The Sex Life of Food: An Aphrodisiac Primer

“Elizabeth: I am still looking for you. I have not stopped loving you. Call me, my love. You know where I live: Métro Le Dru Rolin. The last time we saw each other was the 14^th of February. And then… no more? – Pierre.”

When it comes to love, what gives us the energy to keep us longing, searching, pining? What kind of amorous hunger drives a man to seeming madness; to poster the sides of ancient buildings throughout Paris in an attempt to once again taste a one-time lover? What is it about love that is so insatiable, and what do we find about being in love that satiates our desires?

Love is biological. It is part of our global history and culture, though its expressions vary across geography, religions, and customs. Love is chemical, just as sexuality too is chemical. According to a February 2006 National Geographic Article, love is a reaction in the pleasure parts of our brains where there are dense patches of dopamine receptors. The biological response to this thing called “love” creates an imbalance of dopamine (which makes us bold, adventurous, active) and just as heartbreak creates an imbalance of serotonin (which makes us lethargic, depressed). Essentially, love, in its most fundamental form, is simply a chemical imbalance.

So can love just be explained away (or even shooed away) by dry, boring, unromantic biology? I don’t believe this is true. What makes this chemistry of love so romantic is that who we fall in love with – meaning, whose pheromones most ardently interact with our own – is beyond our control. The adage, “You can’t choose who you fall in love with” is indeed very true. Love begins with attraction, a meeting of the eyes that lingers longer than you had expected, and grows as we engage our human ability to rationalize and become increasingly co-dependent with our mates.

The need for love and for sexuality are two distinguishable things: the former is based in large part on the constructs of society and the ability of humankind to use rationality (or at times, to ignore it); the latter, while moderated by social constructs and made complicated by rationality, is more fundamentally chemical and biological. One’s hunger for sex is fueled by a series of chemical reactions, the same set of chemical reactions that triggers one’s cravings for food. Both sex and the nutrition of food increase the amounts of adrenaline, serotonin, and dopamine in our brains. Beyond the obvious need to continue the succession of the human species, these chemical parallels between food and sex suggest that they are equally necessary for survival. It is no surprise then that food has historically been used to augment the sexual experience, and that in turn sex has been so often fetishized by food.

Everything we eat is a product of sex. Fruits and vegetables are ovaries. Eggs are baby chicks. Over time, we rational and sex-starved humans have recognized the sexual power inherent in food and used it to fuel and sometimes satiate our sexual desires. Aphrodisiacs came out of human history as means to support sexual health. The people of ancient times were far less properly fed as we are today; this lack of nutrition resulted in a lack of energy and chronic lethargy, which ultimately took a toll on reproductive health. Without proper nutrition from food, women experienced challenges to their fertility, while men suffered weakness in their virility. More immediately, undernourishment decreased libido, and thus food became an important method of stimulating sexuality both by providing fuel for the body and inspiring the mind.

The disappointing truth is that for today’s man and woman, the aphrodisiac effects of food have a far less pronounced effect biologically than such foods had on men and women of ancient times. We are far too well fed, in fact far too overfed, to experience the rush of chemicals that an oyster, an apricot, or a blowfish might effect. But what has not changed is the psychological experience of foods and of eating: the slow viscosity of honey is still so sensual, the bubbles of champagne so ebullient, and the banana and the papaya still resemble parts that make our minds wander. For the more sensual of us epicureans, a peach is never just a peach.

With Valentine’s Day just a few days away, the question on most every foodie’s lips is: what can I feed my lover that will turn him or her on? The good news is that almost any food can be an aphrodisiac: it isn’t always what you eat as much as how you eat it. Preparing a meal with your lover can be a very erotic prelude to food you will actually eat. Bubbling pots, olive oil sizzling in pans, heat from the oven, and the slow, consuming aroma of a meal in preparation all contribute to the build up of anticipation that must release in climax. Both the human sexual response and romantic response increase the amount of heat and adrenaline in our bodies, and the afterglow is a product of the release of dopamine and serotonin. So the expectation and excitement of preparing a meal in a hot kitchen, coupled with the satisfaction of sharing this meal with your lover in fact mimics the entire exchange of the sexual experience.

But what to cook? Why is a sausage sexier than a hot dog? Or vice versa? The key to a successful aphrodisiac meal is combining comfort with adventure. Know what your lover craves to make her feel comfortable at the table, but throw in an unusual twist to pull her out of her comfort zone, thereby increasing her adrenaline and her libido. A meal of completely unusual foods will be too distracting and daunting, whereas a meal of only familiar foods will just breed complacency. If he loves risotto, add something he won’t be expecting to take him off guard and excite him: Champagne Risotto with Maple-Chili Glazed Seared Scallops and Asparagus. Chances are that this little culinary spark of something new in a familiar dish will stimulate your lover’s imagination to find the spicy bit of chili in you.

