Here’s the question: Is it possible for a food experience to be so sensual that it approximates sex? This weekend I learned that the answer is ‘yes’. I have no interest in sounding like a restaurant reviewer, and besides, The Inn at Little Washington in Washington, Virginia and it’s chef, Patrick O’Connell have already won more culinary and hospitality awards then you could imagine, so five diamonds and multiple stars and all of that aside, let me just tell you that the highlight of a magical, multi-highlight weekend was for me, a simple piece of tuna covered in foie gras. In fact, I think highlight is too bland a word; it makes me think more of a sports video than a religious conversion, and let me tell you, after this meal I clearly saw the light and it’s name was goose liver.

Perhaps you think I’m being overly dramatic to compare dining to a celestial act. But the sensation of melting liver sliding down my throat on a magic carpet of perfectly black and blue tuna was languid and angelic enough to invoke prayer. I gush, I know. But let me tell you more. First, I consider myself somewhat of a ‘foodie’. This past month has seen me at the tables of Country, Babbo, Gin Lane, The Bar at The Modern and The Soho House. Let me give you our groups’ opinions respectively. Country: predictable. Babbo: too many organs (I’m sorry, this wasn’t my comment, it belonged to my husband, who feels that if you are going to serve exotic body parts you should at least call them something friendly like sweetbreads—which makes him think of muffins. Note to self; husband not invited on next trip to Umbria.) Gin Lane; barely average. The Modern: fabulous. Soho House; best for brunch. Now……you can see that a restaurant that moves me to mine my vocabulary for accolades will have to be quite something.

Now here is the other piece: I do not have a great stomach, meaning, I have no business mixing the rich and myriad flavors and genres of foods often found on tasting or other multi course menus. After my first meal at the Inn, sleep was long in coming, as my stomach protested, not violently but still, in its own nagging way. So what did I do the second night? Exactly the same thing: knowing full well that I’d be propped up, hands making small soothing round circles on my belly until at least 2 or 3 am. But did I protest or even hesitate? Not at all. And later, just as I predicted, my mouth was still hot and bothered, still stimulated, still saying ‘Oh Baby’ while my stomach said ‘not tonight dear’, but in this case, it was the one and only time where ‘no’ did not mean no. And in the morning…I didn’t regret a thing.