Gut Instinct: Arousing Suspicion

Perhaps I’m a closeted prude, a shorts-wearing nevernude, but I was queasily perplexed by my friends’ invite to their feast, which seemingly doubled as an orifice-filling orgy. “We’re co-hosting an aphrodisiac dinner, and you’ve been handpicked to attend!” my friend Emily wrote. “You should feel special.”

I assumed I’m special because I pay less than $650 a month in rent. But hey, a compliment’s a compliment. Wait—aphrodisiac dinner party?

“The goal is to celebrate how much we LOVE you and how SEXY we think you are by feeding you delicious foods,” the invite continued. “You should bring aphrodisiac food to share. Extra points if you a) feed it to others while fanning them, or b) let others eat it off strategic body parts. I doubt you’ll find better plans than eating sexy food with sexy people.”

“We have better plans, don’t we?” I asked my girlfriend. She’s the sole human I’d conceivably employ as a plate, provided she was covered in pork dumplings from toes to cranium, her belly button filled with gingery soy sauce.

“I don’t know,” she said. “This sounds kind of…interesting.”

That makes one of us. I’m too straightlaced for key parties, too prudish for unhygienic deviance—especially sploshing. It’s a Britain-born fetish employing foodstuffs for sex play, like plopping your derriere in butterscotch pudding or plastering people with cream pies. Think of the world’s starving children, forced to fall asleep hungry because your kink demanded you pelt your paramour with spaghetti and meatballs.

“I ain’t gonna lie, hon,” I said, stepping away from the fridge and our full bottles of ketchup. “This party frightens me.” “That’s because you’re an emotional cripple who’s petrified of intimacy.”

“Not until I drink a fifth of Jack,” I replied. “I want to go to the dinner.”

I contacted my mustachioed friend Matt, whose girlfriend was hosting the banquet. I vocalized my reservations about using my appendages to serve hors d’oeuvres.

“It’s not an orgy in disguise,” he replied, exasperated. “It’s a dinner party with a theme. A dozen people will be sitting around a table, eating oysters and pomegranates and chocolate and almonds.”

“That’s how orgies begin!” I said.

“Not this one.”

“So I don’t have to see you naked?”

“No,” he said, sighing like an annoyed parent. “I hope you both come.”

Exercising maturity and restraint, I let the unintentional double entendre die a quick, unacknowledged death. Instead, I planned my contribution to dinner. I considered taking culinary cues from Kurt Vonnegut. In his classic tale “Welcome to the Monkey House,”Vonnegut prophesizes a dystopia in which well-preserved citizens eventually expire in government-run suicide parlors and consume genital-numbing pills. Keeps pleasure and population low, you know. Then along comes sexual rabblerouser Billy the Poet. His pants-dropping weapons are poetry and “a drug so powerful…that even a person numb from the waist down would copulate repeatedly and enthusiastically after just one glass.” That libido-spiking narcotic was wet, wondrous… gin.

In lieu of liquor, I investigated sexy comestibles such as avocados, which Aztecs dubbed ahuacuatl, translating to “testicle tree.” Pineapple, I discovered, is a homeopathic treatment for impotence. And pine nuts provide zinc, a mineral that aids in testosterone production. Screw Viagra—I’m bringing pesto into the bedroom.

In the end, I settled on garlic, whose “heat” supposedly inflames passions. I’d craft Castilian sopa de ajo, a paprika-spiked garlic soup paired with poached eggs and pan-fried chunks of bread.

“So your plan is to make everyone’s breath so bad that they don’t want to make out?” my girlfriend asked, as we biked to the dinner bash. “Mwahahahahaha,” I cackled, as we reached our destination.

I was relieved to find guests were fully clothed and only the food was spread wide. Toasted bread was topped with chocolate, chorizo and saffron threads, creating a savory-aromatic snack. Oysters were messily slurped, juices running down chins. Chicken was stuffed with figs and arugula, and oranges were added to shaved fennel. “It’s a source of natural plant estrogens,” a guest said, passing me a scoopful. I ate the crunchy veggie with gusto, flooding my system with delicious womanpower.

“Now I know how you feel,” I told my girlfriend, grabbing another forkful.

