Junko Takase’s Akutagawa Prize-winning novel is a feminist’s nightmare

Junko Takase’s “Oishii Gohan ga Taberaremasu Yoni” is a rare work that makes good food seem rather unsavory.

The novel that won the Akutagawa Prize this July is a deceptively mundane story depicting the everyday work life of three co-workers. It seems at first like a typical Japanese work place drama, poking fun at various office stereotypes. But the book also takes to task a “given” of urbane society (not just in Japan, although it’s certainly a mainstay of Japanese pop culture): the exaltation of foodie culture and the pursuit of deliciousness. The title, which roughly translates to “I wish to be able to eat delicious food,” suggests a story filled with loving depictions of gourmet scenes and smells — but the reality is much less appetizing. (At time of writing an English translation hasn’t been announced.)

The story is told through the alternating points of view of a woman named Oshio and a man named Nitani. The plot revolves around their shared disgust and fascination toward a third co-worker, a woman named Ashikawa. All three are around 30 years old and go by their surnames.

Oshio comes across as a whip-smart, hard-working, physically tough woman whose inner life is dominated by resigned observations about social hypocrisies. In Ashikawa, she sees a sweeter, more feminine counterpart, something of a rival who she nonetheless feels compelled to protect without really understanding why. Nitani is another familiar type fully realized by Takase: a smart man with the potential for an intellectually rich inner life, but who routinely shuns challenging people and conversations in favor of helpless girls who bore him.

Nitani’s most interesting trait is that he despises food and, more than that, he’s irked by the expectation that he should enjoy it. He prefers to pour garbage into his body, subsisting on a diet of mostly convenience store food and instant meals.

“Do you like good food?” he asks Oshio at one point. She gives him a look and says, “Are there people who dislike good food?” Nitani smiles darkly and responds, “I dislike people who chose a lifestyle based around eating good food.” The performance of being “into” food, he thinks ruefully throughout the book, is a waste of time.

Nitani is so convincing that readers may find themselves disgusted by breathless scenes of beautiful cakes, and instead mysteriously craving cup ramen. Layered underneath the themes about food and office politics, though, is a more sinister commentary on feminism and social currency.

Ashikawa is physically weak, prone to headaches if she does overtime, makes mistakes in her work and generally can’t be relied on by the people around her. At one point, Oshio meets Ashikawa’s brother and notices he won’t even trust her to look after his dog when he’s out of town. Oshio and Nitani, by contrast, work late hours and are diligent, highly competent go-getters.

And yet it’s Ashikawa who is the unlikely company favorite. No one protests when she leaves at 6 p.m. on the dot, though everyone else stays behind to pick up her slack. She also has an endearing out-of-office talent: She makes painstakingly detailed desserts and baked goods, which she brings into the office as an apology for the fact that she can’t (or won’t) work overtime. To the reader, Ashikawa is the only character who seems to have a healthy work-life balance. Yet, the subtext is obvious: If she has so much energy to travel all over town for cooking classes and to spend the weekend baking, why can’t she use that for work?

Oshio and Nitani bond over the mix of revulsion, jealousy, pity and resentment they feel toward her. Even after Nitani and Ashikawa grow closer in secret, his confused feelings of attraction and disgust toward her don’t seem to abate.

Ashikawa is an amusingly portrayed "cute" girl stereotype, down to her concerted effort to always be smiling, even when she’s alone, and her habit of saying “That’s good” and “I’m glad to hear that” for no apparent reason. The more helpless Ashikawa acts, the more likable she becomes to those around her. The reader, like Oshio and Nitani, is drawn into the mysterious force of this otherwise unremarkable dead-weight co-worker. Though we never hear her inner thoughts, this doesn’t act to disempower Ashikawa; rather, she gains more of a mythical status, an impressive untouchability.

Takase’s book is written in simple, straightforward language, compared to the more typically literary Akutagawa winners. (As such, it also makes useful reading practice for Japanese learners.) It’s sometimes funny and feels true to life, but that’s what makes the story all the bleaker. Ashikawa represents a nightmarish yet entirely real version of female social Darwinism, one in which intellect and diligence are found low on the food chain, and high up are naivete and the ability to curry sympathy.

In the view of this book, it’s surely better to be loved than to be feared, and even better to be loved for making fancy shortcakes. But readers, be warned: The ending may leave you with a feeling of queasy discomfort, as if you ate too many sweets.