Is there room in our gullets for another foodie memoir? For that matter, is there room for another memoir in that new subset wherein the author picks something to do for a year (having sex every night, eschewing products made in China, etc.) and then writes about it? In the case of The Man Who Ate the World, the answer is an unequivocal yes. Devoid of the preciousness of much food writing, Jay Rayner's laugh-out-loud funny account of grazing his way through the world's high-end restaurants is unputdownable.Rayner, a novelist and restaurant critic for the London Observer, is a self-admitted curmudgeon (think Ratatouille's Anton Ego) and glutton--both qualities that serve him (and us) well as he moves from one ostentatious dining room to another. He travels to standard food capitals such as New York and Paris, but also includes up-and-comers in the global community such as Dubai and Las Vegas and two cities where he found sublime (Tokyo) and ridiculous (Moscow) restaurant meals. All the while, he keeps a running tally of the costs he incurs on his ballooning expense account. Readers learn the precise amount of every meal, which range from $200 (a bargain!) to $700 per head. Through this constant accounting, Rayner acknowledges the outlandishness of paying, say, $1,750 for lunch, but he is unapologetic about what he sees as the unique experience of dining at this level. As he says, "nobody goes to restaurants for nutritional reasons." When the experience doesn't justify the price, however, Rayner points it out in no uncertain terms. Although he is happy to give credit where it is due, he is no worshipper of celebrity chefs he feels haven't lived up to their hype and he doesn't hesitate to toss pointed (if hilarious) barbs at some of the biggest names in the business, especially Gordon Ramsay, who seems to grate on Rayner's last nerve.
Ironically after ingesting exotic animalia from land and sea, many of which are covered with foams, jellies and gold leaf, Rayner finds "one of the greatest dishes I have ever eaten" at L'Arpège in Paris--a tomato that is "summer on a plate." While he rhapsodizes eloquently about restaurants and dishes he loves, he is at his most entertaining when he encounters food he considers not just sub par, but bad. His extended riff on a disastrous artichoke crème brûlée at Le Grand Vefour in Paris is, alone, worth the cover price. But there are way too many tasty morsels here even to summarize in such a short space. Like a perfect meal, this book is finished way too soon.--Debra Ginsberg