Ubi Sumus? Quo Vadimus?

I went, tonight, to a fancy dinner. This dinner was thrown by the management of my company, and it's a real plum to be invited. They do this twice a year in concert with a sort of board-of-directors review, and you're usually only invited if you gave a talk at the review or if you were deemed to have done important work. I have been invited, in the past, because I have done relevant work, but this year, I was more of an imposter; I was invited because a colleague had done important work, and my work was relevant to his. Sort of a secondary invitation, as it were.

The point of my story, though, isn't about the work. It's about the food in relation to my sense of the basic tenets of identity and existence. Yes, I know. Very weighty. And this would all make more sense if you knew me, which of course you might only just slightly, if you've read all my previous posts, or you don't at all, if you started with this one.

The central thing to know about me is that I love food. I am a gourmand, in the true sense of the word. Cultured, painstakingly-prepared food is a joy for the senses. Cheetos are also a joy for the senses. I have a couple shelves of my bookcase devoted to cookbooks. I love to cook, and though I usually cook only for myself, that frees me to experiment and explore the world of flavor.

Another thing to know about me is that I love to drink, but I usually don't. I had a period in my life where I drank a lot, and after realizing the counterproductivity of that kind of lifestyle, I have switched that for a life where I drink very little. I don't abstain entirely, but I almost never have more than two drinks and I usually have none.

So I approached this dinner with an appetite in more ways than one. And at the same time, this being a work-related event, I approached it with a desire to conduct myself well. The dinner is renowned -- expensive red wine, batter coated enormous shrimp... this restaurant is a former haunt of George Bush Sr, so, whatever your politics, you've got to assume it isn't shabby fare.

I should possibly mention at this point that I've also been on "a diet" for the past few years. I put it in quotes because I would tell you that it's an attempted lifestyle change and not a diet, per se. I have lost approximately 30 pounds by eating less and eating healthy foods and whole grains. My summer has comprised an almost comical amount of fresh fruit.

I hit this dinner and gradually, over the course of about three hours, ate and drank the following: approximately three glasses of red wine, grilled eggplant and squash, stuffed mushrooms, mini crab cakes, batter fried jumbo shrimp, quail and mushrooms, lobster-stuffed pasta, a tiny rack of lamb, an orange-glazed breast of duck, and a mound of whipped cream with a finger cookie and fresh strawberries with coffee to finish.

This sounds good, right? Or, at least, you can imagine that it must sound good to somebody, right? It sure sounded (and tasted) good to me.

However, the effects of this meal were pretty alarming, and I'd call it "the aftermath," except that it actually started kicking in during the meal. First of all, I felt smashed. Not tipsy, but out and out drunk. Obviously, my tolerance had decreased, but I never really imagined that it would get to the point where three glasses of wine in three hours would feel like a binge. I'm a pretty good sized person; even with the 30 pound loss I clock in at 185 lbs, so I didn't expect three moderate glasses of wine to make me feel like a sorority girl. And then, the rich food had me rushing for the bathroom at awkward moments, just to get me to the point where I could gracefully return to my table and engage my conversation-mates without looking distressed.

If you told me this story, I'd consider it kind of self-evident. I'd say, "Dude, your system isn't accustomed to all that rich food. You can't just dump all that in your body at once and expect a good reaction." Strangely, though, it never crossed my mind that that might apply to me. I AM the rich food, good wine poster child. When I made the decision to generally abstain from all these things for the good of my physical and mental health, it never once occured to me that I was turning in my membership card. I've heard about dieters who lose their taste for rich food or drinkers who lose their taste for drink, but I'm not one of those people. I'm still crazy about all of that. I have fantasies about the perfectly-seared fat in the recesses of a good prime rib.

And this is where the existential crisis comes in. Who am I? I thought I was a person who revels in rich food and good drink, but who simply limits such indulgences out of necessity and good sense. But if that limit is zero, is that really who I am? Have I become, instead, one of those people who irritate the crap out of me, who wave away life's greatest pleasures because "oh, that's just far too heavy for me"?

I realize there's a middle ground here. I could have the wine but not the rich food, or the rich appetizers but a light meal, and so on. There are very likely compromises I might explore. But in real life, most of these things tend to come as all-or-nothing propositions; the company dinner at the ex-presidential restaurant, after all, does not get offered every month.

And so, I have come to the reluctant conclusion that I am a part-time Roman, in a sense. A few times a year, I will go, I will indulge after my fashion, it will make me ill, and I will consider that all part of a good time. I'm not that comfortable with that existential plateau, but until I figure this out in some clearer fashion, that is apparently where I sit.

I just hope I don't break the chair or otherwise disgrace myself while I'm there.