Repulsed and ravening. Sickened and salivating. With succulent descriptions of delectable cuisine and repugnant depictions of gore and butchery, “A Certain Hunger” by Chelsea G. Summers simultaneously made my mouth water and my stomach churn. Chock full of carnage and carnal sex, this carnivorous tale of a femme fatale with an insatiable appetite is the epitome of a guilty pleasure. While grotesque at times, the book provides a stark look at the roles of gender, power, and rage in the life of a modern woman.
Dorothy Daniels is an esteemed New York City food critic with a passion for the finer things in life. Whether that entails a full-bodied Super Tuscan or the actual body of a male lover, her palette is more, um, sophisticated than most. And with her irresistible charm, sharp wit, and blatant disregard for human life, Daniels possesses all the key ingredients necessary to become the perfect serial killer.
The story begins with a grisly homicide on Fire Island. There’s duck confit and an ice pick. There’s ‘99 Brunello and a house fire. It’s a jarring opening for the events that are to follow, yet it sets the stage beautifully. As a fifty-one-year-old Daniels recounts her life from behind bars, we catch glimpses of her mundane childhood, explosive career, fiery relationships, and descent into cannibalism and crime. “Feminism comes to all things, it seems, but it comes to recognizing homicidal rage the slowest,” posits Daniels from her cell at Bedford Hills Correctional Facility.
One common theme throughout “A Certain Hunger” is the rejection of the idea that women are “the fairer sex.” Throughout history, anger and violence have been rights reserved strictly for men. Thus, as a killer and (quite literally) a maneater, our antihero’s actions are the ultimate act of defiance against centuries of sexist exclusion. Power comes up a lot, too. Dorothy Daniels only eats the men she loves—but she does so because she hates them. She is notorious for mixing business with pleasure, hence her desire to feast on the flesh of bosses, coworkers, and profile subjects once they’ve served their purpose. From liver and tongue to buttocks and brisket, Daniels sleeps soundly knowing her superiors and subordinates can never leave her. The murder of former flames is the apex of achievement; the consumption of their bodies is the pinnacle of power.
There were many, many moments when the main character’s behavior left me feeling utterly nauseated during these 251 pages. Yet, I also found myself rooting for her on occasion. While I am certainly not an advocate for cannibalism and murder, I am an advocate for female rage. Too often women are expected to remain calm and collected in the face of adversity, and Dorothy Daniels completely obliterates this notion. She may be soulless and psychopathic, but she is the caricature of a woman who refuses to let the patriarchy dictate her life. She is a downright villain, but also kind of a badass. If that sort of thing thrills you, you’ll undoubtedly find yourself satiated. But beware: “A Certain Hunger” was never intended for the squeamish, the moralists, or the men.