Champagne and Roses

Written by Mona Awad | 12 February 2009

Aphrodisiacs: Experiments in a Tenuous Faith

When it comes to aphrodisiacs, I remain something of a skeptic. Chances are that if your lover doesn’t want to ravish you in the first place, force-feeding him or her a half-dozen membraneous pearls isn’t going to help. I know because I’ve tried. Yet, despite the cynicism born of failed attempts, I refuse to dismiss the idea entirely. Food and sex are simply too inextricably, anciently linked. I like them that way; I believe we all do. Certain foods, certain meals, certain methods of presentation and preparation have encouraged this tenuous faith. Sure, food might not be able to create a fire where none exists, but it could perhaps feed, manipulate, enhance an already existing flame … I recently tested this burning hypothesis on my husband.

First, a few warnings

I came to the kitchen with a heart full of a difficult wisdom: tempted as I was to pull out the terracotta pot and attempt artichoke-stuffed squab, delving into exotic cuisine and complicated preparation has only ever turned me into a flour-covered martyr. This time, I avoided all tendency to perfectionism. I urge you to do the same. It will only make you hate the meal (for being impossible) and your lover (for being insensitive to what you have endured on his or her behalf). Also, cook nothing that will make your chasms sweat, the vein in your left temple twitch, your blood pressure rise or your face blotch in asymmetrical patches. Ease is the thing, the sexy thing. Ease, elegance and a handful of ingredients. The idea is to do it all laughing, champagne in gloved hand — okay, so I could never do it laughing; champagne, on the other hand …

Libations and the art of balance and selection

Tempting as it was to use a bottle of Patrón as Cupid’s bow, I resisted the almighty urge to get him drunk. That said, libations areas essential as mood lighting and bossa nova. I attempted, therefore,to keep us teetering all night on the threshold of tipsy. In addition to not drinking too much, one must consider the type of swill one is going to elect as one’s ambrosia. It has been my experience that each alcohol breeds in me a different sort of beast (I cannot be alone on this). Naturally, only some of these beasts are good in bed.

The thing is to know thyself and thy alcohol-spawned creatures. Too much tequila and I’ll speak in tongues. Wine, on the other hand, can make me brood. Gin turns me into a bleary-eyed smirker. In the end, I chose champagne for its giddy lightness, its celebratory feel and its sexily suggestive connotations. While good champagne served in a chilled flute is, in itself, bliss, consider the following suggestions: top 4 ounces of best-quality champagne with 1/2 ounce of crème de pêche, cassis, Chambord or Midori (a melon liqueur); serve with a bowl of strawberries; place a raspberry or two or four into each flute before pouring.

Sex in a salad

Now, both of us lightly swaying, our edges pleasantly blurring, we were ready to eat. I wanted something that would sing with the champagne, something light and teasing. Something, more importantly, I could put together drunk. Salad was, I thought, a wise choice. And if I ever ate sex in the form of a salad, it was in London, at Jamie Oliver’s Fifteen. Mixed leaves with mint, peach, prosciutto and fresh buffalo mozzarella: heaven.

Though none of these ingredients are famed for their aphrodisiac properties, remember that I had long given up the idea that an artichoke leaf would somehow cause us to lunge at each other like wolves. What I was after here was something more sophisticated, an interplay of flavours and textures to tease the tongue and throw it for a loop. And indeed, the ambrosial mingle of cold, sweet peach with salty prosciutto and velvety smooth mozzarella spiked with chili and mint did indeed break the heart and stir the blood all at once, giving truth to the edict that the whole is greater than the sum of its parts.

Now I know that peaches aren’t exactly plentiful in February but I cannot apologize for this. Nothing is less sexy than being in the crotch of winter. Denial, I feel, is in one’s best interest.

Mozzarella Salad