Sneha Jaiswal (Twitter | Instagram)

The Japanese fiction novel ‘Butter’ by Asako Yuzuki is a slow-burn, paradoxical tale about a journalist seemingly emaciated by her feminist ideals, and a convicted woman crucified by the patriarchal structures she eulogizes.

The plot follows journalist Reiko’s attempts to land an interview with Manako, a convict serving time at a Tokyo prison for murdering three men. It could be the story of the year, and Reiko goes above and beyond to make contact with Manako, a “gourmet” chef believed to have lured men into relationships with scrumptious home-cooked meals.

While admittedly ‘Butter’ can feel frustrating at times, it offers a deliciously dark, gripping look at two very different schools of thought and how those worlds collide, all for an “exclusive scoop.” Here are four reasons to read the novel:

1. The novel cleverly pits Reiko, a progressive, outspoken, fiercely independent journalist who prides herself on being a strong and independent working woman, against the enigmatic Manako Kajii, who firmly believes women are meant to serve men. Watching these two polar opposites slowly forge an oddly intimate connection over months of guarded conversations is one of the most fascinating thing about Butter.

Manako glorifies a traditional world where women express love through perfect meals and rely on men for money. Rika stands at the opposite end, committed to independence and financial agency. So watching those two beliefs collide is one of Butter’s greatest pleasures (even though it can also be weird to read).

2. Part of what makes Butter such a gripping read is the unsettling knowledge that it draws from reality. Inspired by the infamous case of Kanae Kijima, a woman convicted of murdering men she met online, the novel blurs the line between fact and fiction just enough to keep readers constantly questioning where truth ends and imagination begins. That faint echo of real-world horror lingers beneath every chapter, turning the story into more than just a psychological drama; it becomes a voyeuristic dive into society’s obsession with sensational crime, and the uncomfortable fascination we hold for women accused of monstrous acts.

3. One of the most striking elements of Butter is how starkly it exposes the quiet loneliness simmering beneath Japan’s hyper-efficient exterior. The characters orbit each other but rarely connect. Rika technically has a boyfriend, yet their relationship survives on sporadic meetings squeezed between deadlines; Manako, once doted on by lovers, now sits isolated behind prison walls; and even Reiko, seemingly settled in her marriage, moves through life with an ache she can’t name. Beneath all the food, crime, and media frenzy, the novel reveals a society where people are surrounded by others, yet achingly lonely, unable to break free from roles and expectations that keep them painfully alone.

4. If you love food, Butter will absolutely ruin your self-control. The novel is steeped in sensual descriptions of culinary indulgence, from Manako’s near-religious devotion to gourmet recipes, to Rika losing herself in elaborate home-cooked meals and even signing up for an exclusive (and outrageously expensive) cooking circle for wealthy women.

Every interaction between the two seems punctuated by talk of flavor, texture, technique, and the transformative power of real ingredients. There’s a scene where Manako passionately denounces margarine and rhapsodizes about the glory of real butter, and Rika, completely spellbound, rushes off to buy a slab and recreate a simple dish on the spot. It’s impossible to read Butter without craving something decadent, preferably slow-cooked, golden, and lavishly slathered with butter.

5. Butter is surprisingly feminist, even with a misogynist like Manako at the center. Despite Manako’s infuriating tirades about how women exist to serve men, Butter is, at its core, an undeniably feminist novel. Its entire emotional architecture rests on women – Rika, Manako, and Reiko – and the complicated ways they shape, challenge, and transform one another. The men drift in and out, largely irrelevant, while the women grow through confrontation, curiosity, jealousy, admiration, and even obsession.

The book isn’t feminist because everyone behaves like a perfect role model; it’s feminist because it shows women influencing each other’s lives with honesty and intensity, allowing them to question who they are and who they want to become. It’s messy, it’s uncomfortable, and it’s painfully real, proof that female power also lies in connection, not just rebellion.

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