To get you started, here is a list of some of the more unusual aphrodisiac foods and their significance as aphrodisiacs. These were borrowed, quoted directly from Eat Something Sexy, the fantastic website of Master of Gastronomy Amy Reilly. Visit the aphrodisiacs page to discover more foods that will help you rise to the occasion.

Apples – Ah, the apple, the temptation of Eve - the downfall in the Garden of Eden. But then, what pretty girl could ever pass up a shiny, lipstick red, orchard-fresh fruit of the gods? The ancient Greeks also loved the apple. Instead of slipping a ring onto a fair maiden's finger, a Greek warrior was supposed to toss an apple to the - ah - apple of his eye. If she caught the fruit, the act was as good as an engagement.

Absinthe – An ultimate emblem of decadence during La Belle Epoch, Absinthe was the cocktail of choice on Paris' wealthy nightclub scene. Mixed with water dripped over a sugar cube on a specially designed silver spoon, the drink was an ultra-chic fashion statement. But its true power lies not in presentation, but the dangerous mix of distilled herbs from which the drink derives its distinctive flavor. Absinthe's ingredients include a mixture of Chamomile, Hyssop and other herbs, but its potency and supposed hallucinogenic capabilities are owed to the addition of wormwood, a shrub-like perennial. The drink has been credited with everything from curing stomach ailments to inspiring great works of fiction. The most devout of Absinthe's fans credit the drink with visions of a gorgeous green fairy, La Fee Verte, (think Tinkerbell meets Barbie).

As of October 2007, absinthe without thujone was made legal in the United States.

Apricots – The fruit’s name derives from “apricock”. Australian aboriginals used apricots as an aphrodisiac. The apricot’s pit, or kernel, was steeped as a tea. The flesh of the fruit was crushed and rubbed on the suitor’s erogenous zones as a pre-coital perfume.

Celery – Packed with energizing nutrients, celery stimulates the pituitary gland – a primary gland in the release of sexual hormones. In addition, there is some evidence which points to the scent of celery as suggesting androstenone, the primary male pheromone. As far back as the Middle Ages, the power of celery was well understood, according to a quote unearthed in the Eighteenth Century by Grimod de la Reyniere, “It is enough to stress that [celery] is not in any way a salad for bachelors.”

Eggs – Because of its association with new life, the egg was considered the ultimate symbol of fertility among almost every ancient nation. The Egyptians believed their god created the egg out of the sun and moon.

Figs – Legend has it that eating a fresh fig while naked in front of a woman is one of the world's most erotic acts. Because when its split down the center and cradled by a palm, the fig's pink flesh is said to resemble a woman's sweet unmentionables. The luscious fruit's womanly wiles were immortalized in the words of one of literature's dirtiest birds, author D. H. Lawrence, who dedicated a poem entitled “Figs” to its sensuality. Some historians suspect that the fig's original home was the Garden of Eden, and that the fig was the original temptress, the true forbidden fruit.

Garlic – The powers of garlic in which lovers should take note are not those that fight sleep apnea or winter sniffles, but its purported power to inspire extraordinary stamina and unbridled energy. The ancient Greeks fed garlic to top athletes prior to Olympic competition to encourage peak performance.

Ginger – Its classification as a natural aphrodisiac comes from its ability to increase circulation. Served pickled, candied or in the raw, ginger increases sensitivity in the erogenous zones. French legend Madame du Barry made a practice of serving ginger to her lovers. It was said to drive all, including her most famous lover, Louis XV, to a state of complete and utter submissiveness.

Goji Berries – Known for centuries in Asia, goji berries are called “happy berries” in China, where there aphrodisiac powers are held in high regard. In Chinese medicine, goji berries are administered to strengthen the adrenal system, believed to be a center of sexual energy. The fruit’s aphrodisiac status even found its way into an ancient Chinese proverb warning men who travel away from their families: “He who travels one thousand kilometers from home should not eat goji!”

Grapes – Even before it is transformed into that delicate, fermented beverage, grapes are linked symbolically with love, fertility and virility. The ancient Romans, acknowledged as the first civilization to cultivate grape vines, made both grapes and wine emblems of Bacchus, god of ecstasy (not to mention fertility). Even pre-dating the Romans, in ancient Greece it was a tradition to give clusters to newlyweds in the belief that the grape’s seeds would bless the couple with many children.

Honey – The nectar of Aphrodite, honey is one of the most seductive foods in the world. Sticky, viscous, deliciously sweet, honey is as much a sensual experience as it is a delicious indulgence.

Kava Kava – Kava kava's sexiest effects are experienced when it is transformed into a traditional Polynesian drink. A mildly narcotic elixir, this drink is believed to elevate consciousness while relaxing muscles, a delicious combination indeed. In some island cultures, during ceremonial periods in which women and men are segregated, the men will drink kava kava to evoke illicit dreams of the woman in their lives – or the woman of their dreams.

