The Aphrodisiac Encyclopaedia

by Mark Douglas Hill

  For all its glamour, foie gras has pretty seamy origins. The blood diamond of the kitchen, every buttery bite gives the karma a battering. Foie gras means ‘fat liver’, but refers specifically to goose liver. Duck foie gras, the only other variant, is similar but less rich. Farmers create these ‘fat livers’ with a strict diet of far too much food, far too often. As ducks and geese naturally like to watch their weight, these mega meals are unceremoniously force-fed into the protesting fowl using a metal pipe. The excess energy is stored as fat in these waterfowls’ livers – an evolutionary quirk ruthlessly exploited to produce livers around ten times their natural size.

  This bizarre culinary practice was established a bewilderingly long time ago. Around 2500 BC, the Egyptians discovered that forced over-feeding resulted in fattened geese. The Romans, true to decadent form, developed the technique further, using dried figs to create geese with gargantuan livers. Pliny the Elder attributes this gluttonous breakthrough to the gastronome Marcus Gavius Apicius, a man he admiringly describes as ‘born to enjoy every extravagant luxury that could be contrived’:

  Apicius made the discovery, that we may employ the same artificial method of increasing the size of the liver of the sow, as of that of the goose; it consists in cramming them with dried figs, and when they are fat enough, they are drenched with wine mixed with honey, and immediately killed.

  With the decline and fall of the Roman Empire, it fell to the Jews to preserve this ancient technique through the Dark Ages. The gastronomic awakening of eighteenth-century France saw foie gras reborn and clasped to the nation’s bosom. South-west France is now the centre of world production, churning out almost 20,000 tonnes of fatty liver a year.

  Interest piqued, a few years ago I paid a visit to a foie gras farm in the Périgord. I am pleased to report that modern production is not as barbarous as perhaps it sounds. The force-feeding takes place only for the last fortnight of the bird’s life, and to the bon viveur’s untrained eye it almost looked as though they were enjoying the process. They were certainly queuing up at feeding time. Guilt partially assuaged, I procured a lobe of the finest liver and retired to the chateau to investigate its preparation.

  Cooking with fresh foie gras needs a delicate touch. One can watch with horror as the prized delicacy dissolves in a hot pan. Half-freezing before use and brushing with honey gives you time to sear a slice in a hot pan without it melting away. The honey helps caramelise the foie gras slice, creating a crisp crust with an oozing soft centre. This is traditionally placed on top of a fillet steak, but I prefer a lighter partner. The balance is perfect with a fat fillet of roast cod. Hot foie gras is fantastic but it is more usual to serve it chilled as a terrine. Preparing a terrine is far less prone to error. The liver needs to be marinated overnight and can then be baked in a bain-marie, poached in fat or water, steamed or simply cured in salt. The cooked foie gras needs to be well refrigerated before serving, to allow the sublimely smooth buttery texture to fully develop. The richness of the foie gras is usually contrasted with a sharp fruity accompaniment and toast. After maximum enjoyment with minimum aggravation, I would dazzle a dining companion with a robustly flavoured duck foie gras, cured in salt, served with toasted walnut bread and sour plum caramel.

  Salt-Cured Duck Foie Gras with Mirabelle and Sour Plum Caramel

  Raw duck foie gras : 250 g

  Mirabelle or Armagnac : 1 tbsp

  Sea salt : a pinch

  Black pepper : 1 large pinch

  Coarse-grained salt : 1 kg

  Granulated sugar : 250 g + 50g

  Greengages or plums : 4

  Red wine vinegar : 2 tbsp

  If your foie gras hasn’t been cleaned and deveined this is a task you must perform. Unwrap your pale beige liver, trim off any yellowy green spots and pull away any white membrane clinging to the outside. Unfold the two lobes of the liver and gently pull them apart. They are connected by a vein into the centre of each lobe. Cut this and with tweezers gently tease it out from each lobe with a slow even motion. It all happens a lot easier if the liver is at room temperature.

  Lay the lobes of foie gras out on a sheet of greaseproof paper, sprinkle with the Mirabelle eau de vie or Armagnac and season with a little sea salt and pepper. Roll the foie gras into a tight cylinder about 6 cm in diameter and tie off both ends. Refrigerate for 1 hour.