“Embarrassed by you?” “I think I need a different aphrodisiac,” I said, reaching for a longneck of Brooklyn Lager to insert between my lips.

Drunk of the Day: All Thumbs

There’s a certain goofy endearment to this photo, which expresses the unbridled sensation one experiences after chugging his seventh tequila shooter of the night.

Gut Instinct: Watch Your Tongue

“You,” the bespectacled Chinese waiter at Little Pepper says, pointing at my French friend Bati, “are the first white person to order that. Are you sure?”

Bati is a fearless eater who favors black, crumbly blood sausage and sucking gelatinous marrow from bones with a lusty slurp. Tonight, though, he’s sending us sailing into dubiously tasty territory. I bite my lip.Yes, is Bati sure?

Bati thumps shut his menu. “Bring on the duck tongues,” he proclaims, commencing another lip-blistering adventure with dangerously delicious Sichuan cuisine. The subset of Chinese cookery centers on volcanic peppers conjoined with fragrant, Novocain-esque Sichuan peppercorns: mala, the coupling is called, loosely translated to “hot and numbing”—and, might I add, “crazy-making.”

I first ate Sichuan six years ago, the day after a beach birthday bash. Skull throbbing and lobster-schnozzed, three friends and I ventured to Flushing’s Spicy & Tasty (39-07 Prince St. at 39th St., Queens, 718-359-1601).

Inside the flashy canteen, we gorged on coils of porky dan-dan noodles; fatty, twicecooked swine belly and vellum-thin wontons, everything drowning beneath blood-red chili oil dotted with leather-hued peppercorns.

One after another, my dining companions dropped their chopsticks. Their eyes pinballed wildly, sweat rivulets running down furrowed brows.Then my body began buzzing, the intramuscular hum diffusing from tongue to lips to fingertips to feet.

“Does anyone feel funny?” I asked, my voice pinched and frightful.

“I’m buzzing,” one friend said. “And not happily.” I assumed I was careening toward a hyperventilating panic attack, a common affliction in my early twenties. “Waiter, waiter,” I summoned our server. “Why do we feel…strange? What did we eat?”

Following a century of Chinese waiters’ leads, he feigned temporary English amnesia and bustled off. We chugged water, futilely flushing out unseen toxins, the buzzing like bees trapped beneath our skin. In increments, the insect sensation ebbed, leaving us as drained as a bad drug trip.

Like countless psychoactive substances, I learned to love Sichuan peppercorns. In moderation, they’re an addictive additive, a tingling trip off the flavor spectrum’s deep end. Every month, I get my fill in Flushing, where tonight I’ve Shanghaied a crew into coming to Little Pepper (133-43 Roosevelt Ave. betw. Prince St. & College Point Blvd., Queens, 718-939-7788). Little Pepper is but a basement decorated with dangling fake chiles, stock nature photographs and a fuzzy TV tuned to Chinese news broadcasts and game shows. It’s as romantic as a dentist’s office—good taste resides not in the décor but rather the fare.

“This better be excellent,” Bati says. “You’ve dragged us halfway across the city.”

“Josh isn’t wrong—often,” my girlfriend says. She remains bitter about the eve I escorted her to a Malaysian restaurant serving fishy curries as rank as decomposing corpses.

“Trust me,” I say, words best accompanied by a blindfold. “The food’s here.” Like infants placated by bottle or breast, my compatriots are calmed by a steaming platter of oil-slicked tofu, each unctuous bite numbing gums faster than fine Colombian snow. Equally incendiary is the mapo tofu, bean curd and ground pork swimming in a blazing-red pool.

“Tsingtaos, please,” I order, our mouths on three-alarm fire.

Less fiery, but no less flavorful is the tender, vampire-murdering, garlic-smothered eggplant.The Chinese sausage with celery is a bland disappointment, more greasy than flavorful, but a foil bundle filled with chiliand cumin-rubbed lamb sprinkled with cilantro redeems our dining faith.The dish is gamy and fragrant, scorching and aromatic, and altogether habit-forming. “Lay off my mutton crack,” I mutter, snaring a chunk amid snapping chopsticks, snatching fingers.

