Abstract
Alexis Jenni's savage and surreal indictment of the French postcolonial wars begins with a more postmodern malaise. An unnamed narrator slumped on the sofa, watching rolling news of the Persian Gulf War, is slowly sabotaging his life: his job, his friendships, his marriage. In the pivotal scene that will cast him adrift, having promised his wife he would buy dessert for an elegant dinner party, the narrator instead goes on a shopping spree, visiting butchers from former colonies to buy offal and exotic viscera with which he prepares a macabre banquet worthy of Titus Andronicus.
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