Gluttony: the new alcoholism

Whoever came up with A Taste of Sacramento’s loosely executed “A Knight of Enchantment” theme this year should be locked in an iron maiden and smacked around with an oversized turkey leg. Didn’t we already get drunk at that dance in the 7th grade? But other than that, it was a top-notch event. Except, of course, for the silent auction, which was housed in a makeshift castle where various tchotchkes and sports-related crap were being hawked off to disoriented drunk people.

But none of that matters. The evening was meant as a benefit for Easter Seals and a good chance for people to sample area restaurants and taste offerings from local wineries. However, since the doctor told me to lay off the booze for … well, how did he term it? … Oh yeah, “forever,” then I figured I’d make another kind of spectacle of myself: I’d eat my way though each and every table, throwing all gastrointestinal laws to the wind.

More than 70 vendors participated, each with some kind of miniature food to eat. I would start at the first table and make my way to the last with no breaks in between plates.

It began simply: bruschetta, cocktail-shrimp salad, bread, cheese, salmon, stuffed potatoes—and for dessert a strawberry dipped in white chocolate. It was a perfect meal, the only obstacle being 63 more restaurants to try.

So what, you ask, is better than a post-dessert plate of Ludy’s ribs? I’ll tell you what: A plate of ribs followed by a quesadilla, snickerdoodle, maple scone, cheese platter, gazpacho, artichoke dip, tri-tip, bread salad, chocolate and an ahi-tuna wrap.

If there was a line (which there often was) I would cut in and heap food onto my plate before anyone caught on. It usually worked, except one woman in the Chocolate Architect line who, with the face of a deranged, fudge-hungry, jackal-beast, growled, “Did you just cut in line?!”

“Yes,” I said, and scampered off with her rocky-road fudge. I, however, did not have the last laugh. The sheer volume and variation of food sloshed around my stomach, creating an intense unhappiness in both mind and body.

Only about an hour into the night, my mission was nearly accomplished.

By the end, I carried my little plastic souvenir plate like a knight wielding his post-battle shield. Chunks of flesh clung to my fingers, my face was smudged and the threat of vomit loomed in the back of my throat. It was a disgusting night full of chewing, clenching my jaw and hoping it stayed down long enough to stuff the next thing in.

And it was all washed down with a Rubio’s street taco.

So now that I can scribble “overeating” right next to “drug abuse” and “alcoholism” on my list of accomplishments, I can’t help but to wonder, what can possibly be next?