  Remove the greaseproof paper and wrap the foie gras in one layer of cheesecloth. Tie each end and shape so it forms a tight cylinder. Place the foie gras sausage in a suitable container and completely bury in a mix of 4 parts coarse-grained salt to 1 part granulated sugar. Refrigerate for 12 hours.

  Remove the foie gras sausage from the salt, unwrap the cheesecloth and wrap in cling film for later.

  Cut the greengages or plums in half lengthways and extract the stones. Slice into thin strips.

  In a small pan mix 50 g of sugar with enough water for it to resemble wet sand. Cook over a low heat until the sugar turns a rich golden brown. Remove from the heat and add 2 tablespoons of red wine vinegar. Return to the heat and bring to the boil, stirring to combine. Add a good pinch of freshly ground black pepper and stir in the plum slices. Allow the mix to cool.

  Serve a thick slice of foie gras sprinkled with a few grains of sea salt, accompanied by thin slices of walnut bread toast and an artful dollop of the sour plum caramel.

  Seared Duck Foie Gras with Roast Cod

  Cod fillets : 2

  Melted butter : 1 tbsp

  Honey : 1 tbsp

  Raw duck foie gras : 2 slices

  Plain flour : 1 tsp

  Salt and pepper : to taste

  Spinach : 2 large handfuls

  Place an oiled roasting dish in an oven heated to 190° C. When the dish is hot add the cod fillets skin side down and brush with butter. Bake for 15 minutes. The cod is ready when a skewer can be inserted into the fish without meeting any resistance.

  Meanwhile warm the honey to make it more liquid, brush the raw foie gras with it, toss in flour then season with salt and pepper.

  Heat a non-stick frying pan to a medium-high heat. Sear the foie gras slices for about 30 seconds on each side, until a brown crust forms. Remove and keep warm while you quickly wilt the spinach in the same pan using the foie gras fat to coat. Season well.

  Place a mound of spinach on each plate, remove the roast cod and place on top. Perch the seared foie gras on the cod fillet and serve with a side order of potato gratin.

  HONEY

  For thousands of years honey had a monopoly on sweetness. In our sugar-coated times it is hard to fully appreciate the honey buzz enjoyed by our ancestors.

  Bees and honey inspired almost religious reverence. Honey was the food of the gods, a precious substance reserved for ritual and romance. The ancient Egyptians believed that bees were the tears of the sun god Ra. They offered honey to the fertility god Min to sweeten their lovemaking. Famously fond of oral sex, Cleopatra would honey her pot in preparation for the nightly onslaught. This may have been partially precautionary. Honey was also considered anti-bacterial and contraceptive, and she did get around.

  Arabic gentlemen stuck in a sexual rut were prescribed honey mixed with ginger and pepper by the great eleventh-century physician Avicenna. Alternatively they could consult the legendary Arab sex manual, The Perfumed Garden. This erotic encyclopaedia commends honey, almonds and pine nuts to its randy readers. The Celtic and Viking barbarians preferred their honey alcoholic. Newly wed couples would kick-start conjugal bliss with a month tippling on honey wine – the origin of the modern-day honeymoon.

  Honey production is unique. During the warm summer months, battalions of worker bees harvest flower nectar from the surrounding countryside. Back in the hive, teams repeatedly swallow and regurgitate the nectar, until it is half-digested and halfway to honey. The final process is driving off the excess moisture to stop the honey going bad. Fanning their wings the bees turn the hive into an insect drying machine, concentrating the honey so it can be safely stored.


  These days honey is more buttered crumpet than sticky strumpet. The aphrodisiac effect, however, remains intact. Honey is pure natural sugar. Evolution has hard-wired the human body to seek out such advantageous, energy-dense sweet foods. As a result sweetness now triggers the brain to release natural opiates and dopamine, spreading good feelings and the desire to seek out more sweetness in the future. Sex does exactly the same thing so it is quite natural that the two get amorously entwined in the mind. The problem is that sugar is now everywhere and in everything. Like addled addicts we have become accustomed to intense hits of sweetness. The drug no longer works. The spoonful of honey that would have triggered a tidal wave of sexually inspiring dopamine and opiate pleasure, today might just cause a ripple.

