The first third or so of this was superb. It flowed, there was visceral language about visceral ideas. I could (and do) believe that it was a stream-of-consciousness rant that just happened to work as a whole.
The middle third felt like I went from a novel to a collection of short stories that shared a topic, but not a theme. Nothing that made me angry, but nothing where one story really led to another...so not even a very well curated collection of short stories.
The final third pushed back into coherent chapters, but even then the chapters could have been shuffled and I doubt that there would be much change to how the book read.
Part of why I loved this book is that I recently finished Marco Pierre White’s ghost-written auto-biography. White was certainly the better chef. This is undeniably the better (and more honest) read.