The Food of Love

Valentine's Day approaches, and human hearts pine for romance. Gifts are purchased, poetry written, cards chosen, flowers ordered, reservations made, all with the intent of setting the stage for a Valentine's Night of love. At no time of the year do the myriad mysteries and heady allure of aphrodisiacs garner more attention.

What is an aphrodisiac? Author Isabel Allende, whose book Aphrodite is devoted to the subject, says it is "any substance or activity that piques amorous desire." While the adjective aphrodisiacal might describe an activity, the noun is most often considered in the context of food.

Consider, then, the oyster, surely the most acclaimed aphrodisiac. Are its amorous qualities attributed to its undeniable resemblance, when presented glistening on the half-shell, to a woman's vulva? Is it the briny flavor, which might evoke the salty taste of skin slick with sweat? Or is it the fleeting experience of an oyster: a silky moment on the tongue, then a sensuous slither down the throat?

Though I have feasted on oysters with lovers, the delectable appetizer has not always led to the entrée, just as a torrid bout of necking does not always segue to making love; in both cases, the absence of the latter doesn't diminish the pleasures of the former. Focusing on the pleasures at hand seldom leads to disappointment.

If beauty is in the eye of the beholder, then doesn't an aphrodisiac's appeal lie on the individual tongue? One man's oyster is another's passion-killer. But fear not, there are, according to Allende, hundreds to choose from. Edible stimulants run the gamut from sea urchins to frog legs (which bear an uncanny resemblance to Barbie legs), from bull testicles (consumed by men) to figs, from truffles (wild and chocolate) to honey. If variety is the spice of life, then an amorous couple with international leanings might pair the Kama Sutra with Aphrodite, eating and coupling feverishly page by page, entangling themselves in Ratipasha (Love's Noose) after a shared bowl of Taj Majal—a dessert made with apples, saffron, fresh-squeezed orange juice and Grand Marnier, topped with Chantilly cream.

But so much effort is not always called for. The spark could burst into flame just as easily from a loaf of bread, a hunk of cheese and a bottle of wine, shared on a blanket in front of a fire; a bowl of juicy oranges, a basket of warmed, buttery croissants and a pot of pressed coffee, brought to bed on a rainy day with the Sunday Times; takeout boxes of Chinese food, delivered to the door and ravenously set upon by a pair of bathrobe-clad lovers armed with chopsticks. One perfectly ripe raspberry, a spoon of custard, a dollop of caviar, a sticky fig, a sliver of foie gras, placed tenderly through parted lips into a receptive mouth, is surely as effective as a Taj Majal, if the act is performed and received by two people who embrace the connection between food and sex.

My first job in journalism was as a receptionist for a men's magazine; my first assignment when I finally worked my way into the editorial department was to write the scintillating copy for a spread of racy photographs of erotic foods, arranged in blatantly sexual poses. I was never able to look again at pomegranates, artichokes, asparagus, melons, peaches and, yes, oysters in the same way again.

But pornography pales as a stimulant when compared to Pablo Neruda's ecstatic expressions of love and lust toward fruit and vegetables:

From that time

earth, sun and snow,

sudden gusts

of rain in October,

along the roads,

everything,

light, rain,

left

in my memory

the smell

and transparency

of the plum;

Life ovaled

a goblet to contain

its clarity, its darkness,

its coolness.

O kiss

of the lips

on the fruit,

teeth

and lips

dripping

a fragrant amber,

the liquid

light of the plum!

—from "Ode to the Plum"

Mario, Emeril, Charlie, Wolfgang are all celebrity chefs who have fervid followings of adoring female fans, heated hunks of the Viking Range. But the hottest person in the kitchen these days is Nigella Lawson, she of the long, curling black tendrils of hair, plump red lips, voluptuous figure and honey-toned voice. She calls herself the Domestic Goddess, but I think of her as the Queen of Food Porn.

Consider her lasciviously entitled cookbooks, How to Eat, Nigella Bites and Feast. On the come-hither cover photograph of the first, she gazes sloe-eyed, beckoning us into her pantry of delights. On Nigella Bites, she is posed for the money shot: eyes closed, mouth slightly open, a morsel of food headed right to the tongue. On the cover of Feast, the newly married Nigella is luminous, glowing with the radiant incandescence of a well-loved woman. The language on the book jackets is rapturous, salacious, randy and hilariously euphemistic: "lays bare the secrets for finding pleasure," "delectable," "exciting twists," "private passions," "joie de vivre." Inside, Nigella is photographed fondling vegetables, caressing fruits, kneading dough, pounding meat, laughing, smiling, tasting, drinking, delighting in the bountiful treasures of her kitchen.

Is the way to a man's heart through his stomach? It has happened. But almost certainly, one way to a woman's libido is through her mouth. I fall in love with professional chefs—male and female—on a regular basis. An exquisitely delicate appetizer, an earthy cassoulet, a gorgeously crafted presentation—their arrival at my table quickens my pulse and accelerates my breathing. But it is the intimacy of something cooked just for me in the privacy of a home kitchen—whether it is an omelet or duck confit—that will pierce my heart and bring me to my knees.