How I Became a Heartless Gourmand

It’s easy. Let’s say you find yourself hungry enough to eat a horse in the charming seaside village of Marathoupoli on the Ionian coast of Messenias, so you decide to bogue at a leisurely gait up and down the promenade looking for something to eat and you come across this inviting(!) menu board. Entering the establishment and not seeing any aproned squids frying elegant pieces of chopped chintz lampshade, nor any succulent sarcodines surreptitiously lying low beyond the reach of your pseudopodal taste sensors, you choose to go for the piglet that has somehow miraculously escaped from a fate worse than death and is now—lo and behold—glaring at you (probably feeling piggy arrogant and haughty) from a vantage point high on top of a red-hot oven! Before you can make your move however, the well-oiled porker accidently slips from the oven straight down into a waiting pot and finally surrenders to his fate, becoming a roast etc. Too flabbergasted by all the surreal gastronomic goings on, you finally resign yourself to settling for something more commonplace—today’s plate, for example—and eat your heart out.