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One of my favorite restaurants in San Francisco is Absinthe Brasserie & Bar. They have incredible pommes frites and the best Croque Madame I've eaten in my life. But this story isn't about them. It's about oysters and romance.

I was in the blissful early stages of a relationship with a sommelier/food snob, who came to visit me in SF. I decided to take him to Absinthe. It's a place that is always hopping yet somehow remains magical and romantic. My companion and I were deep in the magic when he ordered a couple dozen oysters. What could be sexier? The mollusks arrived, fresh and tantalizing, and we began to eat them while gazing into each other's eyes. They were everything we'd hoped--one minerally, one briny, another delicately sweet. The intensity of the meal increased, oyster by oyster. Finally, it came down to the last one. It was meaningful and we both knew it. I decided to feed it to him: a gesture I hoped showed my complete dedication to this experience. I stared deeply in his eyes and slowly brought the shellfish to his mouth. When it finally touched his tongue it was OFF--so off, he spat it onto the table, then panicked when he realized he was out of wine to rinse away the taste. We laughed for a good 15 minutes at how this scene must have looked. By the way, Absinthe remains one of my favorite restaurants. Laughter is sexier than oysters anyway.