particularly in discussions of the food-as-magic elements of the book.
Also, afaik, this book was not marketed as romance? (Correct me if I’m wrong and Berkley was marketing it as such.) I appreciate knowing it’s a small/insignificant part of the plot, but I’m only disappointed when a book is marketed as romance and turns out not to be.
To add because I don’t think I was explicit in voicing this, but I feel very strongly this should not have been reviewed by a white woman and it shows.
@Amanda: I definitely welcome the comments and always want to examine the lens through which I’ve reviewed something.
Magical realism is one of my favorite genres and I’ve read a lot of it. With food-based magic being the central point to the story, the two examples of magical realism (the crystal tears and scene that happens near the end of the book) felt like deviation from what had been established.
I also don’t believe it was marketed as a romance. At least, I didn’t go into thinking it was one. But the romantic thread was definitely disappointing.
Aww, that’s super disappointing, I’ve been looking forward to this one for awhile, too bad it doesn’t work.
Addendum – hmm, I guess I’ll have to give it a read myself then.
@Lisa F: If you’re interested, give it a go! I’m always in support of readers seeing for themselves if it meets or falters in expectations. The writing and descriptions were lovely, but it needed a bit of tightening in execution.
@Other Amanda: Can you explain how it centers the white gaze to complain that the magical element in the story was inconsistently delivered? GoodReads users agrees with Amanda’s assessment and point out the same problems they have, and many of those reviewers are of Chinese descent.
To my not white but not Chinese gaze it reads like a rip off of “Like Water for Chocolate.”
I am of Chinese/Taiwanese descent. I have not read this book, and I don’t know the author. I would have liked to see a non-white reviewer write about this novel, however, because it does seem like the reviewer is more comfortable with the “ethnic” elements of the book when it’s about food, but finds the book repetitive when the narrative talks about any other Chinese cultural elements. Again, it’s hard to say because i haven’t read this book.
I should to add that I also read a lot of contemporary women’s fiction with magical elements and find it curious that Anon deems this book by this particular author a ripoff of Like Water for Chocolate when there are many, many books by white authors who’ve trod this road. (see Sarah Addison Allen, Linda Francis Lee, and Susan Bishop Crispell for example.) I’m not saying it’s unproblematic, but if we’re criticizing appropriation, maybe this isn’t the book to start with.
@Ruby: That would be because I’m Latina. “Like Water for Chocolate” is a favorite book of mine, and my familiarity with the book made certain parallel narrative elements jump out at me immediately.
No matter what genre a book is, I always want to know about any romantic elements and whether or not they’re satisfying. Especially in reviews from a romance centric site.
I don’t know how much of this is to do with Berkely’s actions, but Goodreads has been advertising the book as a romance/romantic comedy. It did the same thing with The Matchmaker’s List, which arguably doesn’t satisfy genre requirements. I find this frustrating because I read romance to avoid knotty, unresolved emotional threads.
@Amanda: I appreciate your response. I haven’t read the book so I can’t comment on the magical realism elements, but to me the review just felt very much like it was filtered through a lens of whiteness and it felt very othering at times. I say this as a white woman.
@Anon: I really don’t think it’s cool to cite “many of those reviewers are of Chinese descent” when you’re defending a review because it’s not like Chinese-American readers are a monolith. Like surely you understand why it’s problematic to do this?
I’m midway through the book and finding it a lovely, introspective read. The narrative is very internal and inward, so if you like that type of reflection it’s quite a nice read. I really hope the book isn’t being labeled as a romantic comedy! That would be a huge disservice to readers and the author – the character is grieving the loss of her mother and revisiting her entire worldview and culture. Not to say there aren’t light moments, but it’s not at all a rom com.
I read this book and agree with the review. I loved the book until about halfway through, until the magical realism stopped making sense and became inconsistent. The author’s food descriptions are lovely and made my mouth water. And, that part of the magical realism really worked in how Natalie’s cooking. Where the plot started to fall apart happened during THIS BIG REVEAL. The reveal and what happened after, just didn’t work.
I don’t think the review was filtered through a white lens. To me, this is a plotting issue. And, not the author’s fault on how the book is categorized, but it’s not a romance book since the romance is more tangential to the story.
For the record, I am a second generation Chinese American and am well versed in Chinese cooking (across various regions) and am really familiar with SF Chinatown and the history of Chinese Americans in this country.
I’m looking forward to Roselle Lim’s next book. She writes beautifully and is a writer I’m keeping an eye on.
(I apologise if this question is a no-brainer for people more familiar with the subgenre at hand…)
My assumption was that everything under the broad Comedy umbrella – and particularly short(-ish) works – has a tendency towards the “There Are No Therapists” trope because (a) it saves space, and (b) Comedy is mainly about connection with others, not guided introspection; is this assumption incorrect?
If the assumption holds true, only the *mention* of therapy surprises me – not the inaction in the present time.
I haven’t had a chance to read this book yet, and appreciate those who have shared their perspectives. Obviously not every story works for every reader. My concern reading this review is citing the magical realism not being explained and the emotional payoff not being resolved in a Western way makes it seem like the issue might be the Chinese elements not working. Magical realism is by definition unexplained and honestly food making being an emotional experience isn’t even magical realism in many cultures. And family members and communities where mental illness is treated differently are often either not going to resolve that or not going to resolve it always in the same ways that folks raised with a different understanding of it have.
Again, I may find when I read this I also have problems with the execution. But reading this review did not help me understand what didn’t work since it sounded like much of what didn’t work were the non-food cultural aspects.
