I like food and I like sex. I’m not too crazy about the combination. though. Not so those crazy kids at the Philadelphia Weekly, who this week have put out (heh) their “Sexy Food” issue. The topic manifests itself in the illos that run through the section, extreme close-up photos of fruits and veggies looking all hot and bothered (sort of the grown-up version of those Joost Elffers Play with Your Food books), as well as in articles about aphrodisiacs, eating less for better performance (hmm, wonder if those Calorie Restriction folks are doing it like rabbits), and a piece titled “Strip Grub”, in which the restaurant critic contemplates the food at Philly’s various “gentlemen’s clubs.”

We were tempted to order Delilah’s ‘Very Best Breast’ of chicken, but considering there was no shortage of breasts around, we passed.

On the more foodie, less sexy side, there is a chilling inside look at the life of a picky eater. In “Wet, the Appetite”, Daniel McQuade writes about his lifelong struggle with his palate.

I love food. I love pizza and fries, apples and string cheese. I love ravioli and pancakes, rye bread and French toast. Recently I’ve been eating a lot of carrots. Problem is, the above list pretty much comprises the only things I eat …

The inverse of a Chowhound, the yin to a gourmet’s yang, McQuade does have a favorite restaurant: the Olive Garden.

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