  Although nutritionally diminished, honey remains the most gastronomically rewarding source of sweetness. The heady floral bouquet and perfumed sweetness of a pure honey add a sweet sensuality not found in sugar. Heather honey dribbled over Greek yoghurt, fresh raspberries and toasted oats is surely the summer breakfast of sex gods. Still better, retreat from the heat and submit to the chilly kiss of a honey, lemon and ginger sorbet served in a pool of iced honey vodka.

  Honey, Lemon and Ginger Sorbet with Honey Vodka

  Honey : 125 ml

  Water : 600 ml

  Lemon : ½ large lemon (unwaxed)

  Ginger root : 3 cm length

  Vodka : 50 ml

  Add 100 ml of honey and all of the water to a saucepan. Thin, fine acacia honey works particularly well in this recipe but any honey will suffice.

  Squeeze the juice from the lemon and grate the zest. Peel and grate the ginger.

  Add the ginger, lemon juice and zest to the pan and heat. Bring to the boil and simmer for 1 minute.

  Strain the mixture through a sieve. Taste and add further lemon juice if more sharpness is required.

  Transfer the mix into a container and when cool place in the freezer (or ice-cream maker).

  Once the sorbet has begun to freeze (after about two hours), remove from the container and whizz up in a food processor or blender. Return to the container and refreeze, repeating the process after another hour. The finished sorbet should have a consistency similar to crystallised honey.

  To make the honey vodka, simply warm the vodka with the remaining honey until it dissolves, then place in the freezer to chill.

  To serve, pour one shot of syrupy vodka into the bottom of a Martini glass or champagne coupe. Top with a generous scoop of sorbet.

  IGUANA

  The cuddly koala and scaly iguana do not have a lot in common. It is only upon intimate examination that a startling and most unusual similarity is revealed. Uniquely in the animal kingdom, both creatures sport a double penis. Appendages as impressive as these do not go unnoticed. Traditional communities throughout Central America duly revere the iguana as a paragon of virility. Unfortunately for iguanas, these communities also believe this celebrated potency is readily transferable through the medium of soup.

  In Nicaragua during Holy Week, there is a veritable frenzy of iguana feasting. The Nicaraguans seek out bloated females, remove their cargo of unlaid eggs, and gleefully turn them into steaming bowls of iggy stew and hard-boiled iggy eggs. This primes the population for long nights of post-Lenten passion, and a noted national spike in births nine months later. The sexual prowess of the iguana has also been documented much closer to home. Mozart, a captive reptile in Antwerp zoo, heroically maintained an erection for over a week. Following a cold-blooded night of passion with no fewer than three licentious lady lizards (Truus, Pepina and Bianca), Mozart’s ardour would not subside. Regrettably, fearing infection, vets were forced to amputate. Luckily, Mozart had a fully functioning spare to fall back on.

  In certain circles, it is believed that a hearty bowl of iguana stew can cure impotence – a bold claim that needs more than a double penis to be taken seriously. Unsurprisingly, there is little direct research on the subject. However, as the iguana becomes an increasingly popular pet, there are a growing number of PhD theses documenting iguana biology. A cursory inspection immediately highlights the presence of a series of strange glands along the inner thigh of the iguana, glands which ooze a powerful sex pheromone during the mating season. Study into these secretions has shown a whole chromatograph of obscure fatty acids, all very rich in vitamin D. Production of our own sex hormones is extremely dependent on vitamin D, so it seems that soup infused with a healthy dose of iguana musk could well have a telling effect on the Central American libido.

  Outside the jungle, procuring iguana poses problems. However, should an itinerant iguana just happen to come one’s way, seize the opportunity with both hands (preferably just behind the neck). Lay on a stout final feed of beaten egg and brandy. Lower the lights, put a little Chopin on the gramophone and when the unfortunate beast is serenely slumbering apply the coup de grâce. A quick strike to the neck with a heavy cleaver should suffice – maximum decapitation with the minimum gore and personal disquiet. It is indeed rare that I would consider such a tortuous and morally ambiguous route to a meal, but if its many supporters are to be believed this is a palaver well worth the aggravation.

