Stir-Fry is one of those books that, once I start reading it, that's the rest of the evening gone; it has an emotional undertow that's hard to resist. (And I'm not even a woman, let alone a lesbian.) It's a beautiful study of what it's like to be young and confused, even if Donoghue occasionally lashes the symbolism on with such enthusiasm that it's like putting too much oyster sauce into the wok. It has some sly things to say about the links between sex and eating (rather more than the title and chapter-headings suggest) and, apart from its other virtues, it was one of the first novels to present late Eighties Dublin flatland in all its shabby, pretentious, movie-postered domesticity. Not the deepest book she's written, but a charmer.