A portrait of life in the Mission District of San Francisco uses colloquial prose and Latino slang to capture a colorful group of Mexican-American characters in search of a piece of the American pie. A first novel. Original. Tour.
It was cute, in a lighthearted, easy-reading way. Silly, almost, whimsical and perhaps charming, even, in its guilelessness. Was it literature ? No. Did it bring cheer to the otherwise dull business trip on which I read it ? Yes. (I found this book on the street in Queens in 2015, along with other Latin American fiction.)
This is one of those books that, for whatever reason, has nagged at me for the last 20 years. It falls solidly in the genre of "goofy magical realism", is about as substantial as cappuccino foam, and for me is wholly irresistible. I reread it every time I encounter it.
My reaction, like the book itself, is utterly ridiculous.
So, the truth of the matter is I bought this book solely based on the cover (illustrated by Robert Clyde Anderson). Unfortunately, it was the best thing about this book. The rest of it was unfunny, uninteresting and just plain boring. A real let down.
A laugh-out loud funny picaresque novel that I think is indicative of the need for Chicana/o novelists and writers to move beyond the glory days of El Movimiento.
I've read my fair share of Latino-American novels, but this one wasn't memorable. I felt like it was a bad telenovela that wouldn't end, but thankfully, did.