I just finished Adam Platt’s book, The Book of Eating, on how he ended up being a food critic. Having had an International upbringing myself, I totally enjoyed the first 3 quarters of the book. These pages flew by and chronicled a life based on exotic locations, food and family traditions. It was the last quarter of the book that ended up making me feel sad. It was as if I were reading the experiences of a dinosaur that just had witnessed the Meteor that would be the cause