Imagine ordering a sophisticated éclair, something refined and skillfully crafted, only to be presented with a doughnut. This bait-and-switch begins to describe the experience of reading Pineapple Street, a book that, despite its initially appealing premise, ultimately delivers a hollow and unsatisfying literary experience. Like a doughnut with a vibrant, eye-catching glaze, Pineapple Street promises something more than it delivers. You might initially think, “Okay, it’s a doughnut, but maybe it’s a really good doughnut.” However, upon biting in, you discover it’s dry, bland, and utterly unremarkable. Edible, perhaps, but certainly not enjoyable. This is the two-star experience of reading Pineapple Street: inoffensive in the moment, but leaving a lingering sense of emptiness. Worse still, like a surprisingly upsetting doughnut, the book leaves a dull ache of disappointment long after you’ve finished, prompting a one-star rating and a firm reminder to distrust book recommendations, especially those originating from certain predictable sources.
This feeling of literary indigestion is reminiscent of the daily recipe recommendations that sometimes emerge from the New York Times. These recipes, often geared towards a specific palate, tend to be relentlessly basic – chicken with potatoes, pasta with broccoli – culinary embodiments of uninspired safety. Similarly, Pineapple Street appears tailored for a particular demographic favored by NYT book reviewers: the “bougie woke” crowd. These are affluent, self-congratulatory liberals who seek validation in their entertainment, favoring moralistic narratives devoid of genuine artistry but saturated with the latest progressive talking points. Virtue signaling, executed with maximum effort and minimal subtlety, becomes the defining characteristic. And so it is with Pineapple Street: visually appealing on the surface, yet ultimately self-righteous, politically trendy, and embarrassingly preoccupied with signaling its own virtues. Beneath the surface, one finds a void: zero stylistic flair, shallow explorations of its supposed themes, a predictable plot, and characters as engaging as cardboard cutouts. It’s a literary nothingburger, purportedly inspired by a fleeting NYT profile of privileged young individuals redistributing their wealth – a source as substantial as cotton candy. That it was reportedly written in a mere four months comes as absolutely no surprise; rushed and underdeveloped are its defining qualities.
Despite leaning left myself, and appreciating narratives that engage with class consciousness, Pineapple Street failed to resonate. In fact, its blandness was actively off-putting. The novel attempts to depict class tensions, but does so in the most flavorless and uninspired manner imaginable. It’s like being presented with a dish that promises complexity but tastes solely of mayonnaise and syrup – perhaps a hint of vanilla extract for added insipidity. While each of these ingredients might be palatable in moderation, a dish composed entirely of them is, quite simply, a terrible idea. No amount of vibrant literary food coloring can mask the fundamental lack of substance.
The truly disheartening aspect of this experience is discovering that the “chef” behind this flavorless concoction is not some novice, but a leader in her field. The author, Emma Straub, is an executive editor and vice president at Knopf, a significant publishing house. The realization that someone in such a position champions and facilitates the creation of such bland and uninspired work is deeply concerning. It suggests a literary landscape increasingly dominated by flavorless dishes, meticulously crafted to offend no one and satisfy nobody of discerning taste.
