Through the parallel plotlines of a hip young locavore chef and his guerrilla-anthropologist father, this novel explores the theme of place, of rootedness, of identity derived from connection to the land or the willful repudiation of such a connection.

Unfortunately, and I guess inevitably given its subject, it's hopelessly rooted in its own time and place, such that if you’re not au fait with Vancouver circa 1995 a hell of a lot of this story is going to be lost on you. The book is jammed with street names and other left-coast references that will do nothing for non-Vancouverites.

The other issue is the abundance of annoying characters. Our hero, Jeremy, is more or less agreeable, but his Stanley Park-dwelling dad is smug and self-mysterious, and pulling Jez in the other direction is coffee mogul wanker Dante Beale, who is of course supposed to be a PITA but jeez we spend a lot of time in his rancid company. There's also a precocious child, and I can’t stand precocious children.

Stanley Park isn't a bad novel though. It does have something to say and it's stuffed with filthy food porn, even (especially) when things get ultra-locavore in a wonderfully written climactic scene.