And if there was ever a moment to ponder the circus of made-up marketing holidays, a calendar carousel of wall-to-wall brand takeovers, and the cynical PT Barnumesque view of consumers too well reflected in the commercialization of excess consumption this must be it.

But then I start to think about tiny explosions of salt on the tongue.

The contrasting flavors of finely minced onion with chopped egg and floral capers.

The slightly nutty taste of a softly rich blini. 

Along with the temptation to pair with ice cold Russian vodka and damn the next day. 

All properly presented with a certain pearl-handled formality. Not quite at the level of rigor found in the traditional Japanese tea ceremony, but close exquisitely close.

In the last few days, I’ve received no less than a half dozen digital invitations to sample this caviar tasting or that. Considering the number of digits showing up on New York restaurant tabs, figure a party of two gets off lightly at $400. 

For the caviar part. Minimum. Start at lunch and wend your way to dinner, and, well, bring your pink slip and your Amex Black, schatzi, it’s going to be a pricy ride.

In a time when a good part of the country thinks our economy is weak (it’s not), inflation is still too sticky (it is, but trending in the right direction), and illusion seems more trusted than reality (see a certain gathering in Milwaukie this week), ironies abound.  

But maybe I’m the cynical one.  

After all, these made-up holidays, like negative political ads and so much else in our increasingly untethered world happen for a reason: they work.

And you can’t really blame marketers for inventing an excuse for the well-heeled to drop the equivalent of the average US worker’s weekly paycheck in a single night (now at $1200.50 in case you’re curious).

But you can think about what it says about a society that embraces this kind of transactional lust and whether our industry’s role in promoting a moment on the lips is all that long-term healthy.

Anyway, so sorry, but going to have to skip the, hold on, here it is — “caviarabration.”

But if I did dive headfirst into the strottarga bianco, I’d have tell the server to hold the crème fraiche.

Never overdress perfection.