Mustard – It is mustard’s pungency that earns the seed its aphrodisiac classification. Its intense, spicy flavor is credited with causing a rise in adrenalin. According to the research of Australia's Dr. Max Lake, mustard causes “maximal stimulation of the pain fraction of taste.” It is this balance of pain and pleasure that brings eaters to gastronomic climax.

Oats – Its evidence has only emerged in recent years, but it seems the term “sow your wild oats” has roots in health science. Green oat has been used for centuries in Chinese medicine as a treatment for low libido. Oats, (including oat bran, wild oats and oat straw), may be among the most potent and least expensive edible libido enhancers. In controlled studies, the power of concentrated oats has been proven to significantly raise testosterone levels in members of the rugged sex.

Pomegranate – One of the most prominent aphrodisiac fruits of Greek mythology, the pomegranate was considered a culinary symbol of Aphrodite, the goddess of love. It was also, along with grapes and figs, one of the ceremonial foods of Dionysian rites. A splash of Valentine's red, even the pomegranate's color suggests desire. (In ancient Middle Eastern cultures, this aphrodisiac fruit's many seeds were considered a visual symbol of virility).

Rosemary – “And there is rosemary, which stands for faithfulness." Ophelia from Shakespeare's Hamlet. In addition to encouraging digestion, rosemary is noted for its powers to increase circulation. Bathing in a tub scented by a few drops of rosemary essential oil promises to circulation to the skin and sensitivity to touch.

Saffron – Saffron is a rare Eastern beauty. Its aphrodisiac allure, according to the Knights of Arabia, who used this elusive sorceress with judicious wisdom, is believed to be most effective on women. The Romans adopted a slightly differing opinion, using saffron to scent the baths of both aristocratic gentlemen and their female lovers. Its slightly pungent, herbal taste and stunning hue dominate in the cuisines of the Middle East, but its allure crosses cultures into the foods and lifestyle of Europe's glamorous Mediterranean coast.

Tomato – The tomato has been linked to the Garden of Eden. Some even call it the “other” forbidden fruit. Even into the 19th Century, Catholics questioned the tomato's “morality.” It earned a place, as a matter of fact, on the brethren's list of forbidden dishes, along with any other food that put into question the ability of lust-filled young members of the church to maintain self-control within the scarlet tomato's presence.

Uni – An aphrodisiac in Japan for thousands of years, sea urchin, or uni, as the Japanese call it, rose to popularity in North America in the late twentieth century. Contrary to popular belief, the portion of the sea urchin sold and served as one of the ocean’s most opulent treasures is not the roe. It is the gonads of this hermaphrodite sea creature that are scooped out of the urchin’s spiny shell in five custard-like, golden sections. From a nutritional standpoint, sea urchin is one of the most prominent culinary sources of anandamide, a cannabinoid neurotransmitter. Does this mean that eating uni will produce a similar effect to ingesting marijuana? Probably not, but it is possible that uni activates the dopamine system in the brain, humans’ built in “reward circuit.”

Vanilla – Vanilla's power is in its aroma. Before a vanilla-specked morsel can hit the tongue, the hypothalamus, the gland that controls memory and emotion, jumps into action, evoking feelings connected with vanilla's powerful scent. Dropped into bath water, vanilla will transform the body into sensuous mind-tease.

Table for One: In Search of Regulars at New York City's Restaurants

My apologies to everyone who has been patiently been asking for more. I've had this story written and waiting to be edited for a few weeks now, so here it is finally for you to read. I hope you enjoy it as much as I enjoyed my experience.

Bello Sguardo, Upper West Side
Amsterdam Avenue, between 79th and 80th Streets

"There's hardly enough light for you to read!" she said, offering me a candle wrapped in crimson paper from her table. "Well, that's not going to help any."

Indeed, there wouldn't be enough light for me to read my book, even so early at 8pm on an August night in New York City. The lack of adequate lighting completely defeated the purpose of my mid-week dinner out by myself. After a day of wandering around Central Park and the Upper West Side, I decided to end my day over a lone dinner to read my new book, enjoy a glass of wine and a caprese salad, and savor the lingering heat of day that evening at summer's end.

There is something about dining alone in New York that makes this very lonely practice rather acceptable. Every restaurant in the city has its regulars, and I'd wager that a large percentage of these regulars dine alone. Perhaps it is the comfort of returning every day to the same restaurant; the staff becomes like family, the customer's preferred table like his own dining table at home. But even amidst kissing couples, lively families, and groups of women on friend dates, a crowded restaurant can be rather comforting to those who dine alone. This is why, on that particular night in August, I decided to forgo scrolling through my cell phone contact list and
request a table for one.