Minutes later, the greedy diners drop their utensils, their eyes gravitating toward the newly arrived centerpiece: a field of red peppers, interspersed with elongated, finger-like duck tongues glistening beneath the oily sheen. Seemingly, an extended family of fowl—second cousins included—uttered their last quacks for our repast.

“What are you waiting for?” Bati says, inserting several tongues between his canines, mimicking a postapocalyptic vampire.

Now, the rub with tripe, kidneys and other offal eats is that the initial jolt of ordering excitement—bizarre foods in my belly!—often fades before the offbeat goodies arrive.What seemed innocuously thrilling on the printed page is often downright unappealing on a plate. Do you chicken out? Duck the dish?

At least it’s not pork bung, I think, tossing the thick, chewy tongue onto mine and chomping, gnawing— crunching? The muscle is cut with hard cartilage, forcing me to suck off flesh like it’s a funky chicken wing. The tongue’s tasty but too much work, the dining equivalent of dating a model.

“All yours, Bati,” I say, pushing the plate to the famished Frenchman.

“More good meat for me,” he says— reaching for fifths and soon ninths—as the waiter watches with an approving eye.

Drunk of the Day: Is That You, Mario?

Super Mario Brothers: the aloholic years.

Gut Instinct: Cask at Hand

One wintry, eyeballs -freezing morning, icicles clinging to trees, my bespectacled pal Aaron and I climb aboard the Long Island Railroad and choo-choo east, our goal gloriously intoxicating: to glug several of the nearly 10,000 pints sloshing inside the world’s largest cask. “We should eat first,” Aaron says, distributing several chewy, Terrace Bagels everythings.

“You know, to delay the drunkenness.” “Killjoy,” I sigh, gnawing carbohydrates. Then again, Aaron’s a brainiac medical researcher searching for an AIDS cure. “We’ve found it,” he kids, “but I’d be out of a job if I revealed it.” Certainly, these are rough times to find employment. But the darkening economic climate makes a perfect excuse for getting soused. And what better way to drown America’s sorrows than visiting Patchogue, Long Island, home to Blue Point Brewing Company’s annual Cask Ale Festival.

You ask, what’s cask? Essentially, it’s unfiltered, unpasteurized beer. Store it in metal or wooden kegs called firkins, and the hooch develops gentle, natural carbonation. Cask (or real) ale is more flavorful, more aromatic than the average CO 2 -injected brew.These low-fizz tipples are tastiest at 55 degrees—about 15 degrees warmer than Rocky Mountain refreshment.

“Let’s get some whiskey,”Aaron says when we reach frigid Patchogue. “But it’s only 11:30 a.m.,” I reply, an unlikely voice of reason.

“It’s noon somewhere,” he says, selling me on scientific rationale.We saunter down Main Street, a hardscrabble stretch of Laundromats, pawnshops and Mexican eateries. “Bingo,” Aaron says, pointing to a shopworn strip mall: Jimmy (350 East Main St.,Patchogue,Long Island), no modifier required.

We crack the curtained door and enter a sunlight-deprived realm. On the dusty TVs, sinewy horses gallop, determining the sullen customers’ daily fortunes. The yellowed lair stinks of stale smoke. The sole sound is a gaunt Bud drinker’s asthmatic wheezing.

“Whaddya want?” the bartender asks, as pleasant as a crop-wielding dominatrix. “Whiskey,” I order. He pours two paltry jolts of Jack Daniel’s, barely enough to intoxicate a toddler. “Twelve dollars.”

Twelve dollars? We swallow the belly burn and quickly exit the costly mistake. Nobody mumbles good-bye. With whiskey warmth blooming, we head to a happier land: The Blue Point Brewery, where a sold-out throng of 900 beer aficionados buzzes beneath pitched tents. Aaron and I wiggle toward Captain Lawrence. In my opinion, this Pleasantville, New York, concern crafts the Empire State’s loveliest liquids.

“What’ll it be, guys?” wonders lumberjackbearded brewer Scott Vaccaro. I select the Captain’s Reserve Imperial IPA, a psychotically hoppy sobriety-smasher that smells like weed. Greedily, I drink two glasses, leaving Aaron to the smooth, campfire-y Smoked Porter.

