Well, it started out promising anyway. Snappy, occasionally insightful, droll—with an ear for the rhythms and interplay of language (and dialogue, in particular) that called to mind Delillo, however approximately. But long about half-way through, I realized this thing was on the fast track to nowhere. It's all well and good to spruce up the language—fluff it like droopy pillows on a sofa—but sometimes you need more than just decoration. What's for Dinner? treads the same suburban dysfunction terrain that's so de rigueur these days. Alcoholic wife, libidinous widow, ruthless patriarch, saucy granny, and two lumbering, pot-smoking twins who jack each other off at night. Just connect the dots. The pivot point, I guess, is the alcoholic wife, Lottie Taylor, who ships herself off to a clinic (the back cover calls it an 'institution') to get a handle on her drinking so that she can resume her petty suburban life of dusting her knick knacks and drinking tea with her neighbors. Much of the novel transcribes the group sessions at the clinic where, under the direction of an aloof doctor, Lottie alternately chats, quarrels, and problem-solves with her fellow patients: a grieving mother, an irritable drug store owner, an acid-dropping college drop-out, et al. The dialogue in these sessions is well-observed but not very meaningful or—as the novel wears out its welcome—very interesting. In the end, we're back at the beginning. Nothing important has changed, and we're left wondering why we've been following these characters around for two hundred pages. It was pleasant enough, I guess, but a lot like walking without moving. (Addendum: I refuse to believe this book was proofread even once before it was published. More flub-ups than a Sarah Palin speech. If they can't be bothered to read their books, why should I?)