A raw, engrossing, and sometimes uncomfortable memoir by a British chef. It covers his childhood and teenage years as though he's reliving them, recounting events with the same naivete and unconscious cruelty that he had at the time. The Britain he remembers is alien to me, with strange brand names (Fry's Chocolate Creams, Old English Spangles, Walnut Whip), dishes I've never heard of (parsley sauce? Victoria sponge? cheese footballs?) and class markers I don't recognize. It's really, really well written--I only wish it had covered more of Slater's own forays into cooking.