That night at Bello Sguardo, a fine enough Mediterranean restaurant on Amsterdam Avenue, I found a bit of unexpected companionship. I was able to read only about a paragraph of my book (Picture Perfect, by Jodi Picoult) when my fellow diner interrupted to engage me in conversation. I found myself entranced by this woman, who told me an story more compelling than the one I read on paper -- the story of a woman's life, where love, family, creativity, and compromising truth and belief in oneself lead her here, next to me, to share my Table for One.

Stella, as she will be called for the sake of anonymity, is a regular at Bello Sguardo. With her jet black hair cut short in an incredibly elegant and stylish bob, she looked like an Italian Cleopatra on whom the waiters doted with a sort of maternal reverence. After she convinced me to order the Chopped Salad in place of the Caprese ("You'll get one tomato and a slice of cheese with the Caprese. The Chopped Salad is more interesting, or so it seems to me."), I ordered a glass of delightfully smooth and inexpensive Chablis, closed my book, and settled back for a simple meal and unexpected companionship.

Stella, like any good regular, called herself a very picky diner. Her meal, for example, was not on the menu. It was rather an accommodation by the restaurant's staff to suit her taste for that particular evening: mixed green vegetables, two rounds of eggplant parmigiana, and a spoonful of penne pomodoro. There hadn't been enough sauce on the eggplant, and she asked the waiter for more. "But you'll have to go downstairs to get it?" she asked, showing her knowledge of the complete topography of the restaurant. The waiter insisted on getting it for her, and so she agreed to have more sauce. Later she told me that she was hoping for string beans rather than mixed vegetables. She also complained --to me only -- that she should have been given Parmesan cheese. She resolved that just for tonight she wouldn't to be too picky.

I was curious to know why this attractive older woman would be dining alone. She was rather statuesque; her dark hair fell closely to her cheeks, as if to frame the features of her beautiful face. She wore the timeless combination of black and white clothing, and her manicured nails were polished a deep purple, just a few shades darker than her lipstick that painted her pouty lips. The only ring she wore was a simple, black band (made of plastic, she later confessed) on the pinky of her right hand.

When the waiter came to take my order, she encouraged me to ask for more feta cheese with my salad. I didn't, for once ordering straight off the menu without asking for changes. When I turned back to her, she looked both amused and disappointed.
"You didn't ask for more cheese..." she smiled.
"Oh, I didn't want to make a fuss. And those people over there look like they have the same salad with a nice bit of cheese on it."
"My children always say I'm too picky," she said, cutting a bite of eggplant with her fork. "I didn't realize I was picky. But I do think that the more I go to a place, like here, the more picky I become."

We talked for a bit about what made her picky: taste in food, taste in clothes, ("I have a pair of leather coolats with silk lining that I bought from Bergdorf Goodman's for $500. And that was in 1986, and I can still wear them... Ten, twenty, twenty-one years later."), and most importantly -- taste in men. She asked me what my past and present boyfriends had to say about my tendencies for pickiness. I laughed, and told her that it was less a question of my boyfriends' commenting on my pickiness, but rather a question of my friends who constantly comment on my pickiness when it comes to picking boyfriends. She chuckled, and then asked me to try to describe my perfect man.

For Stella, her perfect man had been her husband: "When I met him, I ran home and told my mother, 'I met my husband!' I knew right away." She looked nostalgic, and her eyes began to sparkle with dewy tears. "When I first saw him, he was sitting there with his hand on his chin, biting his thumb. His profile was so beautiful, chiseled like a statue."

Stella's husband was the brother of her good college friend, and Stella, after hearing about this brother all throughout college, finally concocted a plan to meet him. Their first meeting was a success, and after a year, they were married. "He made me feel safe and we just knew it was to be. We worked out the questions, and there were no doubts."

She told me about how her husband was a writer who composed beautiful poems to her, two of which she recited to me. Together, they had two children (two boys and a girl). "All I ever wanted were babies," she told me frankly. For her, a career was secondary to having a family. However, once the children came of age, Stella pursued the career of an actress. As a young girl, she did stage shows, but when she was older, she switched to film. "I did all the New York films," she told me humbly. "Serpico, Taxi Driver... I was in all of them. Back then, it was easy to get a part as an extra -- and I could take my babies to the set."

As her story goes, Stella entered the business rather "connected." She was discovered on stage by a fellow who told her to join the Italian-American division of the Screen Actors' Guild. As a bright young thing, she eagerly brought her new friend home to her father. "My father eyed him up and down, gave him a little upward nod. He did the same. It sealed the deal and I was in," she told me, touching my arm. "But when he left, my father screamed: 'What are you doing with a guy like Angelo?? Do you know who he works for?!?' But it didn't matter. Back then for us Italians, everybody worked for somebody."

