In a Foreign Land, painting by Emma Turpin, Portal Gallery, London.

  “It’s time to go back to my hotel,” I insisted.

  “Yes, of course,” Mahmoud replied, his smile never fading, “but first we want to show you the dunes.”

  Suddenly it was night. The profile of the moonlit desert was extraordinary. The road was dark and we were driving without headlights; the driver turned them on when he suspected another vehicle was coming from the opposite direction, blinding the occupants. And he refused to keep to his side of the road, we kept zigzagging from one side to the other, but the few cars we met were doing the same. I had the impression that we were driving for a long time and going in circles, passing the same group of palm trees and same dunes several times, but by then I wasn’t sure about anything, it’s easy to lose your sense of direction in the desert.

  “I’m very tired, Mahmoud, I want to get back to my hotel,” I said with all the firmness I could muster.

  “But you haven’t had anything to eat! What will you think of our hospitality? First we must offer you a dinner in my home, as is customary.”

  “No, thank you very much.”

  “I insist. My mother has spent the afternoon preparing a meal for you.”

  That was when I realized that we were back in front of the same blue and white painted mud wall, entering through the same gate, now illuminated by two oil lamps. The rest of the compound was totally dark: the electricity in the village had been cut off, they explained. In the distance flickered the tremulous light of other lamps or small fires. We stopped before one of the houses, got out, and at last could stretch our legs; I was wet with sweat in spite of the cool night air. The four men began talking at the same time, arguing and gesticulating as if they were angry, but I couldn’t understand a word of what they said. Finally, three of them disappeared and Mahmoud took me by the arm, apologizing for the lack of light, and led me into the shadowy house. We went through room after room, passing down seemingly interminable corridors; doors closed behind me, I heard footsteps and murmurs, but I saw no one. At times I tripped over a threshold or piece of furniture, but my host grasped me firmly, although with a certain finesse. We came to a room dimly lighted by two small, nearly burned-out candles; I saw a table and two chairs, one beside the other. A subtle aroma of incense floated on the air, mixed with the fragrance of food and spices.

  “Where is the rest of your family?” I asked.

  “They have already eaten, we are alone,” Mahmoud replied, pulling back a chair for me. I sat down, choked with anxiety.

  On the table were several platters whose contents were impossible to make out in the weak candlelight. Mahmoud picked up a plate and served me.

  “What is it?”

  “Meat.”

  “What kind of meat?”

  “Boiled.”

  “What kind of boiled meat?”

  He touched his stomach and ribs with an offhand gesture. I am a person who needs to see what she eats, especially when it’s meat; I like to look everything over very carefully before I put it in my mouth, but it was very dark. Mahmoud took portions from the other platters and named them as he placed them on my plate: fish from the Nile, goat cheese, black olives, ripe figs, eggs, fried eggplant, a garbanzo paste, yogurt. I washed my hands in a basin of lemon water, and Mahmoud dried them for me with a cloth; his movements were as unhurried as caresses. I pulled back too brusquely, I may have offended him. I tasted a bite and I liked it; the meat was lamb, well seasoned, so tender it melted before you could chew it. This man, sitting so close to me that his face nearly touched mine, watched me eat, commenting on how beautiful I was. Once more he assured me that he was my friend in his country, that I should think of him as my Egyptian sweetheart. I said nothing, but sweat was running down my back, and my knees were trembling. The food, nevertheless, was exquisite, and the tea—warm, and very sweet, with a trace of mint or jasmine—was refreshing. Mahmoud picked up an olive and put it in my mouth; it was a little bitter, but delicious. Then he spread cheese and garbanzo paste on a piece of pita bread; he ate a little himself and then handed it to me, smiling with delight when I took it. The smell of the freshly baked bread, still warm, mixed with the fragrance of the food, the wax candles, and the incense, was so intense that I closed my eyes. I felt drained, with all my senses elevated. In a low voice, nearly a whisper, he recited a litany comparing me with the moon and stars of the desert; my skin, he said, was like marble, he had never seen such smooth, white skin.

  “I have to go back to the city . . .”

  “Do you have a sweetheart in America? Maybe a husband?”

  “Yes, I have a very jealous sweetheart.”

  “And why would he not be? I would never let a man set eyes on you; I would live only to love you and to give you pleasure. Why does this so-called man let you travel alone?”

  “It’s very late, Mahmoud. Please take me back to my hotel.”

  “Try these vegetables, they are from my mother’s garden, cooked by her own hand . . .”

  It was an eggplant dish, I could smell the aroma of nutmeg and cinnamon, an exotic mixture. I served myself another spoonful and more lamb; with each serving, I measured the extent of my foolhardiness. No one knew where I was, no one had seen me leave for the desert with those men, I could disappear without a trace. Mahmoud poured me more tea. The sound of the liquid as it flowed into the glass was as clear as the notes of a stringed instrument in the enormous silence of the dark house. One of the candles died in a pool of melted wax.

  “Has this been a good day? A memorable day? Have you had a good time?” my host wanted to know, still whispering into my ear.

  “Yes, thank you, but now I must go.”

