There are gaps in the narrative, however - four years in this restaurant, five years in that - that might have provided evidence for the distinction of Hassan's three Michelin stars.
What lets the novel down are Morais' descriptive passages and his figures of speech.
Madame Mallory is depicted incongruously in one instance as a monster, "a slashing and scarring across the eyes, and I saw the cruelty that lurked there too, all tightly bound under [a] feathered Tyrolean hat".
Other passages groan under the weight of adjectives - "a sea of white tables and long-stemmed irises ... Baroque murals and rococo mirrors, with tall windows offering a panoramic view of Paris dressed in expensive pearl strings".
Morais leaves nothing to the imagination. Especially when it comes to food, where he excels.
What could be more stomach-turning than the mental image of a kitchen apprentice neatly splitting an okra, and then "using his finger to smear a lurid red chili paste on the vegetable's white inner thighs"?
There are, in a fish market in Mumbai, apparently, "trays of squid, the skin purple and glistening like the tip of a penis". (Stop reading now if you're feeling squeamish.) There are descriptions of gourmet dishes, including "paper-thin slivers of grilled goose liver layered delicately between the pudenda-pink meat of fresh-water crustaceans".
There's more, but you get the idea. Even the sun does not escape the food comparisons, variously described as the colour of mango, chili and saffron. Harmless enough, perhaps, but suddenly I've lost my appetite for culinary novels. I rather hope Richard C. Morais has too.
Phoebe Falconer is a Herald columnist.
