Food Porn

You’ve all heard someone say this, at least once, about really good food: “ohhhh my gawwwwwwwwwd, this is better than sex.” Not to get too 9 ½ Weeks on you, but sometimes food isn’t just better than sex, it IS sex. You know what I’m talking about—meals so perfectly cooked, elegantly prepared and delectably delicious that you turn into a puddle on your seat.

You know … food porn.

I first heard this culinary term from a colleague of mine who is dating a chef. He not only possesses good looks, a wicked sense of humour and irresistible charm, but also an intrinsic passion for food. This is a man who can walk into any kitchen and make a gourmet meal out of one egg, frozen peas, a half-can of tuna and a gnarly, month-old potato camping out in the crisper. Even the most commonplace meals like tacos are dressed up with cilantro-infused pico de gallo. It’s like he can’t help himself, he’s so eager to please palates and tempt taste buds.

And if he can’t be right there to create decadence in my friend’s kitchen, then he calls her from work, and delivers a seductive rendering over the phone of what he’s crafting:

“Hey baby, how’s it going?”
“Good, what are you up to? How’s the kitchen?”
“Well, I’ve got a party of eight coming in, so I’m doing up fresh figs with melted gorgonzola, grilled trout with a roasted corn, heirloom beet and fennel relish, and for dessert I’m making lemon curd with blueberry compote and sugared citrus peel toile.”
(silence, followed by heavy breathing)
“Hello? Are you still there?”
“Ummm … when do you get off work???”

After hearing something like that, I’d jump his bones, too. It was the gastronome’s equivalent of calling a 1-900 line: you feel sheepish and naughty for doing it, but it sounds SO DAMN GOOD you want more.

Some men will court with flowers and flattery. Others will call and tell you about their freshly made grainy mustard-encrusted roast of lamb with truffle-oil-scented merlot reduction, perched on a nest of spaetzle cooked al dente with caramelized shallots and chanterelle mushrooms. To hell with foreplay, tell me more about how you whipped the heavy cream, eased that cast-iron skillet into the oven, and massaged rosemary-scented grapeseed oil into that quail breast.

Yes. Yes. YES!

And I’m spent …