An Episode of Substance Abuse

“I’m going to regret this.”

Who hasn’t been there? Staring down a smoking joint in an outstretched hand, a cliff overlooking a river, another shot of tequila.

And there I stood on that precipice between known safety and the unknown chasm of euphoria or disaster. The classic internal dialogue was racing.

“Go ahead, just this once…”

“No! You know better. Resist like you have so many times before!”

“Come on, a little can’t hurt…”

“Stay strong! Or else you’ll pay tomorrow morning.”

“You’re in Athens, you just saw the Acropolis. Come on, you’ve got every reason to party. Everyone else is doing it…”

It was futile even pretending to resist any longer. I was bought and sold the minute I stepped through the door, a lamb led bashfully but perfectly willingly to the slaughter.

My drug of choice? Not heroin, Vicodin, OxyContin, or adrenaline; I’d be tripping on something else altogether: Dairy--that comrade to many, scourge to me which adds such richness, such depth to its tantalizing palette. That patron saint of foods, so beloved and benevolent towards the masses, who violently rejects and punishes every gesture of kindness, every offering of friendship I stretch forth leaving me crippled and helpless, singling me out and shielding its forbidden fruit for the select many.

Fried calamari. Fresh. My own eyes had seen just that morning from the steps of the Parthenon the sea from which it had been plundered. Crispy at first, the savory fried batter (no doubt liberally laced with butter) pitted against tangy lemon juice exploded onto the palate before slowly receding, giving way to the totally satisfying meaty flavor and texture of the flesh itself, just enough body to chew but never chewy. Absolutely divine.

Saghanaki. A Greek Cheese that looks like toast and is served like a pie. At first it seemed like some kind of subtle cake or kisch. But just as the swallow was enacted my mouth was suddenly and completely overpowered by the sharpest and most profound cheese-induced euphoria it had experienced in years.

Pita Kebob. Rich tzatziki sauce spiked with large quantities of yogurt playing beautifully off of lamb, tomato, pepper, onions, and the most delightful pita I could ever remember: thick, light, flavorful, a food of the gods.

I was completely trashed beyond coherence, a dairy junkie whose life outside of his drug had faded from memory and wasted completely into nonexistence.

The inevitable hangover will follow. But I will accept my fate with dignity.