GIRL DINNER, by Olivie Blake
The term “girl dinner” began as a meme, women posting shots of haphazard meals that were often little more than snack-plate assemblages: cheese, pickles, leftover meats. Both a joke and a cultural commentary, the practice speaks to the ways women negotiate hunger, appetite and self-image. Olivie Blake seizes on this idea and pushes it to its darkest extreme: What if the meal wasn’t hummus and grapes, but human flesh?
Her new novel, “Girl Dinner,” alternates between two protagonists whose experiences mirror and refract each other. The college student Nina, a young initiate into a secretive sorority that is simply called The House, longs to be chosen and deemed worthy. Sloane, a 33-year-old adjunct professor already settled into the exhausting grind of academia and motherhood, embodies the woman Nina might become — or the fate she is desperate to avoid. Their stories circle questions of power, identity and female desire, and converge around the sorority’s sinister secret ritual: cannibalism.
The premise is rich with satirical possibility, and Blake (best known for the “Atlas Six” trilogy) takes aim at contemporary culture with a sharp and often comedic touch. Her characters’ refrain of “I’ll send you the link” skewers online trends, and impossible beauty standards are exposed in lines like “She didn’t need Jas’s help hating herself, or what was the cosmetics industry for?”
Trad-wife fantasies of serene domesticity and the performative illusions of parenting are also punctured, particularly in the depiction of Sloane’s relationship with her husband, a tenure-track professor named Max, and their child: “It was an indisputable fact that nobody made Sloane’s life more magical than Isla — and nobody made her more miserable than Isla, either. Though occasionally it felt like Max was vying competitively for the spot.” As the novel baldly states, “You either eat or you’re eaten. That’s just what the world is.”
Marital irritations are miniaturized to deliciously absurd proportions: Sloane forgets to put out silverware for a meal, so her husband retrieves exactly one fork — for himself. The comedy often lies in tonal shifts: “She and Max had agreed it made the most sense for her to drop off Isla, given that Max had the earlier lecture. This logistical element was considered more pressing than Sloane’s desire to die.” At other moments, the humor is sharper, slyly erotic: Of Sloane’s delectable new T.A., Blake writes, “She had the vague sensation of wanting to witness him on horseback.”
The sorority promises fertile ground, with its rituals, hierarchies and secret rules. Blake captures Nina’s craving for affection and belonging (think “Promising Young Woman” meets “Legally Blonde”), then subverts it by literalizing that hunger in the act of women eating their fill. In this sense, the novel explores what it means to be a “Good Woman” — obedient, beautiful, self-denying — and what it might mean to reject that script.
And yet, for all its intelligence and boldness, “Girl Dinner” frustrates as much as it intrigues. Too often, Blake substitutes interior monologue for narrative drive. Pages are consumed by ponderous reflections on patriarchy, marriage, authority and the pressure to be perfect, many of which feel repetitive.
At one point, Nina observes, “It was as if the impulse to seek attention had dimmed, a prior necessity transformed into an erstwhile symptom of cringe-inducing youth, the high of casual hookups now rendered cheap and fleeting.” At another, Sloane muses, “Because if she could understand something fundamental about the way human beings innately deserved to live, then maybe it was possible to contribute some working understanding of how to ensure it.” Such meditations are earnest but wearying, coming at the expense of plot, character development and, crucially, immersion in the sorority’s rituals.
When the action does arrive, it feels sketchy. Sloane’s academic life is thinly rendered; her plan to write a sociological text on the bloodthirsty practices of The House strains plausibility, given that those involved display little concern at the prospect of exposure.
Disappointing, too, is the treatment of the cannibalism itself. For a novel built around anticipation of the act, the details are maddeningly evasive. The book is more than halfway through before the consumption of human flesh makes even a fleeting appearance, and when the long-awaited ritual meal arrives, Blake skates over it in vague, hurried prose. Where is the kill, the preparation, the plattered meat glistening in its juices? Where is the sensory immersion — the smells, the textures, the taste?
These brief final chapters diminish the payoff and leave the story feeling undercooked. Blake proves herself witty, stylish and unafraid of big ideas, but she holds back just when the story demands abandon; a tempting amuse-bouche, rather than the full feast.
Still, there is much to admire. The novel probes urgent questions about women’s lives: the contradictions of feminism, the intersections of race and class. For readers who relish debate, it makes a provocative book club selection, perhaps one best savored over some choice cold cuts.
GIRL DINNER | By Olivie Blake | Tor Books | 368 pp. | $29.99
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