I cannot stand those who do not take food seriously, said Oscar Wilde. Today it has become a major occupation, obsession, mania; cooking along with the hygienist ordeal of what is good or bad for us are the buzzing soundtracks of our days. Taking food seriously, however, is another matter. Certainly, without so much advocating it, Elena, the woman who tells her story in this book, and Daniela, the masseuse she turns to in order to fully commit to a weight-loss diet and reshape her body, do so. Because what they share during their sessions is something profound. With each dish they name, each recipe or tradition evoked, a memory, a friendship, a love, a family ritual, a wound resurfaces. The pea creams and party krapfen of Ulrike, anorexic out of a desire for perfection, in the Munich of Elena's childhood and adolescence; the Prague plum bread dumplings of Ružena, obese to ward off the nightmare of Soviet tanks and the pain of exile; Teresa's gattos, which she reclaims by cooking her identity; the Sunday lunches of Daniela's Venetian, peasant grandmother; down to the salted herring that awakens in Elena the memory of Sabbath kiddush in her Jewish family, and especially of her father who died too soon. At the end of a novel that mixes and unites, as food does, individuals and cultures, Helena Janeczek still reserves the space for a reflection on a tragedy of our years, the collapse of the Twin Towers, through the stories of the cooks who worked in the towers.