The shared meal, Michael Pollan noted in his altogether fascinating exploration of how cooking civilized us, is where we “learn the art of conversation and acquire the habits of civilization.” But, beyond the mere mythology of aphrodisiacs and anti-aphrodisiacs, the careful observation of our relationship with food during those shared occasions can also reveal our rawest nature, most unfiltered preferences, and least civilized psychological tendencies. So argues Mimi Sheraton in The Seducer’s Cookbook (public library) — her charming 1962 guide to the lost art of seduction, illustrated by MAD’s Paul Coker — where she presents this curious culinary anatomy of romantic and sexual archetypes:

You can learn a lot about a person from the way he or she eats — about the extent of his physical appetites and the way they are satisfied. There are those who will try anything offered to them, no matter how new or exotic, while others refuse to accept any but the most familiar fare — obviously not the adventurous type to new experiences.

Sheraton argues that dietary preferences reveal a great deal about how good a dancer someone is in the intricate dance between abandon and restraint, so essential in intimate relationships:

Women who are diet-conscious should, when some tempting morsel is presented, throw caution to the wind and eat without a thought for tomorrow. An air of abandon must prevail sometimes, and if not at the table, then probably not in bed either; while a man who appears to be turning into one of Circe’s swine after dinner may display the same propensities when satisfying his other physical urge.

The act of ordering itself, Sheraton counsels, is remarkably revealing of a person’s overall authenticity:

While ordering in restaurants, you should be able to tell a great deal about someone’s tastes, sensitivities and pretensions. A man or woman who is completely honest and without airs, and already knows good food, will recognize it whether it be a hot dog at Nedick’s or a páté en croute at Pavillon. Beware of anyone who seems to recognize good food only when served in a currently fashionable restaurant. Such a person may be given to passing fads and is not to be trusted.

Sheraton goes on to offer a kind of gastronomic phrenology of personality types based on dietary preferences:

If a woman consistently orders sickeningly sweet, overelaborate whipped-cream desserts, she may be given to equally sticky goodbyes, and a man who overeats on one course and then has to pass up the rest of the meal doesn’t know how to pace himself and could be a problem later in the evening. And should you find yourself with a girl who orders a pastrami sandwich on whole-wheat toast with lettuce and Russian dressing (a meal I actually heard someone order in a New York delicatessen), you’d best be off before the waiter returns with the check.

The rest of The Seducer’s Cookbook similarly oscillates between the delightfully outlandish and the surprisingly insightful, and remains an absolute treat from cover to cover. Sample more of it here and complement it with unbeknownst gastronome Alexandre Dumas on the three types of appetite.