We spent the whole evening wrapped in conversation about love, careers, food, and family. We touched on subjects that made her cry, we talked about things that inspired me to keep going for what I wanted and needed. At the end of the meal, she moved on to espresso, and asked her waiter if she could smoke. When he casually told her that she could not, she retorted by saying how she saw a friend of his smoking outside a few nights earlier. The waiter clearly couldn't argue with that, but out of politeness, Stella stood up and lit her smoke just on the border of the terrace. Like a star from an old film, she took long drags between thoughts, resting her elbow on the back of her opposite hand. "I think I'm starting to figure you out," she told me. And then she described me in almost perfect detail, and set me on course with a plan.

Once her espresso was finished, it was time for us both to go. We paid our checks (hers considerably less than mine -- another perk of being a regular) and we stood up to walk a bit together up the Avenue. We paused for a few moments at a sidewalk bench, and she lit up another cigarette "for digestion." As the ten o'clock hour neared, Stella turned to me and thanked me for my company, and excused herself to walk home alone into the summer evening.

Stella left me with some important advice, as well as other stories about her life which I guard for the sake of keeping the confidence with which she trusted me by recounting them. Of the many things I came to understand over that dinner with Stella, the most important lesson she seemed to stress was that we do not always have all of the answers. She encouraged us to live life with a little bit of recklessness in order to follow what the heart compels tells us to do. It seems that this philosophy has worked for Stella throughout her storied life. Even though now she dines alone, Stella has lived an entire life of fulfillment, where all of her hopes and needs were fulfilled. It is this life and the memories from it that have remained her trusted company through many a Table for One.

Diary of a New York Waiter

"I miss you." Spray-painted on a sidewalk in Paris, October 2005.

For those of you who have been missing Josh's serial of Diary of a New York Waiter, here on Goûter, don't fret. Josh has opened up his own independent blog, which is hilarious, poignant, and inspiring.

In his latest post about life as a waiter at "Café Roman," Josh reflects on what it means to be alone. As observes two of Roman's most loyal customers, Picky Pam and Two-a-Day-Tom, he confronts his biggest fear of growing old and lonely.


It's what each of us fears most, being alone. And yet, if you look around you, so many of us do end up that way. I find that I look towards my own future and the possibility of spending a great majority of my mature years by myself, and instead of accepting it, I deny, deny, deny. "I'll have a life partner and he won't die first."Or, "I'll have lots of children...children who will be content spending significant amounts of time with their old, lonely Dad."

But then I think of my grandmother, who lost her oldest of two daughters (my mother) to breast cancer, and who lost her husband two years later to heart failure. She, a woman who spent her life giving her entire self to her family, spent these past eight years sitting abandoned, re-watching episodes of Little House on the Prairie, welcoming any distraction no matter how familiar it is. There are, however, things I believe my grandmother, had she pushed herself to do so, could have done to better surround herself with peers and friends so as not to feel so utterly alone. She could have joined a book club - she reads more than anyone I know. She could have worked some kind of desk job that her bum knee would not have prevented her from being able to do. At Cafe Roman, we have two extreme regulars, who, like my grandmother, are elderly and alone. Every day they come in, both with their own quirks, ready to visit their respective surrogate families of waiters.



To read the rest of the post and more about Josh's adventures, visit Diary of a New York Waiter at http://newyorkwaiter.blogspot.com.

Sensual Living: An Epicurean Life Defined

With the exception of the correct pronunciation of this blog's title, the question of what the meaning of "epicurean lifestyle" is one that I receive fairly often.

(To set the record straight, goûter is the French verb, "to taste," and it is also the masculine noun for "a snack." It is pronounced: "goo-tay", not "goo-ter," certainly not "gow-ter" and not "goo-tee-ay." To those who can't pronounce this word -- you know who you are, and let's practice saying it together sometime.)

The word "epicurean" comes from the 3rd and 4th century Greek philosopher, Epicurus, who initiated the Epicureanism movement in a school that started in his home. The school taught the principles of pleasure and sensual living, with an optimistic and secular world view with humans and relationships at the center. He taught his philosophy in the garden of his home; the gate of the school's garden bore the inscription: "Stranger, here you will do well to tarry; here our highest good is pleasure."

