Metro mojo
She who says Aphrodite says aphrodisiac. So if the metro just isn’t working your mojo, try this bubbly, fruity cocktail. A more complete list of aphrodisiac ingredients will give you other ideas with which to experiment, so while away some time in the kitchen before adjourning to the boudoir....
ingredients:
2 cups (200g) unhulled strawberries
2 tbsp. honey (or more, to taste)
4-5 whole basil leaves
¼ cup cognac
1 ½ cups chilled brut or dry champagne (or any dry bubbly)
a handful of strawberries, raspberries, or other fruit, for garnish
how to make it:
Wash and then hull the strawberries. Using a conventional blender or an immersion blender, whirl together the strawberries, honey, and basil leaves to make a smooth fruit purée. Combine the fruit purée with the cognac in a well-chilled serving pitcher, then very slowly pour in the bubbly. Mix well, and serve in champagne flutes or the glass of your choice, accompanied by a fruit garnish.
makes 5-6 cocktails
City of metro love
We’ve all seen the kind of couple that holds hands innocently on the metro platform. But once inside the moving train, they’re all over each other, indulged in frantic groping and a slobbery kiss-fest. Far be it from me to censure the passengers’ hedonistic enthusiasm – I find it charming – but what I’m wondering is how the metro inspires such amorous behavior? It’s not the sickly yellow interiors, or the harsh glow of those fluorescent lights that prevent homeless passengers from dozing on the tagged vinyl banquettes. Maybe the only place that really feels like summer some years is inside the steamy metro cars. Or maybe it’s because the trains rock their way from one station to the next through long, dark tunnels – powerful metaphors popularized by American blues songs. Perhaps the protection offered by the moving metro prompts budding exhibitionists into action, whereas at street level they’re less tempted to lock lips so enthusiastically. Or it could just be that Paris really is the most romantic city on earth, all the way down to its subterranean transportation system."In Paris, lovers love each other their own way." So sang Edith Giovanna Gassion in 1947, long after Louis Leplée called her the piaf, or little sparrow. What they might not have known is that the sparrow was one of goddess of love Aphrodite’s sacred symbols. Apparently sparrows are indeed among the most sexually active birds, even if Edith Piaf sang not of lust, but of true love and tragic loss. In the song Les Amants, she reproaches Parisian lovers "without manners" which leads me to believe Piaf must have taken the metro from time to time.
Public displays of affection are a natural part of living in such close concentration with others, even when they’re not meant to be public – just ask any Parisian how thin their apartment walls are. The perfumed proximity of rush-hour metro passengers only heightens the experience of city living. There was a time when metro riders would interact with each other verbally, but now most keep to their cell phone, newspaper, or lover. Sometimes rapper JoeyStarr’s aggressive voice filters out from between a girl’s ears and her gargantuan headphones, or I’ll overhear a conversation about a current exhibition at the Pompidou Center, or Beaubourg, as its known to locals. Once, in a case of incidental sexual harassment, I was pulled in to a couple’s smacking vortex when the guy behind me accidentally grabbed and tugged on my scarf while reaching around his gal’s coif to pull her closer. A metro ménage à trois? Maybe some other time.
Some people say they can’t stand a public display of affection, but they’re the first ones to take salivary revenge when the opportunity arises. One summer, my man and I sat together on folding seats in a steamy metro train, headed home for the night. We held hands, and, yes, began sucking face, engulfed in our wonderful kissy-poo world. Standing above us, holding the vertical bar for support, were three college-age American guys. As the train swayed through a tunnel, I fell deeper into our kiss. But out of the corner of my eye, I noticed one of the guys discreetly jabbing his index finger in the air, to make sure his friend checked us out. The friend tilted his head in the same direction as his lopsided smile, shrugged one shoulder, and said, "City of love, dude."
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