The Greeks got a lot of things wrong– Aristotelian mechanics, a supposedly coherent and internally consistent mythology, slavery, work ethic, economics in general, geocentrism, and Zach Galifianakis.

But, in fairness, the Greeks got three things right: democracy, food, and making a ton of money by peddling said food to us non-Greeks. And each of these three things came into play when I tried the Greek dessert καταιφι (kataifi).

I knew they got their food right because it was delicious. And I knew they were good at peddling it to non-Greeks because I spent a ridiculous amount of money buying pastries. But the democracy part took me by surprise, as the very ideal of democracy was embedded in the preparation– nay– the design of the food.

The most interesting thing about kataifi is that it appears to have very little substance. It is comprised of countless pieces of what we might call “shredded wheat,” wrapped around pine nuts (or walnuts or pistachios in some cases) and smothered in honey.

Each strand of dough is separate, twists and bends in its own way, and stands apart from the whole. Yet each contributes to the whole through its uniqueness, as the disparate and sometimes random microshapes add a new dimension to the flavor, enhancing the dessert through a sense of unpredictability. And yet all of these strands are united around the core of pine nuts. When you take a bite, you could swear you had eaten something denser and more flavorful than was actually the case. And in this dynamic dichotomy– the interplay between part and whole, individual and community, randomness and order– we find the profound Greek understanding of the democratic ideals that they introduced thousands of years ago, an experiment in governing that continues to this day.

And that rapturous revelation may be just enough for us to forgive them for Zach Galifianakis.

While strolling haplessly around Manhattan this weekend, I found myself sitting at the Carnegie Deli, eating a corned beef sandwich. It was so massive, I couldn’t even take a picture of it.  After reverse-engineering the sandwich, here is what I believe to be the recipe:

2 slices rye bread
3 pounds amazing corned beef

1. Place one slice of rye bread on flat counter top.
2. Pile on all the corned beef.
3. Top with second slice of rye bread.
4. Cut in half to give the illusion that you serve manageable portions.
5. Serve with no extras, sides, condiments, or garnishes.
6. Rake in serious dough. And by dough, I mean money.

I had taken the subway from Penn Station to Carnegie Deli. But the only viable return course, after eating several pounds of meat, was to walk into Central Park, by Strawberry Fields, to the American Museum of Natural History, up to 81st Street, back through the park, around the lake, to the Plaza Hotel, across the street to the Apple Store (play with an iPad for 5 minutes), back over to 6th Avenue, down to 34th Street, and over to the train station.

This is precisely what I did. And I still burned off only a fraction of the sandwich. I have no plans to return to the Carnegie Deli anytime soon. Once is enough for even the strongest of constitutions to endure a challenge of such epic magnitude. I dare say, no one has ever returned to the Carnegie Deli after their first meal there. Except for Larry King, who– judging from the pictures on the wall– has eaten there many times.

Oy gevalt! What a clever title! Unfortunately, I can’t take credit for it. The title of this post is the menu listing for the impressively pungent bagel pictured above. Just north of Philadelphia’s Rittenhouse Square is a little deli called Rachael’s Nosheri. And while their coffee is somewhat weak, their bagels strong-arm their way into your heart and stomach.

As if an everything bagel wasn’t flavorful enough, you get lox, the wonderfully cured fillet of salmon on a bed of cream cheese. Then, to add bite, they sneak in a red onion, which– in addition to the fish– makes for the freshest of breath. To garnish and add even more flavor, the chefs at Rachael’s add an olive on a toothpick to each half of the bagel. The first bite is tantamount to a blast of cold water in your face, a blast of cold, salmony, oniony water. Continuing through the bagel, your taste buds begin to acclimate themselves to the onslaught of zest.

But perhaps the best part of my trip to Rachael’s Nosheri was that I got to enjoy my bagel with a friend of mine, a real live Jew named Rachel. While she is in fact from New York (not Philadelphia) and spells her name differently, Rachel gave her whole-hearted endorsement of Rachael’s bagels. And that stamp of approval was good enough to convince me to keep eating, even after the first bite nearly knocked the wind out of me.