Edward St. Aubyn's thin novel (235 pages) makes up in acidity for what it lacks in length. It's all about Patrick Melrose, an attorney in his early forties; his wife Mary; and their two precocious sons Robert and Thomas. The clever title has to do literally with Mary's actually breast-feeding both her sons but it also refers to Patrick's often strained relationship with his unraveling aged mother who gives away the family home in the South of France to a New Age guru Seamus Dourke. The author throws in some adultery, thoughts of assisted suicide, the plight of the institutionalized old people and dysfunctional families in general. The action takes place in four Augusts from 2000 to 2003.What is so exciting about this little novel is its very dry wit, seen most often in the character of Patrick. He calls his wife Mary and himself trainee parents. He opines that newborn babies "can't sweat, can't walk, can't talk, can't read, can't drive, can't sign a check." They are unlike horses who can stand a few hours after they are born. "'If horses went in for banking, they'd have a credit line by the end of the week.'" And sometimes a woman is just a woman "before you light her up."The author reserves his most biting satire, however, for these United States. Having lost the ancestral home in the South of France, the Melrose family travels to America. While their plane is still on the ground at Heathrow, they spot a woman "sagging at the knees under her own weight." Like many Americans, they are so fat that they have "decided to become their own air-bag systems in a dangerous world." Patrick says he will call himself an "'international tourist on the grounds that that was how President Bush pronounced 'international terrorist.'" Finally there is much ado about the awfulness of American cuisine. The Melroses discover that french fries are not called "freedom fries" on a menu. Patrick decides that is is probably easier to write "God Bless Our Troops" than to reprint the menus. At the Better Latte Than Never coffee shop the waiter tells Patrick to "have a great one!" He sees that as as "hyperinflation" of "have a nice day." Patrick then goes on a tear, suggesting "Have a blissful one." "'You all make sure you have an all-body orgasm,' he whispered in a Southern accent, 'and make it last.' Because you deserve it. . . In the end, there was only so much you could expect from a cup of coffee and an uneatable muffin." Goodness knows that American road food is an easy target for satire. We all can tell horror stories of inedible U. S. restaurant offerings. One has to wonder, however, if this writer has ever tasted victuals in his own country. The only decent food I ever ate in England was in an Indian restaurant.