The Palate’s Passionplay

      “But take a rest cause you’re on fire.
      Likewise how to lull the fiend
      That breasts, legs, womb, thighs
      Stew and simmer without end?
      Dear me, its playmate’s drunken bliss
      Gets me up and going when
      My meat rises from one kiss…
     

Come on, we’d better start again!”
            (Paul Verlaine)

Let us not pretend. If you had a choice, you’d want to get laid on the table. But darned society. We are conditioned to be subtle. So, while we delicately fork a morsel, slick and dripping through our tongue and throat, there is a volcano waiting to erupt. I am not talking performance here, only sensuality. Aphrodisiacs you can get aplenty, from human placenta to rhino’s horn to the local palang-tod paan to Viagra but it’s like saying why bother about a moonlit night when you have electricity.

Food is sexy, often sexier than sex itself, and what you do with it lasts infinitely longer. This is why passion’s imagery relies so much on what plays on the palate. The ancient texts used fruits and vegetables to describe the body. Marlon Brando in Clockwork Orange took a dollop of butter, slapped it on and went licking it – and it was not on toast. When Meg Ryan gets this enormous orgasm in an outdoor café (When Harry Met Sally), an old woman at the next table tells the waiter rather sweetly, “I’ll have one of those!”

A low moan is the sound of satiation, after breaking bread as well as in bed. Both food and sex make full use of our senses – the smells, the touch, the sight, the taste, the unbearable succulence of being.

As raw as they come
The simple act of chopping vegetables and fruits is like foreplay and it would be a travesty to leave it to the servants. Imagine missing out on the redness of a tomato squirting in your face, the onions being unclothed endlessly, oysters in spasmodic anticipation, the asparagus erect and yet so pliable, and figs. What do I say about figs, so firm and soft, the colour of bruised skin, gently prised open to reveal a treasure glazed with possibilities. No wonder stallions knew when they were in for a good thing. In the Vedas the fig tree is referred to as one under which the horses stand.

If you think I am going overboard, then you must read what Rudolf Sodamin has to say about why he was compelled to write on the subject. “Like a temptress, the concept has teased me, coquettishly calling out to me while I’m selecting fresh fruits and vegetables, or pinching the border of a pie crust…” For him avocados are akin to “the soft curves of a woman yet also reminiscent of a man’s nether regions”, potatoes are “the testicles of the earth”, asparagus is a “fine, firm phallic symbol”, sesame treats are “exotic foreplay”. He mentions how medieval maidens “imprinted their intentions onto bread dough by pressing it against their vulva before baking”.

When things sizzle
For me Bade Miyan is not the last word in good wholesome food. But it is the sensual experience that makes one go weak in the knees. Those chunks of meat on skewers set aflame on coal fire, the colour changing from a pink of desire to the brown of contentment, the smell of flesh completely submitting and then, hot, its warmth reaching the lips. I am told I am not imagining things – the scent of smoked meat directly hits the pleasure centres in the brain.

I guess that is the reason men love the barbeque pit, which someone described as, “A lonely sanctuary where men, amid fire and gore, still glory in the primordial bliss, the caveman’s delight.” And they do like the meat a bit tough because, “it’s God’s reward for the effort of wresting flavour out of the roughest beast”.

Women in the kitchen would be far happier if they went around wearing just an apron. Plebian meals are associated with security and nourishment and one psychologist said that soup was reminiscent of the amniotic fluid in the mother’s womb. But hang in there. Soup is for the senses, if you can watch it bubbling in the pot, redolent of a touch of spice, and as you put the ladle in to stir it clings to it for dear life like a lover asking for more.

The ‘O’ Oh
So, is this all about nails, teeth, fingers and basic instincts? About egg yolks swimming in their whites, about the mango being massaged, bitten off, sucked, slivers running down the chin, about rice balls being scooped off banana leaves and rasam slurped off the arm?

Can fine dining not be a sensual experience? Of course it can, provided it is not made into a Hollywood production. If it is subtle – just the food, you and yours. There are people who can get their jollies watching white-gloved waiters do the flambé before their eyes, but that’s like going to a strip show.

True sensuality has to be kept simple… perhaps a sharp soup, some garlic bread, a dariole, the lobster playing hard to get, or an asparagus pastry full of vice under its crust, and chocolate soufflé tantalising between the sheets of whipped cream.

And champagne? To me, it is over-rated, although the imagery is potent. Alcohol must be used only to wet the lips. Dark and full-bodied. Or cocktails in an exciting red or as black as sin. But the only way I like my wine is when it is on me.