A blend of fantasy and historical fiction, set in late-eighteenth-century Bucharest, written by a Romanian author and thus chosen as my Romania pick for a Reading-Around-the-World challenge — this book sounded perfect. Having visited Bucharest myself this summer, I was especially excited to encounter the city refracted through literature, history, and magic. Unfortunately, the novel did not deliver.
My first issue lies with the English translation. While I am fully aware that translation is always an act of interpretation, here it often felt overly literal. There were multiple moments where phrasing sounded unnatural in English — not stylistically marked or deliberately strange, but simply awkward, as if carried over word-for-word from the original. The cumulative effect was distancing: instead of being immersed in the narrative, I was repeatedly pulled out of it by sentences that did not quite work. This is particularly damaging in a novel that relies so heavily on atmosphere, rhythm, and sensory detail.
Pacing compounded the problem. Some sections lingered, which was not always a flaw — in fact, slower passages often contained the book’s strongest prose. Elsewhere, however, the narrative became abruptly discontinuous. Scene transitions often felt underdeveloped, and the story would jump from one moment to the next without sufficient narrative grounding. I frequently had to reread passages just to understand what had happened, not because the material was complex in a rewarding way, but because the connective tissue was missing.
The main protagonist herself was another source of frustration (and, perhaps due to her peculiarity, I felt detached from most of the other characters as well). I found her irritating for much of the book, but I eventually realized that this was at least partially intentional: she does not fully understand what is happening around her, and thus the reader does not either. However, I believe that choosing a first-person narrative was a mistake. Told from the perspective of a fourteen-year-old girl — peculiar as she is, and steeped in mysticism/magic — the story becomes overly confusing rather than intriguingly opaque.
This leads me to what I consider the novel’s most significant missed opportunity. The book constantly gestures toward alchemical elements, yet this dimension remains frustratingly underdeveloped — or, more precisely, obscured behind the mysticism of the Sator. Who is the Sator remains unclear, because at no point does the author explicitly explain any aspect of the mysticism around which the story revolves. I did some research, and the connection between Sator (as in ancient roman religion and mythology) and the Sator Square (Latin palindrome), and Hermeticism is, at best, tenuous. I only fully realized in the final third of the novel that the “magic” we are dealing with is, in fact, alchemy. This raises an uncomfortable question: how is a reader with no prior knowledge of alchemy supposed to understand what is happening at all? Why does the author not fully embrace alchemy as the novel’s mystical framework and invite the reader into it? Personally, I would have loved that. Instead, for much of the book, I assumed this was simply the author’s own invented magical system. In the end, it feels as though the novel gestures toward alchemy without committing to it, substituting depth with a loosely defined mysticism.
Another aspect that troubled me was the repeated use of ethnic stereotyping, particularly in depictions of Arnauts and Serbs, who are consistently framed as violent, dangerous, or morally suspect. I understand that this may reflect historically accurate prejudices circulating in the Bucharest at the time, and I do not expect historical fiction to sanitize the past. Still, the insistence on these portrayals — without sufficient contextualization or narrative distance — felt excessive and potentially harmful. Repetition matters, and when stereotypes are reinforced rather than interrogated, they risk being reproduced rather than critically examined.
In the end, The Book of Perilous Dishes struck me as a novel rich in atmosphere and potential, but uneven in execution. Its setting, premise, and thematic ingredients are compelling, yet they never fully come together into a coherent or satisfying whole. I wanted to love this book — and that may be precisely why its shortcomings felt so pronounced.