Unrealistic expectations can tank a relationship just as easily as they can a book. And, to some extent, that’s what you’re doing when you pull back a front cover: You’re entering into a relationship — one that, depending upon the number of works an author has to her name, can run the gamut from a two-hour tryst to a long-term affair.

For a while now, a growing legion of readers have been experiencing very loving relations with Marjane Satrapi. Not that any bibliophile could be faulted. After all, there was her 2003 valentine to book lovers, Persepolis, a visually striking, emotionally complex graphic memoir of her life growing up in Iran during the overthrow of the Shah. Close on its heels was Persepolis 2, which more than fulfilled the promise of its predecessor, somehow blending pathos and humor into a delicious mix. Then came Embroideries, which chronicled an afternoon tea wherein a parlor full of women reveal their souls. All of these books were so well executed, Satrapi inadvertently set the well-loved author’s trap for herself with Chicken with Plums: How in the world do you keep it exciting, after so many years?

The truth of the matter is: Satrapi does keep the reader’s ardor bubbling with Chickens, even though it takes a third of the book for the stove to really get cooking.

The story, as it unfolds, relates the fate of Iranian musician Nasser Ali Khan, who just happens to be Satrapi’s great uncle. Ali Khan, a musician of the highest order, wants to replace his broken tar — a Persian lute that’s considered the forerunner of both the sitar and guitar. After traveling overnight on a bus with his motor-mouthed son, Mozaffar, to purchase a new tar, he returns home to discover that the instrument — Dammit!! — is no good; its six strings lack the sweet tones he craves. The news being too much bear, Ali Khan decides to stay in bed until he dies, which occurs in eight days’ time.

Where’s the excitement in that? Other than the panel where Ali Khan lets his son toke up on opium in order to shut his yapper, the thrill is surely lacking.

But you’d be well advised to stick with Chicken, because that setup is merely the appetizer in an eight-course meal. What puts the meat on the tale’s seemingly slight bones is the backstory: in short, lost love. For love, as anyone whose heart has felt as if it were bursting out of his chest knows, is a subject worthy of the best literature. So, too, lost love, with its pains that seep so deep into the fibers, it seems there’s no way the heart will ever find its rhythms again. Thus we discover Ali Khan’s problem: He’s lost the love of his life, a woman.

Or is it his tar? For a while, it’s unclear. There’s certainly another person in his life besides his wife, a woman he simply cannot shake. And yet, there’s the passion for his music. They’re connected, of course, the music and the other woman, but it’s Satrapi’s depiction of that bond that makes this tale so sublime. Partly this is due to the beautifully constructed imagery. How black ink can look so good on a page is a mystery, but it’s one Satrapi has solved. Some of her panels are downright gorgeous.

Then there are the characters: Ali Khan’s talkative son, whose single silent act provides the book with one of its high points; his spurned wife, who tries to enliven her husband with his favorite dish, the titular chicken with plums; Sophia Loren, who is so evocatively drawn at least a few pages could warrant an NC-17 rating; and the Angel of Death, who’s both thorny and cute. Each pays Ali Khan a visit as he slips toward the grave.

Even though you know what’s coming, Satrapi just about tears your heart out in the last panel. Only the coldest soul will find it hard not to think, much less speak: Don’t leave me, Marjane Satrapi, please, don’t leave.

And so with Chickens, Satrapi ensures that the love affair with her readers lingers on.