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From there, we test the marvelous Belgian Black mash-up from Lake Grove, New York’s John Harvard’s Brew House. The rich, roasty stout is fermented with abbey yeast, resulting in a silky, slightly sweet treat that leaves us thirsting for Brooklyn Brewery’s burly Black Ops.The Russian imperial stout is aged four months in bourbon barrels, then it’s re-fermented with champagne yeast. I receive an oily pour, crowned with a cocoa cap. Bourbon tickles my sniffer, while my taste buds wrestle with chocolate, coffee and a subtle vanilla current.

I pass Aaron my glass. He drinks slowly, deeply, like he’s taking liquid communion. “That,” he says reverentially, “was awesome.” Also awesome? Chelsea Brewing Company’s Black Hole XXX Stout, an onyx, milk-shake-thick delight buttressed by bittersweet chocolate. But not all beers are divine.The men from Brewer’s East End Revival (B.E.E.R.) represent with home-brewed home runs including Steve Calandra’s creamy, balanced Belly-Up IPA.Then there’s the crew’s schwarzbier, a German black lager dubbed Obamanation.

“I brewed it in honor of our president,” the beer maker says. Um, yeah. Befitting No. 44, I’m hopeful for a great black lager.Yet it’s too thin, lacking in taste on multiple levels. I pour out the remainder then follow the THIS WAY TO THE WORLD’S LARGEST CASK ALE sign, pointing me down a gravel path. “Behold the world’s largest cask ale!” intones a Mohawked giant with a salt-and-pepper goatee, gesturing toward a towering silver cylinder filled with Rastafar Rye Ale. I’m drawn to the monstrosity—right as a tawny cat crosses my path. It rubs my legs like a shameless prostitute.

“Be careful,” warns a thin woman in a puffy coat,“that cat will attack.” Not even feral kitties can squelch my quest. “Are you trembling?” the beer pourer asks, grasping my smudged goblet.

“I’m trembling.” “And here,” he says, in a booming Charlton Heston tone, “is your glass of the world’s largest cask ale.” It’s penny-colored, warm and calm as a late-spring lake.The Rastafar is spicy, hearty and surprisingly velvety, a cask ale for repeat stomach rendezvous. Color me impressed.

“What’d you think of the Rastafar?” the beer pourer asks. “I think,” I say, pausing to drain my chalice, “it’s time I help you make that the world’s emptiest cask.”

Drunk of the Day: Let’s Go Bowl-ing

For the love of a sweet, just God, doesn’t this man look like he’s enjoying this just a tad too much. Oh, booze. You make men evil. EVIL!

Gut Instinct: One Fish, Two Fish, Blowfish

“Will you dedicate an issue of the Press to me if I die?” I asked my editor Adam when he sent me info about an upcoming tasting.

“Only if it’s a slow week,” he replied. “Reasonable enough,” I responded, and counted the days to my possible demise.The culprit? Dinner at Midtown seafood temple Sushi Zen (108 W. 44th St. betw. Broadway & Sixth Ave., 212-302- 0707) featuring in-season blowfish, aka fugu, aka instant death.

Blowfish are swimming cyanide.They produce a poison called tetrodotoxin, which pools in the ovaries and liver. A teardrop’s worth of tetrodotoxin is deadly, with nausea and dizziness presaging paralysis. Lips and fingertips freeze, then hands and feet, as the poison slithers toward your laboring lungs, your slowing heart.There’s no cure—except being smart enough not to eat blowfish.

I first heard of blowfish from The Simpsons. During one memorable episode, the clan visits a sushi restaurant. Homer develops a taste for sea dwellers, demanding blowfish. Since the head chef is too busy boning schoolmarm Ms. Krabappel, an apprentice eviscerates the animal. Big mistake. Last rites are issued.To everyone’s surprise, though, Homer survives. Could a comic narrative structure save me too? Since no one likes dying or dining alone, I called José. He’s a fan of fried pork, microbrew IPAs and animal odds and ends. “Hell, yeah,” José said. “But let me ask my wife.” Six months ago, José’s wife birthed a bouncing boy. Since then, his social life has dwindled to drinking beer at home and praying his child sleeps through the night. Family first, friends second, a natural evolution. He requested dinner permission. “Do you want to take the tiniest risk?” she asked. “You’d leave your son without a father.” Guilt gnawed at José. He envisioned his father-less son, forever cursing fugu, and politely declined my offer.