Epicurus' school was the first Greek philosophy school to admit women, and it stressed the importance of friendship and kinship through its teachings about following a life of pleasure. Epicurus glorified the body, and developed a non-religious spirituality through his belief in pain and pleasure as measures to know evil from good. Contrary to criticisms of his philosophy, Epicurus did not advocate hedonistic revelry: "By pleasure we mean the absence of pain in the body and of trouble in the soul. It is not an unbroken succession of drinking-bouts and of revelry, not sexual lust, not the enjoyment of the fish and other delicacies of a luxurious table, which produce a pleasant life; it is sober reasoning, searching out the grounds of every choice and avoidance, and banishing those beliefs through which the greatest tumults take possession of the soul. Of all this the beginning and the greatest good is wisdom." [From Letter to Menoeceus] Instead, he posited that pleasure is (when taken in measure) a kind of human divinity that should be celebrated and admired:

Epicurus did recognize the potential problems with a life of pleasure: "No pleasure is a bad thing in itself, but the things which produce certain pleasures entail disturbances many times greater than the pleasures themselves." [8th Principal Doctrine] So what happens when Epicureans go wild? The ubiquitous restaurant critic of the New York Times, Frank Bruni, published an article in yesterday's paper entitled: "Fine Diner to Riffraff: Tipsy Tales of 4-Star Benders." Mr. Bruni goes inside New York's most lavish restaurants to find that despite the most formal décor, some restaurant-goers have hard time maintaining decorum.

Mr. Bruni cheekily recounts some of the most raucous and raunchy stories from New York's finest epicurean destinations. There is episode of the table-top dancing woman at Daniel; skinny-dipping in the restaurant pool at the Four Seasons; Sex-sous-la-Table; Sleeping between courses at Picholine; and countering foie gras protesters by showing bodily proof of the effects of "fat liver" on a fat man.

Clearly, these diners are hardly epicureans because they lack the most important qualities of an epicurean life: temperance, wisdom and appreciation. Perhaps I should correct myself; I am sure that some of them heartily appreciated their meals and their misadventures. I certainly enjoyed reading about them. But what is epicureanism, and what does an epicurean life mean?

I've been called a "flâneuse" after Baudelaire's "Le Flâneur." From the French "flâner," "to stroll," the term describes he or she who strolls city streets and takes the role of the detached observer. To me, this love of ambling about and observing my environment is a product of my epicurean lifestyle. I lived my life in Paris almost entirely through my senses; the above picture is of the table of my 21st birthday, where I celebrated with my dearest of friends at my favorite Moroccan Restaurant, 404 Restaurant Familial in the Marais district. After our dinner of lamb and vegetable tagines, couscous, fresh salads, North African wine, and honey-drenched sweets with mint tea poured from on high, we lingered around a table cluttered with glasses of all shapes and sizes that sparkled in the dancing candlelight.

I observe, I read, I taste, I touch, I feel. Cooking for me is an incredibly sensual experience: my hands are my tools. I cannot cook without touching and tasting everything. If this is a surprise or repulsive to you, just have a look inside any professional kitchen -- you're not the first to taste what has been put on your plate. I believe that part of being a good chef means having a relationship with your food; if you can pick your vegetables, get your fingers covered in the earth. Go to a spice market and let the spice aromas dance under your nose. Always taste while you are cooking so that the flavor romances you as your meal unfolds. Eat with those whom you love, for eating is a communal experience to be done slowly, with attention, and with care.

This savoring of food, ingredients, time and friends is part of what defines an epicurean lifestyle for. Of course, one should always save room for dessert -- for what would a life of good taste be with a sweet and happy ending?


Epicurus, from Letter to Menoeceus:

"We must remember that the future is neither wholly ours nor wholly not ours, so that neither must we count upon it as quite certain to come nor despair of it as quite certain not to come."



404 Restaurant Familial

69, Rue des Gravilliers

75003 Paris
+(33) 1 42 74 57 81



Leave me a comment with your definition of epicurean lifestyle. And as always: bon appétit!

On Being Green

Tomorrow on July 18th, there will be a whole new reason to line up at Whole Foods. As if the lines at Whole Foods weren't long enough, the debut of the market's new "I'm Not a Plastic Bag" tote by accessories designer Anya Hindmarch might just draw the line out all around my favorite Columbus Circle haunt. Since Al Gore and Leonardo DiCaprio came out of the environmentalist closet (yoohoo -- Ralph Nader, anyone?), it's now hip to be green. And it seems even hipper to cash out on this trend. I will admit -- I've been eyeing the advert for the Whole Foods tote for the past two weeks, and I am indeed making plans to get up early just to buy some unnecessary groceries so that I might be able to have the tote, too. Why not? WF is limiting the bags to 3 per customer (and $15 each), and this anticipation of customers rushing the registers must mean that the bags are going to be trendy, right?

Grocery shopping is one of my favorite pastimes, and I have a small collection of non-disposable grocery bags that I take with me every time I shop. I use these totes partly for environmental reasons, but I have them mostly because they afford much more room to pack in groceries than do the plastic bags, and I can sling them over my shoulders. This last bit is important for pedestrian New Yorkers on a budget like me who have to take the subway or bus with a week's worth of groceries, and then cart said groceries up five flights of stairs without help. So with neither an elevator nor a grocery-toting-Knight-in-shining-armour to help me up the stairs, the "I'm Not a Plastic Bag" tote (which appears to be much larger than the ones I have now) is something that I will get up early for tomorrow morning. It's practical and -- apparently -- stylish.

