John Lanchester's Debut Novel 'Is Not A Conventional Cookbook.' By Rebecca Cook ENGLISHMAN TARQUIN WINOT, the erudite narrator of John Lanchester's novel The Debt To Pleasure (Henry Holt & Company), possesses a staggering knowledge of all things culinary. Pontificating on everything from the Judeo-Christian roots of serving spring lamb for Easter dinner to the proper method for salting caviar, Winot pulls from an inexhaustible reservoir of food wisdom which will surely delight gastronomes everywhere. But there is more going on in this novel than mere exposition about the pleasures of gourmet dining. Lanchester begins his book with the words, "This is not a conventional cookbook...." Truer words were never spoken. In his debut novel, Lanchester, an editor and former restaurant reviewer for the London Observer, has put together a fascinating portrait of a man driven by corresponding passions for food and a bizarre philosophy of art that reveres absence over the creation of something new. Using the vehicle of seasonal menus, Winot makes tangential leaps in telling his own life story. A description of Irish stew leads to a detailed reminiscence of a childhood maid and nanny. Assorted family tragedies and funerals are recalled in where and what Winot ate afterwards. The pleasures of eating wild game evoke the story of his relationship with elderly gun-toting neighbors in the south of France, Jean-Luc and Pierre, whose penchant for shooting the local wildlife inevitably leads to disaster. It's a mesmerizing recitation of events and impressions and all readers, particularly those with a profound fondness for food, will be amused by Winot's culinary references as a way of describing all aspects of life. In contemplating the architectural merits of a cathedral he's visiting, Winot explains his understanding of proportion as demonstrated in one of his favorite libations. "For myself, I learned all I needed to know about the rules of proportion from the dry martini," he tells us. "The law is: main ingredient (gin), subordinate ingredient (vermouth), and grace note (lemon twist, olive). This is the law of proportion and rhythm that underlies all of the plastic arts, from cocktail-making and cooking to architecture, sculpture, pottery, and dressmaking. Remember where you heard it first." No less quirky is Winot's rather unconventional view of art as not merely less is more but less is less. It isn't what an artist does that is noteworthy but what he or she chooses not to do, Winot tells an interviewer interested in writing the biography of Winot's brother, a renowned sculptor. "The artist lives with an idea, inhabits it, probes it, tests it, until he comes to the reason why it is impossible--and then, surely, he has understood it more fully, he has in the strongest sense created it more fully, than his less intelligent doppelganger who fatally and carelessly makes the naive, of course charming, but still moronic error of actually committing his thoughts to paper, or canvas or the pianoforte." It is clear that Winot considers himself to be an artist of this unusual school of thought, but how he manifests his art is a mystery painstakingly unraveled as the novel progresses. The reader's burgeoning awareness that Winot's wit and erudition is perhaps symptomatic of something more than overbearing pretentiousness emerges gradually and creates a sense of the sinister. To say any more would spoil a good read. This is Lanchester's first novel, and a promising beginning it is. Not only was I entertained, but I learned hundreds of new adjectives to describe the pleasures of the culinary arts. For that alone, I am deeply indebted.

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