An unexpected disclaimer is hidden in the small print at the front of my edition of Like Water from Chocolate , the debut novel by Laura Esquivel: "The recipes in this book are based on traditional Mexican recipes and have not been tested by the publisher."
Why shouldn't a novel double as a cookbook? If a novel can be in the form of a diary or emails or an annotated poem by a murdered academic , what's wrong with adorning a narrative with recipes for chiles in walnut sauce, ox-tail soup, and cream fritters? Didn't Francis Bacon say that some books must be tasted?
At first glance, the drama of this story sometimes seems undermined by the recipes—especially when emotionally-charged events are interrupted with descriptions of how to boil beans or spice chicken. Remember that moment in the film Goodfellas where the drug-dealing protagonist finds himself tailed by a police helicopter, but still remembers to phone his brother with instructions on how to make a delizioso pasta sauce? Every chapter of Esquivel's book includes at least one digression of this sort, yet what would seem a clumsy transition in another book eventually takes on a ritualistic significance in this novel of food, family and fiery affairs.
The old adage "you are what you eat" certainly applies here. The heroine of our story, Tita de la Garza, is an inspired cook, but her own emotions are somehow transferred into the dishes she prepares. When her tears are mixed with a wedding cake, the guests are overcome with grief and lamentations. When a thorn prick allows a few drops of her blood to fall into a rose petal sauce, her pent-up passion adds an aphrodisiacal quality to the meal—inspiring Tita's sister Gertrudis to run off with a soldier from Pancho Villa's revolutionary band. No wonder the publisher added its warning note!
As these incidents make clear, Esquivel has embraced the tenets of magical realism in crafting this immensely popular novel—which sold close to five million copies in 35 languages, and was turned into a 1992 movie, which became the biggest-grossing Spanish-language film released in the United States. Almost anything can happen in this book. A woman can weave a bedspread that covers three hectares, lovers can set off a volcano with their coupling, and people can give advice from beyond the grave.
Characters refuse to disappear in this novel. Tita is berated and terrorized by her domineering Mama Elena—who insists that Tita cannot marry because of a family tradition which requires the youngest daughter to take care of her aging mother. When Mama Elena dies suddenly midway through the book, readers may breathe a sigh of relief for their henpecked heroine. Yet the harridan soon comes back in ghost form, and continues to nag and threaten just as she did when she was alive.
At the outset of Like Water for Chocolate , Mama Elena's intervention prevents Tita from marrying her suitor Pedro. Pedro agrees to marry Tita's sister Rosaura instead—he decides that this will at least allow him to stay near to the woman he loves. A hidden romance continues to blossom between Tita and her brother-in-law, although Mama exercises vigilance in trying to keep the lovers apart. In time, Tita finds herself with a second suitor, the older doctor John Brown—who wants her to leave the de la Garza ranch and marry him, and is indifferent to the objections of Mama Elena.
Tita now needs to chose, between her options. She can be wife, adulteress, or spinster—depending on whose advice she takes. Will she find love and fulfillment, or just pain and frustration? This "love triangle" plot here sometimes lapses into the conventional elements of a supermarket romance book. But Esquivel is unable to remain conventional for more than a few pages at a time, and inevitably the romances in this novel prove to be as peculiar— and dangerous—as the cooking.
I could carp at many things in this tale. The chronology is jarring, with a story that last 22 years fitting uneasily into twelve chapters named after the months in sequence. The fireworks at the conclusion almost literally enact the deus ex machina ploy that Horace ridiculed back in the days of the Roman Republic. The tone is often more suited to a fairy tale than a novel. And yet Like Water for Chocolate possesses an endearing quality that both compensates for these limitations and explains the tremendous appeal of Esquivel's novel.
Reading this book, I was reminded again and again of my own mother who, in the final days of her life, put her waning energy into compiling a cookbook of family recipes . She was more focused on completing this project than on anything she had done in years—and shortly after presenting copies of the work to each of her children, she stopped her cancer treatment and died a few weeks later. Her family, her personal story, and her legacy were inextricably connected to the food she had prepared over a period of decades. I sense something similar in this novel. Esquivel is not just sharing a story here, but something very deep and emotionally- charged from her own most formative experiences. Like guests at a banquet, we have been invited to partake, and if you have any sort of discernment, you can taste the love that went into the recipe.