I won't dare get on the scale.

I didn't catch the name of the restaurant. Just outside of Santadi in Sardinia. But I'm calling it The Gluttony. Because my true love and I had a behemoth/gargantuan multi-course Sardinian dinner there on Sunday. I'm still recovering. From that stuffed feeling. Of nearly eating too much. A ridiculous amount of food. Though it was tasty. Too good. Appetizers were at the table even before we sat down. Guess they wanted to get us started early. And promptly. Wasting no time. Among other things, two kinds of Sardinian cheese, olives, bread, crackers with pate, sausage, an exotic thinly sliced ham. And cold, crispy vegetables. Of which I do not know the names. They're so Italian. I was told that our main courses would be samplings of several dishes. Assuming these would be small amounts. My mistake. The Sardinian pasta and ravioli in a rich tomato sauce was served in pig-like portions. No way could I have finished it all. And then came lamb in a mild gravy that contained artichokes. That was followed by pork hocks. And for dessert, tiny baked pouches filled with gooey stuff. Honey, I presume. I couldn't walk out of The Gluttony. I had to waddle, like a fat duck or goose. Oh, and I almost forgot. The meal came with a pitcher of red Sardinian wine. I stopped at two glasses. And I vowed not to eat again for several days. I didn't keep my vow. But I settled for a light supper. Very light. And I went for a long, long walk. And I won't dare get on the scale. For a few days yet. --Jim Broede