When You Sell Your Soul for Lasagna

When the rational side of your brain takes over, you can convince yourself of anything, like walking three kilometers to eat fried calamari, croquettes, drink white wine like its water and order a glass of Cava for dessert 100% guilt-free. Dating yourself is the perfect combination of good and evil. The angel on the left reminds you to take care of yourself and eat well, while the right side is the stubborn side and thinks because it resides on the right, it must always be right, a true narcissist. When both sides agree, it’s time to celebrate. When you decide to celebrate life, who doesn’t prefer the finer things.

Eating dinner at 6pm in Barcelona makes you feel unaccustomed. You always feel the wait staff is looking at you like, “didn’t you get the memo about siesta time?” It’s not your fault they serve the best croquettes in town and chose to open their doors earlier than others. When you decide to go on a date with yourself, you’re never really alone when you’re with your favorite authors. We all know the truth; a good book is always better company than most people. When you’re sitting down to eat and ready, you can order a drink, stretch out your legs like a lanky cat with your feet in the aisle, and enjoy a good audible laugh without sounding like a lunatic. Don’t you feel the most bothered when you’re completely complacent on being alone. It’s as if the world knew you had a thing for solitude and decided to gaslight your moment with a burning flame. Why can’t it always be your best friend who walks through the door, why does it always have to be someone you’re cheating on, like that time you cheated on your favorite Italian restaurant with that tapas bar.

When the other owner catches you red-handed, your dumb-looking facial expression is a dead giveaway. Honesty is what the angel on the left shoulder would say, but how do you tell someone it’s not you, it’s me. Your Italian dinners don’t fit into my, “stop eating pasta you fatty,” diet. I don’t know how people can manage to eat at their favorite restaurants all the time. If you really want to diet, don’t eat out or find yourself at one of those shitty salad bar restaurants and fill up on E.coli laced rabbit food and go wild. That’ll teach you to go out and eat. Our favorite restaurants are just too good. How do you expect to stay fit and enjoy your favorite restaurants at the same time? I’m sure as hell not going to my favorite Italian place and ask for their leafiest salad. Instead of actually eating at your favorite restaurants, just cut them out of your life like that relationship you don’t want to think about right now. If not, your Oompa Loompa days are ahead of you, not behind you. It’s not really your fault, it the devil’s. He has a stealthy way of emerging at all the wrong times to cast its gluttonous spell on the weak. When you’re powerless, the night turns into a fucking Cinderella binge-eating affair hosted by the devil himself. The devil acts like the best friend who makes you start second-guessing everything in your life-is this what you really want in life-some fried calamari and white wine, seriously? Aren’t you forgetting your love affair with lasagna, the bubbling hot meaty red sauce sensation that’s perfectly baked in a deep-dish casserole to give the edges the time it needs to curl for that delicious crunch?

This world is cruel, so of course God would wait until your mid 30’s to place an authentic Italian restaurant right next to your house. How else is he going to watch you wage a war with Satan? The devil has a way of harnessing its sidekick, the fun twin that hangs on your right shoulder. This side of you has been coming up with gluttonous white lies since childhood and it’s ready to shine. The whole boyfriend/girlfriend approach works flawlessly but it does make you sound desperate for food. When you’re willing to forgo a good conversation with the opposite sex for a gluttonous meal, you know you’ve hit rock bottom.

Our overconfidence can be easily stifled by dim light. When the dark ambience fills the room, you’re instantly calmed by the burgundy chairs and soothing piano chords. It’s as if the frequency of the room drops to a whisper and you find yourself overcompensating with a quiet introduction. “Hey,” I say. “You didn’t think you would see me again today, did you?” I chuckled with clear intention. “I was just walking home from the restaurant and mentioned to my boyfriend I would be happy to pick up some lasagna on my way home,” I continue to lie. “That way I can have a taste of your delicious lasagna as well.” The best white lies are the ones where you drop a little dose of humor, it adds an authentic touch to the story and is more convincing. When you’ve sealed the deal with the check and the devil, you can smirk at your ability to sell a fake Gucci in the backstreets of China.

As much as Tuscan wine might call your name while you wait, try to refrain from accepting, your conscience could use a break and a stroll around the block will clear your head of any wrongdoing. Waiting for food is the easy part, you can open your phone, take a look around the neighborhood or strike up a conversation with a stranger, but once the food is placed in your hands, it’s like you’re being handed a baton on the final stretch of a relay race. “Watch out granny, I’m on the move.” After what always seems like the longest, shortest walk of your life, you plate your food as an offering to yourself-a delicacy that’s fit for a King. To achieve the required climax, a spoon is advised. It’s the only true utensil equipped to carry the necessary amount of goodness required for arousal. When you indulge in a generous amount of lasagna all at once, your level of satisfaction is heightened by a combination of the salty tomato sauce that’s perfectly balanced with the oils to give you a mouth-mumbling orgasm worth expressing.

And since we’re already going to gluttonous hell, what are we having next?