The world may not need a P.D.Q. Freud laugh riot, but here it is anyhow--the work of a psychoanalyst and a translator who appear to have combed the life and writings of the master for any conceivable (or, for that matter, inconceivable) gastronomic pun. Neurasthenia--""a problem of the Will, or as Adler and Rank used to pronounce it, the 'Veal' ""--is briskly compared to the quality of good pale, tender veal and dispatched with a recipe for a determinedly tough roast; Sandor Ferenczi is remembered with eggplant fritters (""Beat ferencziedly into it 3 tablespoons flour. . . top each with a maternal sprinkling of paprika""); chocolate is melted in a Double-Bleuler (named for Eugen B. of the Zurich Burgh"lzi). We also get Minna's Strone, Erogenous Scones, a breakthrough Interpretation of Creams (""Ah hah! I said. These geographical cream names""--i.e., Chantilly, crâ€šme anglaise, and the like--""are nothing but disguises, repressions for something so deeply obscene. . . that the culinary imagination must project them out of one's own country and into another. . . Only in Vienna, I am proud to say, have we had the honesty to call a Schlag a Schlag""), and--but nat(infinity)rlich--Frau Lou's Salomâ€š Platter. The recipes are more or less usable if you know how to cook. Intended recipients of this cute little gifti-cue will find it either completely pointless or completely irresistible.