IS LE OF 1
II ISLE OF JSISCL11141.11C0101111115111
URA JURA
14,4lt MAU XORM SMINCI
COMPETITION
Sex 'n' food
Jaspistos
IN COMPETITION NO. 1989 you were invited to reverse the voguish habit of nov- elists who describe the activities of charac- ters in bed with each other as if they were eating a meal, and to provide a restaurant critic's account of a meal which is tire- somely loaded with sexual language.
With an invitation like this you have to draw the line somewhere. Puns like `whore-d'oeuvre' and 'amuse-girls' were out, though I enjoyed Chas F. Garvey's 'a pun maybe too far for your taste, the Cocktail Bra nestling off the foyer of Mammary's Restaurant'. 'At La Vierge Chaude,' M. Lansley's gastronome report- ed, 'we ate in harmony — I always enjoy mutual mastication.' At Bill Anderson's The Palate on a Plate, 'the unanimous decision re wine was a cry for Don Juan '69 . . . and our waitress, having difficulty extinguishing the brandy flames, confessed it was her first blow-job'.
The prizewinners, printed below, take £25 each, and the bonus bottle of Isle of Jura Single Malt Scotch whisky goes to Basil Ransome-Davies for a piece that's both well-cooked and nicely blue.
The soupe de poisson stirred the juices admirably — a marine, harbour-mouthy fluid with a vis- cous quality that enveloped the tongue, a scent as of enfolded intimacies, a pronounced yet fugi- tive taste of succulent bivalves freed from their concealing nacre, nude and vulnerable. By con- trast the erect prongs of the crown of lamb stood up like sentries, hard, stiff projections. At their base, though, was tender meat that rippled in one's eagerly exploring mouth. So enticing was this sturdy main course that one was tempted to use one's fingers to tease out and fondle the warm and tender morsels of moist, pink meat that lingered in its crevices before putting them to one's lips. Finally, dessert: a perfect, snowy dome of melon sorbet topped with a single maraschino cherry — inviting, melting, mes- merising, the cherry standing up on the sorbet's glistening curvature, the climax of it all.
(Basil Ransome-Davies)
I was too hungry to daily over the trout — sever- al deft strokes and the forkplay was over — and when the main course eventually arrived, a
`drop-dead gorgeous' young chick, I was so keen to get to grips with it that I upset my wine. Once into'my stroke, the speed with which I thrust the poussin into my mouth increased, until each swallow brought an almost painful feeling of expectation to the back of the throat as it antici- pated the next delicious mouthful. The waiter, noticing the wine stain on the cloth, remarked that the table must have moved for me — the ultimate compliment to any restaurant — and, when I had gathered my strength, persuaded me to tackle an éclair — a limp anticlimax after the taste, texture and excitement of the main course. On leaving, I assured the proprietor that I would come again, but not that evening. (David Barton) My companion and I fell upon the first course of our meal — succulent king prawns in a blood- red chilli sauce — with an enthusiasm that ren- dered manners irrelevant. The sauce was deli- cious, causing our tongues to writhe about our wet mouths like famished serpents questing after every last lick, while the chewy, slippery prawn- flesh tickled the backs of our throats as only French lovers normally can. For main course, I opted for virginal spring lamb, so soft and milki- ly tender that it conjured mouth-watering mem- ories of some female thighs I once knew. My companion, ever instinctive, gorged herself on a dish consisting of fifth leg of pork and copious rich stuffing. All of which we sluiced down with a sparkling wine, bubbly and yet satisfying as a fling with a nubile typist. Pudding comprised dark chocolate, enticing yet dangerous as unex- plored cleavage, topped with lashings of climac- tic cream. (Adrian Fry) Edwardian decor and dim red lights suggested a high-class brothel, the plump maitre d' ushering us in with a pimp's obliging leer. After lubrica- tion with cream sherry and some foreplay involv- ing cashew nuts, we were served with our starter — cornice surprise — pleasantly salty, the caviare like little black sperm nestling in the warm cleft of the smooth, suggestively shaped pear half. My curry was seductively spicy, pieces of hot pink flesh filling my mouth and exploding in a burst of sticky juices which cried out for rep- etition. My companion indulged in a pair of under-age poussins, dipping the tips of their ten- der breasts in soured cream before sucking them enthusiastically. After peeling a ripe peach to enjoy its mature pleasures, he expressed himself `stuffed', but I was ready for adventure with the sweet trolley. With my eager tongue probing the hidden delights of an ice-cream horn, I knew consummation. (Alanna Blake) The amuse-gueules were mottles farcies, their secret enchantments concealed in a teasingly diaphanous millefeuille case. Earthier delights
were to follow. My companion chose the cuisses de caille — firm little thighs on a bed of wickedly seductive arugula. The dhurian and gorgonzola soufflé was a sensual experience of seismic pro- portions. I gasped with pleasure as the muscular perfumes grappled for supremacy. Then, shame- less drooling over a well-hung jugged hare, the dangerous flesh luxuriating in its dark, dark sauce: a dish to stir the most atavistic impulses. After such lubricious pleasures we might have ended on a lighter note — the sorbet aux trois parfums, perhaps. But the sulphurous charms of an '87 St Emilion and an eccentrically playful offering of desserts anglais invited further naugh- tiness. She, in a rare act of derring-do, embraced a plum duff. I watched this last, wanton indul- gence over a generously proportioned spotted
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