Short version: Brite conclusively breaks out of the horror ghetto with this charming mainstream novel about two New Orleans cooks who open a restaurant. Full review at Green Man Review:
I know you know who wrote this book—her name is right there at the top of the review, about a quarter-inch above this sentence— but pretend for a moment that you don’t. Pretend you never read a horror novel called Exquisite Corpse, featuring two gay necrophiliac cannibals, or else pretend that you, like I, never started it and couldn’t get past the first disgusting chapter. Pretend you never read any short stories by a woman with a certain gloriously improbable name, not even that sizzling demonstration of the fine line between arousal and terror called “Calcutta, Lord of Nerves.” Most importantly, pretend you never read a book called Lost Souls and forget all about its cast of Goth vampires drinking Chartreuse in the steamy streets of decadent New Orleans.
You don’t have to pretend quite so hard that you never read Drawing Blood, in which a haunted house provides the backdrop for a touching romance between two troubled young men. And if you happen to have come across the short mainstream novels Plastic Jesus or The Value of X, you may not have to pretend at all.
Clear your memory of all preconceptions, and read this excerpt from a novel called Liquor, by some woman named Poppy Z. Brite, in which a young man reminisces about being a cook at the Peychaud Grill :
Rickey sometimes wondered what would have become of them if the Peychaud crew hadn’t imploded one night in a marathon of apocalyptic drunkenness. No one remembered much of this night, but by the end of it, two cars were totaled, the sous chef and the bartender were in Charity Hospital, the chef was in jail, and the grill guy’s wife was filing for divorce. The owner decided to close the place and they found themselves jobless. Rickey guessed this kind of thing was known as a “wake-up call.”
Liquor has no vampires, no serial killers, and no steamy, swampy, Gothy New Orleans clichés. It doesn’t need them.
Rickey and G-Man are young cooks in a distinctly unglamorous New Orleans. They’ve been best friends since fourth grade and lovers since they were teenagers, and their relationship has the playfulness and ease of true love that’s lasted for years. They’re sick of slaving away as line cooks in lousy restaurants and getting screamed at by cokehead managers. While drinking vodka and orange juice in the park, Rickey gets an idea. Since people in New Orleans love drinking so much that it’s legal to get your cocktail in a go-cup so you can walk from the bar to your house without letting your throat go dry, why not open a restaurant called Liquor, in which every dish contains alcohol?
As G-Man points out, there’s the slight problem that the two of them are both unknown and broke. But Rickey’s not going to let persnickety matters like that get in the way of his really great idea. Soon they’re cutting deals with deceptively amiable crooks, renting a fixer-upper of an abandoned restaurant that’s perfect as long as they can convince a booze-hound reporter not to publicize its unfortunate past, hiring eccentric dessert makers and fat-phobic grill men, and hoping Rickey’s vengeful ex-boss won’t snort too much coke and come after him with a sharp kitchen implement.
The details of work are one of the most enjoyable subjects to read about. Often when reading some mystery or sf novel or thriller, I wish that the writer had left out the plot in order to focus on the more interesting subplots involving the characters’ jobs and relationships. Brite concentrates on the fascinating business of cooking and running a restaurant, on the kitchen camaraderie and the New Orleans restaurant scene, and on the sweetly companionable relationship between G-Man and Rickey. There's not much plot but it isn't missed at all.
Brite’s lush horror prose style, in which every noun has an adjective, every kiss has a flavor, and every place has an entire perfumery of smells, is discarded here in favor of an omniscient voice which is crisp, witty, and casual in the way that can only be achieved with great care and skill. The characters are likable, their relationships feel real, and the milieu is irresistible.
If you liked Anthony Bourdain’s foodie memoirs Kitchen Confidential and A Cook’s Tour, you’ll like Liquor. If you never heard of Bourdain or Brite but are looking for a good absorbing novel that will leave you cheered and emotionally refreshed, albeit hungry and longing for a stiff drink, you’ll like Liquor. If you liked Poppy Z. Brite’s horror novels for their romances between young gay men, you’ll like Liquor. If you liked Brite’s horror novels for their purplish prose, air of doomed romanticism, and pale fragile souls too sensitive to live, you’ll have a shock in store for you. But you’ll probably like Liquor anyway. It’s just that sort of book.
I missed her signing in LA yesterday, alas. I had and have a nasty cold and didn't make it to karate either. (I think it's unsociable to share viruses.) But I was pleased to read on her livejournal (docbrite) that she enjoyed a formal Korean banquet.
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. Great book! It's probably a big part of the reason why I wanted to visit.
