She climbed into bed and snuggled in to read his cookbook ? it was so large that she had to balance it between her knees with help from another pillow. The binding cracked as she turned page after page of seductive food photographs and mouthwatering recipes. To her, each one was a romantic, short story with a happy ending ? and so night after night she fell asleep to fantasies of lobster poached in butter, trussed and roasted chickens, tenderly filleted fishes, delicate greens and warm-gooey chocolate desserts. And it wasn?t just that the pictures were so sensuous ? the chef-author was a real writer ? a glorious writer who drew her in with stories from his childhood ? and tracing as he went, the narrative arc of his sensitivities towards cooking and eating.

He claimed that the cookbook was the culmination of his chef?s intuitive and spiritual self and that he was gifted with a genero...
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