What creepy chefs do to get laid »
Seeing as it takes me days to sift through all of the swill that comes through my Google Reader, and last priority goes to blogs about foods I can’t even eat, I didn’t stumble upon this little gem called “What Chefs Cooks for Their Lovers” from Grub Street until today. Apparently, to get everyone in the Valentine’s Day mood, they asked chefs what they would cook for their “lovaaaahs” to get them all hot and bothered. The responses, simply put, are appalling. I mean, seriously. I felt uncomfortable reading this, and not just because of all the disgusting animal references. I don’t need the “velvety, smooth and sensual texture” of scallops to get aroused, and there’s no quicker way to get my legs to snap closed than mentioning the “musky scent” of Mediterranean turbot with white truffles. Are we really supposed to assume that everyone looking to get laid acts like a dog in heat at the sight of dead animals? Gross. Just gross.
But it’s not like the article gets any better when the animal references are left out of it: “Massage the dough together with your lover’s hands”; “gets her from table to mattress”; [Ed.: admittedly hard to do when said lover is in a food coma and/or has food poisoning from all that meat!] “evoke the lady (sweet) in the street, whore (spicy) in the bedroom quality that all true men love”?!?!?! Excuse me while I go vomit. Way to go, Grub Street; you’ve officially skeeved me out. I don’t want the image of those slightly misogynistic chefs and their significant others slobbering all over each others’ greasy fingers haunting me every time I close my eyes, but congratulations, you’ve unapologetically assaulted my sense with images I DID NOT WANT AT ANY POINT IN MY LIFE. I think the only thing worse would be photos of the actual chefs, because chefs are usually the LAST people you want to imagine naked.
Or maybe you’re into this; I don’t judge (that hard).
You just know they don’t take their Crocs off in bed. And if anyone ever tried to feed me blindfolded I’d bite their fingers off. Or wonder why I wasn’t being tied up. Let’s be real; I have three jobs and no time for this hand-fed, “don’t you love my meat” (get your mind out of the gutter) bullshit. Just slap me with a slab of tofu and forget moving to the mattress—we’ve got a perfectly good kitchen table to ruin.
We’re trying to find the words to describe this girl without being disrespectful so here you go: Kristen is a lovely young writer and editor living in San Francisco.