Two Books and Their Boxes

I don't know if I'm getting pickier with books or if I've just had not-so-good luck lately, but I've recently read two which, by their covers, would seem to be books I'd love but instead, I was quite disappointed in.

When Autumn Leaves looked like a fun, homey little town with stories about friendship and community and maybe a bit of magic thrown in. The reality was that the books rushed along, barely making your acquaintance with one character before switching over to another character's point of view. By the end of the book, I'd forgotten who the people at the beginning and hadn't really gotten attached to anyone along the way. Furthermore, the moral quality of many of the characters was quiet dubious and the magic was a fairly dark, wiccan sort which did not fit in with the rest of the timbre of the book. I love epic fantasy tales like Lord of the Rings, Narnia or books set entirely within another world. I like reading about leprechauns and brownies and other folklore. But somehow when a story tries to create a modern day and combine it with outright magic which, frankly, is irrelevant to the story line, it makes it harder for me to suspend my disbelief and enjoy the story. I like genres to stay in their boxes!


The Hundred-Foot Journey was a bit better. It is the story of an Indian boy whose rowdy family sets up a resturant in a little French village to the horror of the gourmand across the road. Eventually he goes on to train and become a great chef. The book hurries through various stages of life from Indian, London, Lumiere, and Paris so you don't quiet ever feel settled in. It reads more like a condensed biography than a novel. Now, I have nothing against biographies. But when it is suppose to be a novel, I like it to read like a novel.
To be fair, I enjoyed all the foodie talk in the book: it made me want to go make a sauce or stuff a quail.