A review by eliya
A Certain Hunger by Chelsea G. Summers

challenging dark slow-paced

• Plot- or character-driven? A mix
• Strong character development? No
• Loveable characters? No
• Diverse cast of characters? No
• Flaws of characters a main focus? Yes

1.0

Haters gonna hate, and predators gonna predate. 

I’ll throw it a star for the premise and food descriptors. Minus 4 stars for the plot, the main character, her “luck,” the way that she describes people, the not at all feminine rage and just blatent disregard for human beings based murders. I get that it’s the point and I am just not interested. Murder for the sake of just murder is 1. boring and 2. easy. This could have been about something. Anything! Instead Chelsea G. Summers fills 247 pages of redundancy. 

I prefer Italian truffles because I prefer Italy.I prefer Italian wine, Italian food, Italian opera, Italian culture, the insane troll logic of Italian bureaucracy, and Italian men.

Creak-creak-creak went the elevator. The door shuddered open. The door shuddered closed. Creak-creak-creak went the elevator. The door shuddered open. Behind me, the door shuddered closed.

There is no Emma Woodhouse without Harriet Smith, there is no Beatrice without Hero; there is no Anne Shirley without Diana Barry. Sex and the City, The Group, Gossip Girl, Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants, Thelma & Louise.

All on the same page: 

real city with real food, real dirt, real night and real men.

…so many people runs like dumbstruck salmon, looking for love, looking for money ot ing for a place to eat, wanting for fame, hoping for a place to se hoping for a person to sleep with, praying for meaning in the dark before dawn.

…if only you open your heart, your mind, your wallet, or your thighs.

decked in crimson, in mustard, in peacock

——
The main character who’s soOo smart and conveniently at the right place at the right time. 

My father's fingers spasmed toward the bare end table, and stopped short. "I get it," I said. "Which one of you?"
"Which one of us what, Dorothy?" My father asked, his voice frayed like a knot."Which one of you has cancer?" My brother looked at me; my sister blurted a short chain of vowels, sucking up the air in the room. "I do," my mother said. "Lung.”