In a dimly-lit restaurant, the kind where tables are too close together, I sat across from my date and lifted my gaze from the menu.

"What the hell is rag out?" I asked, and before the sentence had shot half way out my mouth, I realized my mistake. How awkward--this coming from a woman who studied abroad as a teenager, and who was quite deft at combing sexy glances and flirtatious French banter while nibbling on a sandwich au fromage. Now, faced with the pressure of appearing worldly in front of my potential suitor, my head was swimming with the pronunciation of a certain spaghetti sauce, Ragu. As I watched my date's eyes narrow, I hastily answered my own question: "Oh, I misread. I know exactly what organic mushroom and spinach ragoût is. I adore it. And I see it comes with potato dumplings. I must find out how the chef prepares it here."

I had clearly lost my command of the French language. And--now that I'd lost my relatively well-paying job--my rent was so high I needed to go on dates just to eat. But the prospect of a Riesling from Alsace caused me to make certain reconciliations. I refrained when my date--with his well-manicured, devilishly-peaked eyebrows; outrageous dimples; gray tweed cap; and a preoccupation with the aesthetic--ordered the ragoût for me, plainly afraid I would mispronounce it again. This further proves my theory that elegance seems effortless so long as one has the lexicon and finances to support it.

In the world of dating for fine food, one must live by certain rules. First, always let your newest dinner date choose the restaurant so that you can make an instant, albeit unsubstantiated, analysis of his character. Once, not too long ago, a very dark and handsome fellow took me to an upscale Asian restaurant chain on the edge of Chinatown. During dinner, I wondered if I would have been more taken with his bland, slightly misogynist conversation if we had been eating authentic Peking duck instead of so-called "Hong Kong style" sweet and sour chicken; the recipe had obviously been altered to be more palatable to American taste buds.

When one is operating with her most basic instincts--the need for a damned good meal, not love--a dinner date that sours before the crème brûlée arrives can be disposed of easily. Secondly, under no circumstances will there be any physical activity--regardless of the many glasses of Trefethen Cabernet Sauvignon consumed by the end of the night. All that is necessary is a graceful extolling of the evening. It is crucial to prevent a gentleman from breaching the sanctum of her psyche, let alone her home. There should never be any compromising of one's integrity, no matter how good the duck confit salad.

Yet, those of us willing to walk this fine line do harbor the fantasy of the ultimate gourmand dinner date because, of course, we can't help ourselves. We all strive for the romance, no matter how elusive. The ideal evening would unfold as follows:

As he disparages HUD's most recent decisions, he gives me my choice of hors d'oeuvres: "Foie gras? Or perhaps chilled jellied loaf of poultry on sorrel cream?"

The conversation would then turn to literature and the arts, peppered with references to the fine meals we had recently indulged in. Then, with rounded bellies filled with the finest French foods and wines, the evening would end with making sweet love atop a Persian rug in front of the roaring fire behind the hearth's grate.

But fantasy gives way to reality, and I must confess to more than one sexual encounter resulting from five Sam Adams (plus or minus) and a juicy burger (complete with American cheese and pickle) in some not-too-clean bar. I can remember too clearly the feeling of beer and beef making an unholy union in my stomach, fumbling with kisses and clothes, and hoping only to consummate the ultimate act of digestion and sex... It is during these little moments that I settle into a familiar state of ambivalence and swear to all the gods in heaven and the demons in hell never to stoop so low again.

Epicurean delights, sex, manipulation--it's a dirty business. If I examine it too closely, certain phrases (gourmet slut, hussy de gastronome, whore of Sybarite) come to mind. The possibility that I may--on some deep, dark level--be prostituting myself for the sake of cuisine brings the realization that my parents would be very disappointed if they were to find out. But habits can be very hard to break, so when I was asked out to an average Thai restaurant by a fine young man, I couldn't help but accept. Within the first few minutes of the meal, he admitted that he had eaten tofu only once, and that he had never tasted eggplant. Bewildered, I had to pose the question, "Where are you from again?"

So began our shared meal of tofu triangles and Pad Thai, in its peanut sauce and carbohydrate splendor. It was a staple meal complete with honest intentions, comfortable conversation, and a reasonable check that we split.