Few novels interrogate the intersection of food, power, and gender with the same unflinching precision as Asako Yuzuki’s Butter. Inspired by the real-life case of convicted Japanese serial killer Kanae Kijima, Yuzuki’s novel is a masterful blend of crime fiction and social commentary, examining the ways in which a woman’s relationship with food can become both a source of rebellion and condemnation. The exquisite translation cooked up by Polly Barton leaves readers licking their lips, tasting the novel with every page turn.
Rika Machida, a centrepiece of the novel, is jaded in her journalistic career when initially approaching the case of Manako Kajii. An enigmatic wordsmith, with a seductive degree of culinary artisan, Kajii has thrust herself under the spotlight facing life in prison for the swindling and killing of multiple men. Rika believes it to be an open-and-shut case, but as she dives deeper into Kajii’s complex word, a web of deceit and conflicting stories begins to unravel. With every page, the novel becomes less about solving a crime, and more about unpacking the deeply ingrained misogyny that moulds how society perceives women who choose to live on their own terms.
Yuzuki indulges us in her succulent prose. Butter-laden toast, rich stews, delicate confections – food is a central metaphor for both the pleasure and transgression endured by our focal characters, a tangible expression of the themes present throughout the novel. In a culture that prizes restraint, particularly in the expectations placed upon women, Kajii’s unabashed, unapologetic love of all things food is viewed as deeply grotesque, her ample body serving as a visualiser for her supposed moral corruption. Yuzuki deftly critiques these biases, exposing the ways in which female appetites – particularly for food, sex, power and all else beyond what is to be considered “ladylike” – are overwhelmingly demonised.
The novel also serves as a searing indictment of the complicity in this gendered narrative upheld by the Japanese media. Through the perspective of Rika, Yuzuki lays bare the industry’s damaging, toxic fixation on tales of morality, where women are either saints or sinners, victims or villains, with far too little room for the nuanced complexities of life. As Rika thrusts herself into the world of Manako Kajii, she starts to question not only the veracity of the allegations, but the systems of power that make such accusations so easy to believe.
Butter burns slowly, its pleasure unfolding gradually, like each course from a long, elaborate meal. Some readers may find themselves faltering at the pace, but others may recognise, through Yuzuki’s patient storytelling, that this is the key ingredient in making the novel so powerful. The work demands reflection, with every slow build-up is a period to pause and confront the uncomfortable prejudices about desire and autonomy lingering at the pit of your stomach.
Butter serves not to be categorised through subcategories, instead it manifests itself as hunger – an inescapable thirst for desire—the be all and end all—transcending any perceived political form. It asks uncomfortable questions about the prices women must pay for satisfying their appetites, and leaves us wondering if justice is ever truly served?