The Garlic Bread Rant (or: How I Learned to Stop Questioning and Start Loving My Asexuality)

I don’t want your penis.

Sorry if you’re insulted, but rest assured it’s not just yours I don’t want, it’s any penis. I am disinterested in your pickle, your pig in a blanket, your porksicle, your pudding cannon… can you tell I have food on the mind? I cannot caricaturize who I am and pretend that what you have to offer is delicious. I look at a purple-headed custard chucker and think, “Ew. Did I really used to enjoy those?”

Our palates change as we age. I regret to inform you I find your cooking unappetizing.

Don’t get me wrong, I don’t want your vagina either.

I’m not a vegetarian, and I find your vegetarian’s temptation strictly untempting. Nor is your vertical bacon sandwich, your Velveeta Mac, or your Victorian sponge cake alluring. As with the penis, I don’t want to taste your vanilla bean.

The only cooking I enjoy is my own.

I used to think there was something wrong with me for firing every chef who worked in my kitchen. I grew up watching others develop relationships with theirs and thought, “I should hire me one of those. They seem to give life greater flavor.” I’m good at making friends, but the instant I hire someone into the restaurant, I want to toss them out again. In the past I’ve stuck with these relationships, feeling more and more like the bad guy for wanting to run my kitchen on my own. It’s taken me a decade to realize that it doesn’t matter what recipes we try, my palate cannot accommodate others.

You’d think my restaurant is boring, with only one person to do the cooking. But that’s the nature of being asexual: I enjoy cuisine from across the globe, and I don’t need anyone else’s recipes to be happy. How I spend my time in the kitchen is my business. Yet oftentimes when asked to explain my tastes, I hear things like, “Well, you just haven’t met the right person yet,” or, “So, you’re like a prude?” Hun, if you only knew the recipes I tried before realizing I don’t enjoy anyone else’s cooking, or the recipes I still enjoy with only myself in the kitchen, you wouldn’t ask that. I enjoy curries, casseroles, stews, soups, salads, pastas, antipastis, roasts, risottos, sausages and sandwiches. I enjoy cocktails, but not cock. I enjoy paninis, but not pussy.

And I love garlic bread.

I realize to someone outside my restaurant, the idea of someone who enjoys cooking but calls themselves anti-cooking is confusing. All I can say is people like me exist on a spectrum. Some have learned to subsist on air. Some enjoy the company of another chef in the kitchen, and while they may not enjoy cooking, they participate out of love and respect for their partner’s passion. Others can only enjoy the cooking of a chef they’ve known for years. Our tastes are more varied than a continental breakfast, and I ask that you learn who we are before making snap judgments about what we enjoy.