There are advertisements seemingly conceived to strike at our deepest longings while at the same time mocking the sentinels of political correctness. Some are more daring than others, like this one, which promotes a steakhouse and cocktail bar. At first glance, it appears thoroughly elegant: against a black background advance a cocktail (a Love Potion 209, perhaps, or an Aviation), some frosted‑magenta blooms, and a rather brazen copy of the Venus de Milo. The composition invites the promise of refined sensory experiences.

If the drink is clearly pointing toward the bar’s offerings, it is certainly not the flowers that evoke the juicy cut awaiting the knife. The flesh is represented by Aphrodite herself, goddess of love and direct facilitator of carnal pleasure. This sculpture is one of the most iconic works in the history of art. Her torso, untouched by the passing of millennia, embodies classical beauty, the perfect symmetry—almost mathematical—of its proportions. Were it not so hard, one might sink one’s teeth into it, and more than once, especially since it lacks arms and cannot defend itself. Much like the steak, arriving on the plate, bleeding and subdued.

The more parallels we find between her and the Rib Eye lodged in our imagination, the more unsettling the sensations that follow. On the one hand, the petrified femininity of the goddess seems to acquire life, scent, and flavor. On the other, the chop itself absorbs mystery, depth, and spirit into its marbled flesh. Both natures exchange their finest qualities, producing a confused and startled appetite. Diverse hungers merge somewhere in the recesses of the unconscious. And yet the primary sense—sight, the decoding of raw information—warns us that there is not enough warmth for the feast. The cocktail, the marble of the table and of the deity alike, are all cold, and invite nothing that isn’t already stirred by the fantasies of the mind.

To my eye, it is an advertisement somewhat contradictory. Not ineffective—the evidence is that I stopped and lingered, enough to inspire this brief analysis. But neither entirely good, for physical hunger never surfaces; rather, it withdraws. It yields ground to others far harder to satisfy, because matter, no matter how classical, will never live up to the improbable reward our inner steward of pleasure expects of it.

This is not an ad for the hungry. Then again, it is no bad thing to be hungry for beauty, for flowers, and for divinity. Lust, on the other hand, is insatiable; it only pales with age. What remains is the honest steak, with mashed potatoes, hot and elemental, slow to digest. From which fullness flows.

P.S. Caesar’s Steakhouse is located in Calgary, Alberta, Canada. Address: 512 4 Avenue SW, Calgary, AB T2P 0J6, Canada. If you happen to pass by, now you know.

P.P.S. Days later I came across the September issue of Avenue Calgary—the previous one—which carried an advertisement for Caesar’s where the true truth can be seen. As you can tell, neither time nor novelty are necessarily synonymous with progress.