  I tried to stand, but he held me back, nearly embracing me. Once again he enveloped me in his melodious voice, describing my beauty, comparing me with the houris in the paradise of Allah, and with movie stars, and assuring me that he would never tire of looking at me, that he could spend his entire life in ecstasy before a woman like me. He was putting me on, I suppose, but I wanted to believe him; his words were so soothing, no one had ever said those things to me. And he kept talking and talking, always in that same tone. Did I not want him to have a good time, too? Want him to have a memorable day, too? His hand touched my throat, and I was swept by a long shiver. Mahmoud insisted that dinner was not over, we must have sweets. With great delicacy, he slipped a small pistachio and honey pastry into my mouth, still stroking my throat, playing with my necklaces and earrings, murmuring flattering words in his broken English. Taste this delicious Turkish delight, he begged. It was soft, sweet, and perfumed of roses. Wouldn’t you like something to smoke? Maybe a little hashish? The flame of the last candle hesitated an instant and then burned entirely out. Through the window I saw the moon lighting the Egyptian night. I chose another sweet, and bit into it, voluptuously. . . .”

  Sins of the Flesh

  There are many vegetarians in this world who, despite their pallor and anguished souls, survive and reproduce perfectly well. On the other hand, there are those who believe with all their heart that a piece of meat, to the degree possible dripping blood, is the only reliable nourishment. Peoples whose diets contain very little meat are those who have the highest demographic explosion and those who have most diligently cultivated the art of the erotic, which is why I have serious doubts about the true aphrodisiac powers of the flesh of mammals. But I must speak of it, in view of the fact that so many serious texts prove my doubts unjustified. In any case, meat dishes are heavy, and with a full stomach and in the grip of the digestive process, few can boast of amatory prowess. If you do include meat in your menu, serve small portions.

  La Chambre d’Écoute, painting by René Magritte, 1952, The Menil Collection, Houston, photograph: Paul Hester © 1997, C. Herscovici, Brussels/Artists Rights Society (ARS), New York.

  Game animals (deer, boar, hares, and others) In Nairobi there is a famous restaurant where every kind of game is served, including some nearing extinction. Favorites on the menu are fillets of buffalo, elephant, and ostrich. Unless you can count on a hunter in your family, someone who wakes up with a shotgun over his shoulder, skip this part, it isn’t for you. If you do have a hunter, try to get him to stop, it’s a fiendish sport. But if it can’t be avoided, and a beast riddled with shot lands on your kitchen table, begin by hanging it by the feet for a couple of days in a cool, dry place, because the meat is most savory and tender when it is just at the point of turning bad, right before the neighborhood birds start pecking at it and the first worms appear (that is, faisandé, as the French say with more delicacy). I have also heard that you should use rubber gloves when you skin game, because the carcasses of wild animals can carry diseases, and besides that, you have to cook them to death to avoid trichinosis. With all these drawbacks, I wonder whether it’s worth sampling one of these beasts unless it’s been refrigerated. Better to get your game in the market, cleaned and ready for the pot. Have you ever watched anyone skin a hare? It’s a depressing spectacle.

  Beef The most delicate and easily digested cut is a fillet. Italians maintain that raw meat is erotic and often serve it cut in very fine, nearly transparent, slices called carpaccio. Raw meat has been eaten since ancient times, except that its erotic properties were not recognized then. The Tartar hordes who invaded Europe in the era of the Roman Empire had a unique way of preparing it: they put chunks of meat between horse and saddle and galloped all day long, until their dinner had been reduced to a bruised and black pulp salty with sweat. That gave rise to what today we call steak tartare (ground raw meat skillfully seasoned and topped with a raw egg), which lends itself to being presented in naughty forms on the plate, as well as to other sensual games.

  Goat The ram symbolizes male sexual energy, but its flesh is tough and strong-smelling. This animal has the curious habit of rolling in its urine to attract the female (a typically male idea!). In view of all these things, we humans prefer eating the more tender kids in the full bloom of their charm and innocence, but I will not dwell on this subject because Robert Shekter is looking over my shoulder. (Robert loves these creatures so much that he has a farm in the Alps where he gives refuge to old and mistreated nanny goats. At his death I’m planning to have a great barbecue and invite all my editors.)

  Rabbit A silly brother to the hare, a fluffy and timid animal who when alive evokes immediate sympathy but cooked can be mistaken for the family cat. It has a very strong odor, which is why it must be washed inside and out with vinegar water, then rinsed, dried, and perfumed with lemon before cooking.

  Pig and sheep Forget them, they’re not aphrodisiac.

  Testicles (Are we women fascinated by orchids because they get their name from the Greek word for these body parts, orkhis?) From time immemorial, the organs of certain animals have had a reputation for having erotic properties. Women don’t eat them. Men do, but it gives them the shivers when they relate what’s on the plate with their own anatomy. Freud has a name for this complex, but I’ve forgotten it. In Asia they prefer monkey testicles, in America, the bull’s, in other parts of the world, those of sheep and rams. In the United States, animal testes are called Rocky Mountain oysters. Chopped and cooked, they don’t look like what they are, but even so, don’t give it away until your guests are through gorging on them.

