Sex Pasta and Gypsy Music

You've been told that some foods are aphrodisiacs. You thought such notions were metonymic, supersticious bunkola. Oysters look like..., asparagus looks like.... I thought so too.

That's what we thought.

Saturday night I slowly and meditatively consumed the following meal at a Tuscan joint called Siena in Austin, TX (see link):

A small serving of pasta with asparagus in a sauce of cream, goat cheese, and truffel oil. Simple, clean, and rich as foreplay with an educated and playful lover. Then, another pasta with wild boar in a ragu of chianti and tomatoes with a hint of balsamic vinegar. This was a masculine food, a food with tusks, bristles, a gamey scent, full of bad intentions who takes a girl to see the band, keeps his hands on her hips the whole show and whispers dangerous promises in her ear. These accompanied by a white wine (the name of which I sadly forget) of such mineral supported moxy and honest flirtation that it complemented even the boar -- a grinning wink across the table. Then a cocholate cake (more like a light fudge) with cherries pickled in grappa. At this piont, the eyes roll, moans flow in the building exstacy of flavors, textures, surprises. This last with a top note of chammomile infused grappa, a paradox of relaxation and rocket fuel, AND, AND another grappa, an amaro infused with so many herbs, fruits and flavors that it was an enitre conversation of kisses, playing on each layer of the pallette, each kiss of varying intensity and intent. That last is the libation of enlightenment. It's called Amaro Nonino. Drink some. ASAP.

Mid-meal, my the Lioness asked, "Do you think the chef has groopies?" I blurted,"Does now!" Snorts of laugher from both of us. (read her entry, she's better as describing food than I.)

When I was nearly exhausted with carnal joy, the waiter asked how dinner was. I said with a wide grin, "I feel dirty and embarrassed. That was the best meal of my life."

This from a woman who has eaten WELL in her lifetime, very well indeed. Now, I believe in the scientific method, in doing research, in not accepting the cracked notions of others just because they seem to mean well. So, please, when in Austin, go eat there, get this meal. Try it. See if I'm lying.

After this, Lioness and I went to the Elephant Room, crooning to ourselves over our food, and threatening to leave the place if the first note of the jazz that night did not come up to the new metric of pleasure set by this meal. Like, if there was a xylophone involved, we were outta there. We sat. We noted the full percussion rig, the three guitars, one a six stringed base. We waited with some hope. One of the guitarists was this smiling, cute-version-of-Bob-Dylan imp, who seemed never to Sit quite On his stool. Seemed to a bit too happy and groovy to obey gravity in any serious way. We were pleasantly molested by gypsy-flamenco-funk-jazz of such unrelenting kindness, joy, intensisty, and good musical jokes that I went home, to an empty guest room, by myself, and slipped into a sleep of complete spiritu-carnal satisfaction.

Now and then, you go out for an evening, and bliss happens. May all beings know happiness and the causes of happiness -- and, you know, exprience it without the grasping and clinging that create all manner of stressy badness.