An Exaltation of Soups (26 page)

O
NCE UPON A TIME
, there was Love.

Love! You know: the thing that everyone wants … yearns after … daydreams about.

Which reminds me of Plato’s
Symposium
, or Drinking Party, when Socrates joined his friends at Agathon’s house in 416
B.C.E.
and undertook a discourse on the nature of Love. Before Socrates blew everyone out of the water with his thoughtful analysis on the subject, there were some pretty hilarious explanations. My favorite?
Ribald dramatist Aristophanes, who slyly explained love as a result of an earlier civilization made up of three rotund and conjoined sexes—male/male; female/female; and male/female. Although ungainly, he said, they had terrible strength and force, and they were so wild and out of control—even attacking the gods themselves—that Zeus thought he ought to just kill them off. Fortunately he had a happy inspiration that he shared with his fellow gods: “I will slice each of them down through the middle! Two improvements at once! They will be weaker, and they will be more useful to us because there will be more of them.”

That Zeus always was a practical guy.

It was a little messy, Aristophanes said. And the poor split halves, as you can imagine, didn’t like being separated one bit—and have ever since tried to bring themselves back together “into unity.” “So you see how ancient is the mutual love implanted in mankind, bringing together the parts of the original body, and trying to make one out of two, and to heal the natural structure of man.”

Okay, but what happens when you
don’t
match up with your soul mate? What happens when you fall in love and yearn to “heal the natural structure,” and your love is not returned?

Why you turn to aphrodisiac cookery, of course—and what a long history there is of it.

I was surprised to learn that the most ancient Western aphrodisiacs, way back in ancient Egypt, were onions, radishes, and leeks. I mean, come on: you want to dose your wannabe lover with alliums so he or she can come on like a field of garlic? And yet, when you think about it, the snap of desire is all about stimulating the senses: perfumes and unguents for the nose; jewelry, cosmetics, and suggestive clothing for the eyes; soft hands and lips for the touch; sweet nothings and music for the ears; and … and … well, what was the best bet for stimulating the palate in those ancient days? Tough barley cakes? No. Sharp, clean-tasting fresh vegetables? In fact, yes—
likely your best bet, not to mention cleansing and energizing, too. In fact, it was precisely these that the Israelites lamented leaving behind in Egypt: “We remember the fish, which we did eat in Egypt freely; the cucumbers, and the melons, and the leeks and the onions, and the garlick” (Numbers 11:5).

In classical Greece, the principle of aphrodisiacs was the same, but the foods were different. The tang of herbs. The earthy sponge of mushrooms. The smooth and salty richness of seafood. From India, the Hindu love menu offered saffron,
ghee
(clarified butter), fruits, yogurt, pulses, and those onions, garlic, and leeks again. From the
Kama Sutra:
“If
ghee
, honey, sugar, and licorice in equal quantities, the juice of the fennel plant, and milk are mixed together, this nectar-like composition is said to be holy and provocative of sexual vigor….”

One last plaintive cry, from the sacred Indian text
Samayamatrika
, of an aging woman: “Aware that her youth was passing and wishing to oust all the rest of her decrepit lover’s women, she took pains to enthrall him by the use of magic plants. At the same time, she re-awakened his juvenile ardor by the judicious use of fish soup….”

Did you catch that? Fish soup. Not the last bowl of soup you’re gonna see on the Love Menu.

Then Rome! Well, what would you expect from those decadents anyway? Ovid extols eggs, nuts, and honey. Martial advocates sharp lettuces and cabbages and opines: “If your wife is old and your member is exhausted, eat onions a plenty.” Then, too, everyone swore by that sharp Roman seasoning made from fermented anchovies—a fish sauce variously called
garum, liquamen
, and
muria
and now known as Worcestershire sauce.

After Rome came the sober propriety of the Catholic Church, bent on cleaning up prodigal Europe. Forget carnality. Forget the amatory arts. Forget erotic food. Some medieval religious orders even forbade the eating of beans. Why? Precisely because of their side effects. Those airy explosions, you know: they could stimulate nether regions and cause impure thoughts. Oh, pardon me—more information than you actually wanted.

