Culinary Displeasure

I've never been a "foodie"  Frankly I treat the term as a derogatory description of a glutton.  You should eat to live, not the other way around.   If you can stare down a plateful of obsessively crafted nutriment with the same wolfish glare a seventeen year old male from my own generation visually feasted on a plateful of female then brother, you got problems.  Food isn't a replacement for sex.  It's just the appetizer.  The main course, I remind you, is sitting on the other side of your intimately lit table for two.

And what would the ambiance be without consideration of the proper setting?   A warm room on a cold night?  Slow jazz over occasional laughter coming from the kitchen?  A slightly brusque waitress who reminds you of the Italian aunt you never had because you were Jewish?  What?  Oy!  Just order the wine she tells you to order.

The courses come.  You play your cards.  She plays hers.  The wine warms.   The little hall is now lit only by the streetlamps outside and the soft glow of candle light within.   The piano's melody is right for slow dancing.  You offer your hand and smile.  She responds.  The two of you slide into a rhythmic physicality which increases anticipation.  A brush, response. First base.  A second, positive reinforcement.  She moves into you.  Electric intensity as you temper your actions in the presence of others.  You guide yourselves to your table as you fumble for your wallet.  A generous wad of bills is left on the linen tablecloth as you gather your things.

Arm in arm you breach the door as bitter cold stings your bare skin.  Off to the car, once inside turn the key and... nothing.

That isn't just culinary displeasure, it's the minnesota f.u.