Mr. Spigelgass has composed a gastronomical hymn to the best dishes in the Hollywood-Broadway world, during which he name-drops stars like chopped walnuts, gives ratings for the leading cookbooks in print, discusses the literal amount of food he has eaten in his lifetime, and surveys the cooking mores of celebrities. He personally can't cook, despite his chic kitchen, which is perhaps why his book is more about eating than cooking. He does not like Quicke Lorraine, a fact which makes his present work plainly sinister, particularly when the reader watches him gobble pounds of commercial bandy bars. What possible discussion is there with a man who stuffs himself on store-bought cookies but sneers at Boeuf a la bourguignonne? Does Mr. Spigelgass's taste come in a cardboard container, half and half, sugar on the side, with a wooden stick? One fears one might find him attacking one of those plastic sundaes in the Woolworth windows. In any event, his packaged humor has the rich pasteboard flavor of a Fig Newton, while his cellophane-glittering asides on the stars are stickily unsophisticated. His victuals' log for the production of A Majority of One has a few shreds of interest, but mostly the book is like a brownie wishing it were a devil's food cake.