The funny thing about carrying groceries around in New York is that people rarely offer any help. This past Sunday afternoon, I was making the trek from Whole Foods to my front door when one of my lazy, stoop-sitting neighbors looked up at me and said: "Someone must loooove you!" I couldn't really decipher what he meant; wasn't I the one carrying the groceries on my shoulders like a Sahara Desert camel? Did he think that there was someone awaiting my return home who would cook me a meal from these environmentally-friendly grocery bags? And if there were -- wouldn't he have been carrying them with me?

And why didn't the stoop-man offer to help me around the corner?

The way people respond to a grocery-carrier on the New York subway is rather peculiar to me: rather than move around or offer a seat or (heaven forbid) a bit of help, people become nervous and irritated at the sight of someone taking up excessive space. I sometimes get looks that read aggravation, pity, amusement, or even: "Why didn't you just take a cab?"

It is in moments like that when I feel very green myself. I'm carrying environmentally-friendly bags, pounds of organic produce, I'm navigating my quarter-life-crisis in "the real world" and I'm jealous of those who do take cabs without taxi-guilt, or better yet -- of those who get their groceries delivered for an extra charge, no delivery time guaranteed (but that's okay because they live in a doorman building).

I love the subway in general, and there are moments that make the grocery run through the subway worthwhile. Much in the spirit of In the Metro by French anthropologist Marc Augé, I tend to look at my subway ventures to Whole Foods and back as an ethnological adventure. Or -- with a less academic tone -- a chance to look at human psychology. The subway has a code of conduct: don't look anyone in the eye; observe people through your peripheral vision; give up your seat for the elderly, the pregnant ladies, or for pretty young women; warn tourists that the 2/3 express train does not stop at Columbia University (but rather, at Mamma's Fried Chicken); hold on to the pole and pretend that you won't get germs. One would think that helping with groceries might be included in this list, but it isn't for good reason: why trust a stranger with your organic produce?

With all of these rules and regulations (some suggested by the MTA, most just simply understood) comes another kind of code that I can hardly decipher myself. The glance across the car, the lingering bump on a crowded subway, looking up from a newspaper or a book, moving down the car to share a pole, an accidental slip of the hand, the taking out of iPod headphones; these are all the little indicators of Subway Romance, the most enigmatic, ephemeral and exhausting type of romance I have yet encountered in New York City.

I found my solemate on the subway. And then I lost him at 66th street, probably to a rehearsal at Juilliard, or worse yet, to a date at the Metropolitan Opera. And then I am resigned to continue on to 59th Street Whole Foods, and on the way home I'll run into yet another solemate who inevitably gets lost somewhere between the stops on the Upper West Side.

Sometimes this understanding of togetherness-but-for-another-stop is often just a figment of my imagination, but sometimes it is reciprocated. And then the game begins -- glance, read, glance, move down the car, bump, oh I'm sorry, smile, it's okay (bump me again), take out the iPod, makes his way to the door, look back and make eye contact through the glass, and as the subway slows we realize that no, we're not getting off at the same stop, and we don't even say goodbye.

Last week I was making a grocery run home in the evening after work, trying to read "On Chesil Beach" by Ian McEwan and balance two overflowing Whole Foods bags between my ankles. At 72nd street, the train filled up with suit-clad men and women transferring from the express train from Downtown and Midtown Manhattan. I maintained my turf in the middle of the train, and people miraculously gave me space to harbor my groceries. As we pulled into 79th street station, I felt a hand just at the small of my back where I had been leaning against the pole. I turned to find a tall, dark, handsome creature of the subway, tie askew, just coming home from work, spying down into my grocery bags. He shot a quick and timid smile, then turned back to his Stephen King mass market paperback. And then he turned back again to look at the book I was reading as I spied at his. Again catching eyes, we acknowleged the mutual curiosity. Our mutual curiosity.

But what to do? I'd never read a word of Stephen King, I don't know the horror genre, I've never even seen a screen adaptation of a King book, so I couldn't ask about the book. Should I ask him if he lives on the Upper West Side? Too lame. Ask where he's coming from? Work, clearly. Ask for help with groceries? No, the bags were my conversation piece, and an easy one for him to latch on to: "That's a lot of bags you have there, where are you getting off, want some help?" This would be the easy way for him to start conversation. But no, he was the shy-and-curious type, and I though I consider myself a seasoned subway rider, I'm still green when it comes to the art of the subway pickup.

And he only stayed on for one stop. As he made his way to the door, he stepped around and too close to me, and then shot a wide-eyed look and a hint of a smile through the dark, mirror-like window of the subway door. The subway slowed in the station, and I contemplated getting out too and walking the extra blocks home. I knew that this would accomplish nothing, especially with the groceries. Our romance was limited to thirty seconds and seven blocks. When the subway finally stopped, he gave me an extra moment to reconsider as he paused at the open doorway, discreetly twisting his neck to look behind him. But this wasn't my stop; it was his. He stepped off the subway and disappeared, and I stood clear of the closing doors.

