The idle ramblings of a Jack of some trades, Master of none

Aha! The official imprimatur to my hypothesis, at last. Tobias Jones, in the Observer, makes the following observation about crime fiction based in foreign climes:
The other major difference is that in classic crime fiction the investigator tends to be a bit of an old soak, sinking a gimlet between each phone call. In this reinvention of the genre the investigator tends to be a more sober sort of gourmet, a food rather than a cocktail fetishist. Reflecting the fact that the British are obsessed by recipes these days, these books usually contain endless ingredients and evocations of smells and flavours. Omar Yussef describes "the aroma of walnuts and dates from the ma'amoul shortbread pyramided on wide trays outside a sweetshop". Yashim the eunuch cooks up Acem Yahnisi, describing in detail the blend of chicken and walnuts and pomegranate juice.
I'd like to claim that you heard of this predilection for endless recipes here, but I shall not be so possessive of this discovery.


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