As a rule, I am entirely of a pragmatic bent when it comes to choosing cookbooks. They are tools, like the knives on my counter, or the sturdy stainless steel measuring cups in my “baking” drawer, or the indestructible Krups mixer I’ve been using, heavily, to make cookies and cakes for the last fifteen years. And like any kitchen “tool,” I need a cookbook to work well. That means, among other things, that it has to be legible—no fancy typefaces, and it has to be well-organized—no grouping dishes by the phases of the moon (you laugh, but I’ve seen it done). It has to have an index, and it has to have recipes that can be made in an only moderately stocked kitchen, using ingredients you can get in a supermarket. It has to fit on my kitchen counter, and be sturdy like all my kitchen utensils and appliances. It has to react well to spills and drips and grease and grime. It has to be flexible---amenable to creating small meals for a single diner, and larger ones for more festive occasions. It has to be realistic—there is no point in giving me instructions for a dish that requires three sous-chefs and a specialized garnish knife to prepare properly. I have two good knives and only one friend who will occasionally help out in the kitchen, and I daren’t abuse the privilege. And most of all, it has to have recipes I think would taste good, which is a rarer event than you’d think for someone who likes to eat as much and as many things as I do.

If a cookbook is lacking in any of the above criteria, especially the one about abuse of fancy fonts and typefaces, I’m not likely to be interested. Quite the opposite. I’ll sneer in a superior manner at any book that dares to disregard my Rules of (Cookbook) Order. Which makes my reaction to Soby’s New South Cuisine all the more remarkable; this is a cookbook that blatantly thumbs its gourmet nose at all my ideas of what makes a good cookbook, and yet I was not sneering at all...read more