”For me the two greatest discoveries of the twentieth century were the Cuisinart and the clitoris,” Gael Greene proclaims in Insatiable, her dizzy, hilariously overwritten account of three decades of ”eating around.” In 1968, New York magazine creator Clay Felker tapped Greene — a frisky blonde from Detroit — to review restaurants in his fledgling publication. He dubbed her ”the Insatiable Critic,” an inspired moniker for a woman who fondly remembers her life as a blur of truffles, Chateau Lafite, and ”high-wire sex,” punctuated by ”eating” trips to France on New York‘s dime. ”Fortunately, Clay understood my mouth needed this constant rehabilitating ecstasy,” she explains.

Greene is a kook of the first order, and her pursuit of ecstasy — of ever more ”piercing sorbets,” ever hotter lovers — is this frothy saga’s chief fascination. And then there’s the gossip. ”I have admitted to a certain compulsive bedability,” she asserts, in a rare understatement. Her squadron of lovers included Elvis (”He closed the door, dropped his pants, and lay on the bed”), Clint Eastwood (”I was a puddle of Jell-O”), and Burt Reynolds (”He really knew how to kiss. And everything else”).

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