  Liver and kidney Beef or sheep kidneys are a common item on menus in French and Spanish restaurants and save English cuisine from total disaster served up in the form of their famous steak-and-kidney pie, one of the few indigenous recipes of Great Britain that can be eaten with pleasure and not out of sheer necessity. In older days, it was believed that the center of energy and life was the liver, not the heart as we now suppose, which is why power as a sexual stimulant was attributed to this organ. Not everyone likes liver. Liver extract in pill form is sold in health-food stores for anyone who desires the benefits without having to go through the disgusting process of chewing the meat. In Philip Roth’s famous novel Portnoy’s Complaint, the young protagonist masturbates with the raw liver his mother had planned on using for dinner. There’s no cause to go to such extremes; there are other ways to season it.

  Unclassifiables

  Turtle An ocean creature, but I find it difficult to include it among shellfish and fish. I have a tortoise in my house. It is a plodder without a shred of grace, with an attitude that is too Zen for my taste. I have no particular sympathy for it, but neither does it deserve to end up in the soup pot. And although that thought did once cross my mind, it would be difficult to carry out because my turtle guest lives hidden in unimaginable places and appears only from time to time, like a leisurely ghost. The mere idea of seizing it at a careless moment to chop off its head and rip its body from the shell turns my stomach. Fortunately, turtle is sold in cans, already cut into small cubes. The greenish flesh is ugly—it looks half rotten—but is considered more tasty and refined than the paler, whitish version. In Taiwan there are restaurants where they keep turtles in tanks and snakes in boxes. The customer selects one of each, then the cook decapitates them in the diner’s presence and pours the blood into a strong, sugared liquor. While the customer drinks this cocktail, the cook prepares the turtle in a soup and roasts the snake, dishes so aphrodisiac that private rooms are available in the same restaurant—with women included on the menu—for burning off the calories.

  Venus, the goddess of love, has been represented riding on a turtle’s back; its uplifted head symbolizes a phallus. Aphrodite Porne, patron of prostitutes in ancient Greece, was accompanied by a goose, whose long neck was an allegory—a rather optimistic one—for the male member. And Leda embraced her lascivious swan . . . In any case, it seems to me that mythology has stretched things a little far. In the East, the flesh of the turtle is greatly appreciated for its stimulating virtues, and in antiquity it was an obligatory dish in the court of China: it was believed that, like birds’ nest soups, it could inflame the decadent appetites of the emperor. Incidentally, these nests are obtained in caves, particularly those of Malaysia, where a certain kind of swallows lay their eggs. The birds build the nests from sea algae pasted together with a salivalike secretion. To collect them when they are fresh, the natives climb the slippery rocks in the darkness, steadying themselves with bamboo poles. They risk not only breaking their necks in a fall but also coming across poisonous insects and infuriated swallows. The enterprise is very lucrative because of the numbers of males in the world who are uncertain of their virility. The nests are cleaned, pressed, and packed before being sent to the markets of Asia, where clients pay true fortunes for a few grams of this questionable aphrodisiac.

  Snail I can’t imagine why they are so valued; alive they are repugnant, and cooked they reek of garlic and soil. They owe their reputation for being erotic to the belief that they resemble the clitoris, emerging from and disappearing amongst feminine creases and folds, but I find that metaphor offensive. I don’t have anything resembling a snail on my body, nor, as far as I know, do most of my women friends.

  Frog Only the legs are eaten, which taste like bland chicken, a good reason for smothering them with seasonings. When I was in school, it was my fate, as it is for so many unfortunate children, to dissect these batrachians in science class to prove I don’t know what theory about electric currents. It seems that after they’re dead, the legs jump on, but we were not able to verify that fact. I spent the night sitting up in bed staring into the darkness and thinking about the horrible experience that lay in store for me on the morning. I went to school early, crept into the laboratory, stole all the frogs, and let them loose in the garden. If you have a delicate heart, buy your frogs’ legs peeled and ready to be cooked (at least four per person, that is, two executed froggies per guest), because if you are going to decapitate them, cut off their feet, dismember the legs, and rip off the skin, it is highly likely that you will suffer nausea and a bad conscience for a week. In which case the aphrodisiac value of the dish will be nil.

  The Gigolo

  Kept men belong to a tradition as ancient as that of concubines and hetairas but one less aired. This practice, considerably more common than we suppose on this side of the world, came to be a staple of Asian culture, where for centuries aristocratic ladies have employed young men, barely disguised under the classification of servants, to satisfy their intimate caprices. Since the invention of the automobile, the most common employment for the gigolo has been that of chauffeur. In recent decades, these playthings, like geishas, are being drowned in the whirlpool of capitalism, and in their place have emerged so-called independent professionals. In Italy, as recently as the nineteenth century, the official lover, tolerated by the husband as long as discretion was honored, had a name: cicisbeo. And why not? Marriages in those days were economic and social arrangements, not short-lived romances. Love played no part in the deal. Madeleine de Scudéry wrote in the midseventeenth century, “You marry to loathe. This is why a true lover should never speak of marriage, because to be a lover is to wish to be loved and to wish to be a husband is to wish to be loathed.”