Plan B: “Hon, fugu?” I asked my girlfriend. “I’m your second option?” she asked. “I didn’t want you to die.” “Now you do?” “Death makes everything delicious!” I said. “It’s like salt, but better.”

“I don’t believe you.” I didn’t believe myself. I’m a curious gourmand, willing to ingest Southern-fried chicken livers (crunchy!) and tongue tacos (chewy!).

But I prefer my food to murder me the American way—slowly, in artery-hardening increments. I had hundreds of bacon cheeseburgers to chomp before my dirt nap. I hoped.

On a banshee-wind January eve, we arrived at Sushi Zen, a serene refuge from maddening Midtown. Gracious servers escorted us to a bone-white sushi bar, behind which stood chef Toshio Suzuki, long salt-and-pepper hair pulled into an immaculate ponytail. He bowed. I gulped, for no good reason. Since opening Sushi Zen in 1983, Suzuki has topped the fish-and-rice ranks, training knife men such as Iron Chef Masaharu Morimoto.

Most importantly, he’s a rare member of the FDA-approved Torafugu Buyers Association of America. “Was it difficult to get your license?” I asked.

“It was not difficult,” he said, much to my chagrin. “Is omakase, OK?” Oh, yes. Omakase means chef’s choice, catered to your taste buds and wallet.We spread napkins across laps and tucked into salty, miso-slicked cod, savory gelatin filled with fish skin and minuscule shrimp cooling in yogurt and citrusy yuzu. Sashimi followed, with instructions: “Put wasabi on first, then dip it in soy sauce,” Suzuki commanded.We munched matchstick squid fanned out like petals and baby-soft scallops wearing seaweed shorts.

Jackfish was crowned with pungent minced cilantro and then dunked into ponzu, while rosy tuna was terrific sans sauce.

“Protein, so much protein,” my girlfriend moaned ecstatically. Sashimi was followed by takiawase : tender, individually cooked veggies including bamboo, eggplant and carrots served in soothing dashi broth.The warmth continued with a gurgling mushroom-monkfish soup. “It’s to warm up your stomach, after the cold sushi,” Suzuki explained as we devoured the earthy comestibles.

Now we were primed to sample Suzuki’s masterpieces—individually prepared sushi presented like trophies on rustic plates. Like rapt school kids, we watched as he dexterously sliced fish slabs, then combined them with rice, wasabi and painterly swipes of soy.

Luscious blue-fin tuna segued into warm, assertively flavored eel.Tuna marinated in soy, citrus and vinegar relented to blowtorch theater: squid suckers curled and shriveled. Salmon was lightly seared.

“Had enough?” Suzuki asked, noticing our diminished, yet unrelenting pace. Not yet, we said, receiving urchin roe, Sunkist orange and sensual.Then came a snowy fish, hatched with darkish veins and topped with a red grated-radish dot. Consider it a stop sign. “Fugu,” Suzuki proclaimed, like a judge announcing my unwelcome sentence.

I glanced at my girlfriend, her pupils dinner-plated. Was this our last moment? Did I have final words? Did I erase the porn from my laptop? Chef Suzuki waited, patient as a Buddha, as I thrust blowfish into my maw, grinding the chewy, mild fish between my molars. I swallowed hard, imagining the poison assaulting my system.Were my lips tingling, my throat stinging? “Do you like it?” Suzuki asked.

“Am I going to die?” “It’s not poisonous,” he said solemnly, unbothered that I doubted his skill. “Then it’s delicious,” I said, wondering if it was impolite to ask for seconds.

Drunk of the Day: What Happened, Zelda?

There’s something entirely disconcerting about watching folks dressed as childhood video game characters, stumbling around trashed. What’s next, a Sonic the Hedgehog sex video?