You can’t judge a book by its cover. Likewise, just because the meal set down in front of you looks like the chef ate grass clippings all morning, then regurgitated them onto your plate, doesn’t mean your food won’t be delicious. Even if you are told that the food on your plate has the capacity to block ATP production and cripple your entire nervous system in seconds, it might still be delicious. Indeed, beneath the sickening appearance and deadly chemical compounds may lie a jewel of a meal.

Such was the case with the pescado con la crema de chaya that I ordered in Progreso. A veritable debris heap, the food for which I had so trustingly agreed to pay 115 pesos initially looked to be a disappointment. But when I took my first bite, I fell in love. It was not the sweet tomatoes and shrimp of northern Campeche. It was not the thick, rich mole sauce of the inland. It was not the fiery jabañero from further up the coast. It was none of these things; and yet, it was all of them.

Uncooked, chaya leaves are poisonous. They release cyanide, which causes death. Death is a bad thing and not the primary goal when sampling the native fare of the Yucatán peninsula. Only in a country whose economy is largely dependent on cocaine and heroin could cyanide become a staple. But once cooked, the leaves become soft, more nutrient rich than spinach, and non-toxic. “Edible,” my friends, is a gross understatement. “Succulent” does not begin to do it justice. “Godly” is a good start.

And so I found my fate inextricably linked to that of the chaya leaves in front of me. Mankind had tamed the cyanide-laced deliciousness, which in turn, tamed me.

I have to admit, the first time I tried Red Bull, I absolutely hated it. It was the beginning of a long bus ride from Boston, all the way down to Wilmington. I had been handed a free can of Red Bull by a Red Bull promo team out scouting the malleable youth of New England. I had fallen for their trick. Anything free must be good, right? Upon opening the can, I realized otherwise. The smell of Robitussin seeped out from the large aluminum capsule. Disturbed, I took a sip. Gross! I nearly ejected the liquid in my mouth onto the poor, unsuspecting bus passenger to my right. Etiquette in mind, I thought better of beginning a seven hour bus ride by puking on my seat buddy, so I swallowed. The first thought that came to my mind was “carbonated cough syrup.” Not knowing what to do with the rest of the beverage, I quickly downed it, wincing as the chemical concoction made its way down my throat. The bus driver looked back at me. “HaHA!” he exclaimed in a manner reminiscent of the wicked witch of the west. “You won’t be getting any sleep on the trip now!” I could swear he called me “my pretty,” but perhaps this was the taurine taking effect.

Five years passed before I drank another Red Bull. I moved around from energy drink to energy drink, being the trendy person I am. Sometimes I even drank *gasp* coffee. But to be honest, nothing I found during that five year period came close to inspiring in me the sheer horror that Red Bull had inspired. And after a while, I realized that it was the horror that had gripped me tightly and had kept me from falling asleep. Caffeine, taurine, creatine, pyridoxine HCl, none of these things could keep me alert. But the thought that I was slowly drowning in a pool of bubbly expectorant did the trick nicely. And so, as my work load steadily increased, I realized I had made a mistake in leaving the disgusting beverage that a few underpaid foot soldiers of the Red Bull marketing machine had pawned off on me half a decade before.

Today, a whole eight years after my first sip, I am a Red Bull drinker. But it doesn’t stop there. In a phase of health-conscious behavior a year or two ago, I decided to try sugar free Red Bull. I do not exaggerate when I assert that there has never been a concoction more foul, more odious, more fear inspiring than sugar free Red Bull. It is as if a thousand pixies descend upon your tongue and painlessly rip off your taste buds, replacing them instead with rot and liquid pharmaceuticals. For this reason, when I am driving late at night, or studying into the wee hours of the morning, sugar free Red Bull is my drink of choice.

Red Bull, like scotch and Kansas, is an acquired taste. I certainly do not expect you to all run out to your nearest convenience store and buy a 12 pack of Red Bull after reading this. But maybe some of you will give it another shot. It is not the type of drink you pick up and enjoy immediately. Rather, you develop a love-hate relationship with it. You try to get away, you run and cower, only to realize that it has followed you. You cannot escape it, and eventually you realize that, as with any effective drug, after a while, you need it. It gives you wings. They say so in the commercials. So here’s to you Red Bull. Without your mind-controlling hallucinogenic powers, who knows how many papers I would have turned in even later!

One must keep his friends close,  but his enemies closer. With this in mind, I took a short trip to Europe to see how lazy and weak our colonial oppressors had become. I was not disappointed.

One item however caught me off guard.  It was a tinge of creativity in seas of ash, the last spark of greatness in an otherwise dead and desolate land. They call it sorbet. At first it seemed much like sherbet, but there was a subtle yet important difference between the two–sorbet is lactose free. But wait, there’s more. Instead of one of the standard sherbet flavors (orange, green, red), this was basil-flavored. The cool flavor of the sorbet was accented by the basil, and provided a delicious and refreshing end to my meal.

Friends, I must say I am impressed–impressed enough, in fact, that I can no longer say that Europe is not a threat. If they can take good old American sherbet, and transform it into basil-flavored sorbet, think of what they could do to the auto industry, or apple pie.  The sleeping frenchman may yet awaken and commit to a 5 day work week.  When that happens, God help us all.