Monday, May 12, 2008
Aphrodisiacs are all in the mind, says our resident food and sex expert.
Feb 14, 2001 | Three hundred years after Jesus' death, a priest named Valentine was imprisoned by the pagan Roman Empire for teaching Christianity. While behind bars, he is said to have cured the jailer's daughter of her blindness (through prayer, that is). He later wrote her a letter signed: "From Your Valentine." The same day, Feb. 14, he was dragged into the public square, beaten with clubs and then beheaded.
A hundred years earlier, the equally unfortunate bishop of Interamna, also named Valentine, had been arrested for secretly marrying Christian couples in violation of Roman law. He too was martyred on Feb. 14, as was another fellow named Valentine, in Africa. The day was designated Valentine's Day by Pope Gelasius I in A.D. 496.
It's doubtful old Gelasius would be thrilled to learn that, in the 21st century, these martyrs are remembered through observance of a holiday that exists primarily as a means by which young men obtain premarital sex through the purchase of jewelry and expensive dinners. But then again, he had more in mind than saints when he made Feb. 14 a holiday. He was also cleverly attempting to repurpose a Roman holiday that fell on Feb. 15, upon which young men would randomly choose the names of young ladies to be their dates to the bacchanal. (In that regard, it seems the pagan conception of the holiday has triumphed.)
And Feb. 14, it has long been believed in Europe, is the day on which birds begin to pair (it is halfway through the second month of the year). As Chaucer wryly observed in "Parliament of Foules":
"For this was sent on Seynt Valentyne's day Whan every foul cometh ther to choose his mate."
Today, in America, we've added our own twist to the Valentine's Day ritual: It is the day upon which we are subjected to countless articles in the mass media about aphrodisiacs. Champagne, chocolate, caviar and sushi, we are told year in and year out by the likes of Mademoiselle and Cosmopolitan, are the "keys to a smokin' Valentine's Day." We're inundated with specious quotes from scientists willing to say anything to get their names in print by agreeing that 10 particular food products will "spice up your love life."
Don't get me wrong, I love champagne, chocolate, caviar and sushi (though sushi isn't particularly filling so I usually need to supplement my meal with a couple of slices of pizza afterwards). And I love holidays, too, because they typically involve eating with reckless abandon. Thanksgiving is chief among the feasting holidays and is a personal favorite, though Christmas (I'd consider converting if I could be assured of frequent roasted goose), Chanukah (biblically mandated fried food), Independence Day (cookouts), St. Patrick's Day (corned beef with cabbage) and even Passover (with the exception of the no-bread thing) have their charms. Indeed, any self-respecting fat guy can think of an excuse for a feast even on Arbor Day. (Everything tastes better under a tree.) You might think Yom Kippur would be a problem, but think again. Fast days are actually the best. I can't speak for the Islamic community, though I imagine the nights of Ramadan are a hoot, but I assure you that breaking the fast after Yom Kippur is one of the only exercises of gluttony that won't trigger alarm in even the most weight-obsessed Jewish mother.
So you'd think that Valentine's Day, which involves both food and sex -- easily my two favorite things -- would be at the top of my list of all-time favorite holidays. But it's not. It's actually my least favorite holiday because, though it often involves dining and sex, it's usually dining and sex of a contrived, high-pressure, laden-with-expectations, neurotic sort. I'd just as soon skip it.
Sure, the list of aphrodisiacs routinely trotted out around this time of year consists of mostly delicious foods, but let's face it: They're amateur aphrodisiacs. To the extent these sorts of foods have any aphrodisiac effects at all, a proposition that is highly doubtful, they are nonetheless the least creative choices imaginable -- the aphrodisiac equivalents of the missionary position, the simulated-sex softcore porn on the Playboy Channel and candlelight dinner at a suburban hotel restaurant.
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