I was lured to reading this book by the promise of foodie bits. Unless burgers, steak and chips, breakfast burritos and basic pasta are your culinary heights, don't bother. This is serious knee deep chic lit, from the enclaves of Highgate, Finchley Road, Golders Green and Stamford Hill, where food is a folk myth and nice things are bought from a shop, not made at home, which is probably a mansion flat. Apart from the construction of a burger, which takes several pages, a love fest, and a literary pat on the back, much of it is devoted to the angst of a serial cad follower. There is a bewildering reference to American Strawberry Shortcake which turns out to be sponge, and is supposed to be made with lard, a total confusion between shortcake ( lard ) and classic sponge ( butter ). The writer should forget the cooking angle until she knows how to boil an egg, and stick to the shmoosy, sentimental chic bit. Lots of people like that stuff. People who like to cook and also read a decent book are not impressed by steak and chips.