While most just slip away, some Subway Romeos actually do succeed in breaking the barrier of space and silence: What are you reading/listening to? Where are you headed? Here, have my seat. You go to Columbia? And my personal favorite (in the dead of winter when I was wrapped up in scarves): You look like you're going to hijack the train -- can I have your number?

No way, my arms are full of groceries in environmentally-friendly tote bags, can't you see?


Author's Note: I didn't end up getting one of the bags. I woke up the morning of July 18 to a thunderstorm and an email from Naomi urging me to get down to Whole Foods immediately: "my mum just said that a supermarket here had been selling those bags
for ages, and people were queueing up at 4am!!" I ran to 59th street, splashing through puddles and jumping across subway cars, only to find a big sign at the Whole Foods entrance that read: "BAGS SOLD OUT!!" Apparently the bags had sold out in one hour (which meant that when I left my house at 9am, they were already sold out). Whether naïvely inexperienced, jealous, or environmentally-friendly -- I guess this proves that it really isn't easy being green.

Pasta Pomodoro

Apparently, Plato said: "No town can live peacefully whatever its laws when its citizens ... do nothing but feast and drink and tire themselves out in the cares of love."

It seems as though Plato was a few centuries too early to understand what it means to be a real Italian: that peace exists most often in those moments of feasting, drinking, and loving -- and that the chaotic combination of the three is sometimes the most fun of times.

Not that I, an American born half-blood Italian, can claim to understand completely what it means to be part of that warm-blooded, tempestuous, and sensual people (though some would contest that I do), but I can say confidently that I do know Italian cuisine. My heart pumps red sauce, balsamic vinegar, and Barolo wine.

Like any good Italian, I believe that food is about love. I first learned to cook in an effort to romance a boy into liking me. Unfortunately, my Portuguese mother and I didn't take into account that he was a WASP, and food was not an important part of his family upbringing. Needless to say, I didn't win his 12-year-old heart, but I did learn the most invaluable cooking lesson: how to make a perfect, hearty, and irresistible pasta pomodoro.

To welcome home my best friend Josh from his four-month celebration of life in Ghana, and in part to say goodbye to my dear friend Naomi who will soon return home to the UK, I decided to prepare a simple summer pasta pomodoro dinner for them and my roommates, just in time to welcome the beginning of a very, very hot summer in New York.

***

PASTA POMODORO
(serves six)

















4 1-Pint crates of cherry tomatoes, rinsed
1/2 Vidalia onion
1 small head of garlic
1 Tbsp Olive oil
1/4 cup Italian red wine
Salt and pepper, to taste
A few Basil stems
1 packet spaghetti or angel hair pasta
Parmigiano Reggiano cheese

Cut all tomatoes into 8-small pieces by first cutting twice in the north-south direction, and then once east-west (thinking of the cherry tomato as a globe). Set aside. Cut onion in half, east-west, then remove skin of one half of the onion. Make thin, 1/4-inch slices along the semi-circle curve side of the onion. Cut all slices in half to make quarter-circles. Set aside. Remove garlic from skin by smashing cloves with the broad side of a chef's knife.

Heat a large sauce pan over high heat. When hot, add olive oil and toss in onions. Saute until they begin to soften, then add garlic. Continue cooking until onions turn golden brown, but be careful not to overcook or burn the garlic heads.

Add tomatoes and stir to incorporate all of the ingredients. Reduce to medium heat. Let mixture cook, stirring occasionally. When tomatoes become soft and juicy, add wine and stir slowly, folding the wine into the tomatoes. Let cook on medium heat for about ten minutes, or until fragrant, stirring occasionally.

When mixture begins to resemble a chunky sauce, add salt and pepper and a few whole basil leaves. Turn to low heat and let simmer.

Fill a large pot with water, add a few pinches of salt, and boil. When water comes to a fierce boil, add pasta and turn to medium heat so water is just barely bubbling, about 3-5 mins for white pasta, 10-12 minutes for whole wheat pasta. When just al dente, drain. Return pasta to empty pot, add about a teaspoon of olive oil and a pinch of salt -- to avoid pasta from sticking.

Take a few large leaves of basil, roll along the long side like a cigarette, and slice into little curls. This technique, the chiffonade, keeps from bruising the basil.

Using a large fork, twirl a serving size of pasta and add to plate, styling like a bird's nest. Add a heaping spoonful of pomodoro to the center so that it overflows down the sides of the nest. Garnish with grated parmesan cheese, followed by a few basil chiffonades.

Serve with a favorite Italian wine, someone you love, and enjoy.