  Although the most common iguana preparation is a soupy stew, I would advise against and plump for roast iguana. Genuinely tasty, roast iguana has a flavour and texture similar to chicken, but with more savoury notes. Unusually, iguana needs to be parboiled before roasting. In order to enhance the aphrodisiac qualities I would suggest that this is done with the skin on, to infuse the dish with seductive iguana secretions.

  Roast Iguana with Chipotle and Oregano Marinade

  Iguana : 1 medium-sized specimen

  Bay leaves : 3

  Peppercorns : 2

  Chipotle chilli : 2 dried chillies

  Garlic : 4 fat cloves

  Rice vinegar : 3 tbsp

  Chopped oregano : 2 tbsp

  Onion : 1 medium red onion

  Vegetable oil : 1 tbsp

  Tomatoes : 4

  Coriander : 1 tbsp

  Salt and pepper : to taste

  Gound paprika : 1 tsp

  Ground cinnamon : 1 tsp

  Remove the innards from your iguana, retaining the heart. Cut off the head and split the body in two down the spine.

  Place the iguana in a pot and cover with water. Add a few bay leaves and a couple of peppercorns, bring to the boil and simmer for 15 minutes.

  Remove the iguana from the pot, reserving the poaching liquid. Allow the meat to cool and remove the skin. Cut the skinned iguana into pieces and place in a bowl ready to be marinated.

  For the marinade, rehydrate the dried chillies and blend with two cloves of garlic, the vinegar and oregano to form a smooth paste. Add the paste to the meat, mix and leave to marinate for about 2 hours.

  Place the marinated meat in a hot oven (220°C) and roast for about 45 minutes until tender. The exact time will depend on the size of your pieces of iguana.

  While the iguana is roasting, prepare the sauce. Finely chop the onion and sweat for 10 minutes in a pan with a little oil and any remaining marinade, crush the remaining garlic and add to cook out for a couple of minutes.

  Roughly chop the tomatoes and add the reserved poaching liquid to the pan. Bring to the boil and reduce until the sauce is the consistency of double cream.

  Remove the sauce from the heat, add the chopped coriander and season with salt and pepper.

  To serve, place a heap of cooked rice on the plate, ladle over lots of sauce and place the roast iguana on top. Squeeze a little lime over the meat and lightly dust with ground paprika and cinnamon.

  STEAK

  Call me a lion, but tearing into a piece of red meat makes me want to roar. Eating other animals has been the key to our evolution as terrestrial top dog. Sexual selection favours the successful hunter, and nothing prompts the hunting hero to select sex more than the carnivorous afterglow of a prime beefsteak. The blood is up, some dormant instinct stirs and the dressing gown of civilisation
slips to the floor. The ancient inheritance awakes and the primal urge to procreate is on the prowl.

  The cave paintings of Lascaux show that bovine beasties have been on the menu since prehistoric times. The French may splutter and the Americans mutter but it is the English who are responsible for the modern-day steak. The Rosbifs of the eighteenth century started the unstoppable trend for grilling individual slabs of prime beef: the Sublime Society of Beefsteaks’ inauguration in 1735 bears testament to the entrenched English enthusiasm for grilled beef. It wasn’t until Napoleon met his Waterloo in 1815 that steak was popularised on mainland Europe. The chefs of Paris picked up the habit catering for the red-blooded appetites of the British Army. Like a greasy English thumbprint on the white tablecloth of French gastronomy, the habit has stuck.

  Whilst not strictly speaking an aphrodisiac tradition, it has long been believed that eating meat rich with blood bestows manly vim and vigour. In Henry V, Shakespeare describes poultry-loving French lords chickening out at the thought of the English soldiers who fight like devils after ‘great meals of beef’. The belief was government policy by the eighteenth century, with each able-bodied seaman in the British Navy rationed a gut-busting 209 pounds (95 kg) of beef per year – equivalent to a 9-ounce steak every day.

  Father of psychology Sigmund Freud was the first to link sex and aggression as the primary motivating forces in human behaviour. Modern nutrition shows that the sex hormone testosterone lies at the heart of both impulses. It also reveals that a slap-up feed of beef will not only boost testosterone but will provide a hit of libido-enlivening amino acids and minerals at the same time.