The erotic arts ultimately came back to Europe from the Mideast with returning Crusaders, along with fabulous new foodstuffs. Suffice it to say, at the dawn of the Renaissance, Europe took off her hair shirt, loosened her hair, and dabbed some perfume behind her ears, never to return to the convent. In his sixteenth-century
Dyetary of Health
, Scotsman Andrew Boorde included a chapter on aphrodisiacs that he based on his research and travels to the Holy Land. Cabbages, turnips, onions, artichokes, sugar, and other dainties were back on the boudoir table.

What about ancient China and Asian civilizations? Using food almost as a medicine to balance cold and hot natures, this culture valued—and still does—good health for good loving. But they likewise specifically favored seafood as an aphrodisiac, including the fish sauces of
nuoc mam
and
nampla.
Also, and perhaps a little eyebrow raising for our Western sensibilities, folks in this part of the world employ oddities like animal pizzles and testicles, powdered rhino horn, cobra and fugu venom, mostly brewed in soups, as a way to light a man’s fire.

And the New World? Are we going to be surprised that it was chocolate, chocolate, chocolate? Aztec ruler Montezuma was said to fortify himself with as many as fifty cups of hot chocolate before strolling into his 600-wife harem.

Apparently there’s just something about a hot, liquid delivery system for all these amorous ingredients that intensifies desire. Remember the ancient Indian woman and her prescription for fish soup to awaken her old man’s juvenile ardor? Alexandre Dumas swore by almond soup as an aperitif after the theater before bedding his mistress. And it was the Marquis de Sade, in
120 Days of Sodom
, who said, “the most potent erotic dinner should start with bisque.”

I most particularly want to draw your attention to that infamous scene in director Tony Richardson’s film
Tom Jones
, when Tom (Albert Finney) and (all unknowingly) possibly his mother,
Mrs. Waters (Joyce Redman), meet for a sex-drenched dinner. They begin, naturally, with big steaming pewter bowls of soup, whereat Mrs. Waters leans well over the table and lustily slurps big round spoonfuls of soup, breasts tumbling out of her bodice and eyes with a more-than-come-hither look. What does Tom do in the face of all this suggestive sipping and spoon licking? Nearly overcome, he involuntarily rips a claw off the langouste he has in his hand and happily sucks on it.

The following recipes make elegant and sophisticated starts to a meal—or to whatever else you might have in mind. They are written in quantities to serve two lovers, but they could certainly be doubled for, say, a ménage à trois or couple swapping, heaven forbid, or just for a romantic dinner party with friends.

APHRODISIAC ALMOND SOUP

Serves 2

I
NSPIRED
BY
THE
classic recipe in Norman Douglas’s
Venus in the Kitchen, or Love’s Cookery Book
(written under the pseudonym of Pilaff Bey), this soup stands on its own as a kind of decadent snack late on some winter’s night when you and your honey are wakeful and at loose ends. Rich and thickly nutty, slightly honeyed, it is lifted to heavenly delight with the tart contrast of jewel-red raspberries. Serve it to two people with appetite, maybe with Champagne.

1. Hard-boil the eggs, let cool, remove and reserve the egg yolks, discarding the whites or reserving them for another purpose. Soak the almonds for a minute in boiling water, then pop off their skins by pressing between your thumb and forefinger.

2. Crush and lightly sugar the raspberries and set aside.

1. Place the almonds and egg yolks in a blender and chop fine.

2. Slowly add the chicken stock, a spoonful at a time, until the ingredients make a fine paste. Continue blending on high speed as you slowly pour in the rest of the chicken stock and all of the cream.

3. Pour the soup into a large saucepan and heat it very carefully over low heat until it is hot and thick. It must never boil or it will curdle. Stir in the honey.

Ladle the hot soup into two exquisite bowls. Top each portion with spoonfuls of the raspberry puree. Serve immediately.