@Amanda: of course, no – as we can see, with two different people of Chinese descent showing up in this very comment section with differing opinions. But your initial complaint was that only a person of Chinese descent should review the book, which is why I pointed out that even people of Chinese descent think the book’s magical realism is flawed.
I also don’t appreciate your notion that only people who are, for instance, Latina should review books with Latinx cultural themes. If that were true I’d be hunkered down on my Goodreads account only reviewing Pablo Neruda and Patricia Oliveras (the latter of which sounds like a dream as I love her work) cutting me off from authors I love like Beverley Jenkins or Sherry Thomas. Note I’m not saying that ownvoices reviews aren’t worthwhile, important and have value. But if criticism comes from a good and non-prejudiced source, then it’s also worthwhile.
I note that you didn’t bother to answer my questions and went for an ad hominem fallacy and with your confession that you’re white I now understand why. Frankly, your savior complex is showing and that’s plenty problematic too.
@Tara: Regarding the therapy aspect, I think my main problem was that Natalie recognizes the mental illness her mother was dealing with, how it affected her childhood, and the cultural perspectives her grandmother possessed to handle (or not handle) it. But that thought never bridges to how Natalie deals with her own feelings of abandonment or growing up with an agoraphobic mother.
She doesn’t mention personal treatment of any kind be it through therapy, acupuncture, herbalism, etc, and that’s what bothered me. It’s not in the “ways” mental illness was resolved, but that there wasn’t a step toward an emotional resolution in regards to mental illness (that has affected an entire family) to begin with.
With the magical realism, the tears and BIG REVEAL at the end felt like one-offs to the magical realism centric to the food.
At first, I thought only Natalie could see the ghost? But then the ghost makes reference to communicating and seeing other people? Natalie doesn’t realize the character is a spirit for most of the book and it’s referenced that she remembers seeing the man in Chinatown during her childhood.
@Anon I’m sorry but nowhere in my comments did I give a blanket opinion about who should review books. I said this book should not have been reviewed by a white woman not because I don’t think white readers should be able to read and review books by AOC but because this review IMO seemed to lack some nuance and perspective that was at times othering.
I did not attack anyone. I have been a fan of this site for a long time (and have read plenty of other reviews by Amanda) but that doesn’t mean SBTB doesn’t have missteps and IMO this was one.
@Amanda – I didn’t say you attacked anyone – I said you used an ‘ad hominem fallacy’. You responded to my question by saying it was problematic of me to point out that other readers who identified as Chinese found the book’s magical realism faulty. Because you didn’t engage with my question or respond to it in a constructive way but replied that I was being problematic, you engaged in an ad hominem fallacy.
It’s arguable that spots of the review might have been more nuanced – but you have tripped over some lack of nuance of your own. Would you like to explain your reasoning? As you yourself pointed out – people are not ethnic monoliths. Do you think a person of Chinese descent would have criticized the bits about psychotherapy and magical realism more or less harshly? Why or why not, when again Chinese reviewers have pointed out the same problems?
And to conclude – it’s not your place as a white woman to declare anything othering when you have Chinese readers above you giving their opinions that the review is or is not same. You have no idea what’s othering, as a white woman. You are, to be frank, doing bad ally work and need to sit down.
@Anon: You didn’t use the word attack, so that’s on me because I misread your response to me. fwiw, I don’t think I expressed why I felt what you said was problematic very well. I was thinking from a perspective of how sometimes reviews written by ownvoices readers, particularly negative reviews, can be used by people who do not like a book in a harmful way. I don’t think that’s what you were doing but it was my gut reaction to the way that was phrased in your comment. But I do think you misconstrued my meaning as believing that I only think X can review X books. I never said that and felt the need to clarify that I never said that.
wrt othering, I sh/could have chosen my words better. I walk the line a lot between knowing sometimes when to use my position of privilege to talk about something vs. not being my lane vs. not wanting POC to always perform emotional labor. I cross that line sometimes and this is something I will continue to think about with regards to your comments about allyship, so thank you.
@Amanda – That’s why I was careful to say that ownvoices reviews are important and valuable. And I did indeed only bring those reviews up since there was a note of ‘but surely someone of Chinese descent would have given the magical realism a better pass!’ The problem with that idea is that the magical realism the review brings up isn’t even bound to a Chinese cultural more, and that was Reviewer-Amanda’s problem with the story.
I’m sorry you felt i misconstrued your notion! We’ve missunderstood one another on several levels here, I think, but at least we’ve talked it out. Apologies accepted, and no harm done, I understand the difficulty of keeping in ones’ lane!
I finally got this in from the library and read it and felt that if the magical realism element had been more along the lines of “Like water for chocolate” or “Chocolat” I would have liked it better (because of my own issues with magical realism.)
I loved how Roselle used language to draw the reader in and I truly feel that this book was a love letter to Chinese (and to a wider extent) /Asian cuisine. Reading this book actively made me crave the dishes and made my mouth water.
I was expecting more of a romance but was okay with the level of romance that there was. It shouldn’t have been marketed as a romance, but that is on the publisher.
It did bother me that she used the statue of Guan Yin as a heavy handed metaphor for Natalie’s life unraveling. Every single time somebody entered the restaurant space they would comment on how unkept and grimey the statue had become and I was internally yelling at Natalie “Clean your dang statue!” She manages to set up a family shrine and make food for her ancestors but can’t manage to clean Guan Yin? yarg.
Disclosure: I am writing this as a white American married to a first generation Chinese-ethnic American who sees her immigrant in-laws most days of the week. Our Guan Yin is in good condition (as is our cross, yay interfaith/interracial relationships).