Pate de foie gras. Fettucine al tartufo bianco. Kobe beef tartare.
Exquisite food. I love it. I just can’t afford it. What’s a girl to do?
A) Date a Chef (more on that later)
B) Study the culinary guidebooks of Alain Ducasse, Pierre Troisgos, then scrape together enough money to buy miniscule portions of the exorbitantly priced ingredients. Finally, attempt to recreate their gustatory masterpieces… in my mouse-friendly studio apartment.
C) Smile, angle my gaze, slip on high heels, twist my long, blonde hair into an elegant chignon…and make the nearest investment banker buy that dinner for me.
The Dinner Whore
I’m a woman that will stop at nothing–except for the bedroom–for a fine meal. Am I a tease, a tyrant, a gourmet slut? Nah. My charm, wit and attentive laugh are more than fair pay for the Osetra caviar and Dom Perignon. As I am quoted in today’s New York Post, “Women used to feel like they had to give something in exchange, whereas now I’m perfectly confident that my company is enough.” Moreover, “Men are always saying, ‘This is just sex.’ Well, this is just dinner–I don’t feel sorry for them.”
That’s right–I’ll be your date, your sugar and spice and everything nice just as long as you pick up the tab. Well, that is, until you corner me in the taxi, trap me outside the apartment door. Then the sweet turns sour and slowly to steel… In you gentlemen’s hormonal rage, please do not
forget–I’m a Southern belle with a backbone.
I’m also currently–desperately, madly– in love. Chef/Southern Boy (as he’s known to my loyal readers) sears a mean foie gras. He’s my new modus operandus for eating well. As I said to the Post, “It’s kind of ironic, a reformed dinner whore dating a chef.”
If y’all live in the New York area, go out and buy a New York Post. The aforementioned article is featured today in the Entertainment Section!
