Chef Falco prepared two varieties of pie for us. Both used hempseed dough. One was a classic Margherita with a psychoactive marinara sauce, an oregano and kief mix, and buffalo mozzarella. The second used pot pesto, prosciutto cotto, housemade mozzarella, and ricotta. They had been cooked in Roberta’s outdoor wood-burning oven, and the crust was rustic, browned, and crispy. Roberta’s first became famous for the quality of its pizza, and these more than lived up to the legacy—with the added bonus of weed. In this course, the pot blended with its fellow ingredients so subtly that I had to remind myself not to have too many slices. It occurred to me how efficient this was: Most stoners have to smoke their weed and then eat their pizza. Here we were, revolutionaries, doing both at once. I laughed at the thought, Gabe asked me what I was laughing at, and I found myself utterly unable to express it to him.

It was soon after this that Diana Ross came on, which was really just a brief respite before the nuclear bomb of the final course.

Roberta’s pastry chef, Katy Peetz, is, and I write this as soberly as I can, a genius. As her plates were put in front of us, chef Ryan Rice intoned, "You are about to enter a radical zone." He was right. Peetz took the earthiness of pot as a point of inspiration and gave us a dessert that was by turns sweet, savory, tart, and bracingly refreshing. She made a parsley cake with weed oil, a vanilla tuile (that’s a crispy little cookie) using weed butter, a weed brittle sheet, green-strawberry rhubarb gelato with weed cream, a hempseed crumble also made with weed butter, and a green juice granita using parsley, watercress, lemon, kale, and green apple. Peetz dressed the plate with green and red strawberries and strawberry flowers, creating an English garden/Lewis Carroll mood that made me wish I could shrink down to two inches tall and run around amidst parsley-cake canyons and gelato mountains. She also nimbly combined a mix of marijuana strains. The indica Hash Plant you’ve already met. Shamam is a mysterious sativa-dominant hybrid that had a soothing sedative effect. Together, with their calm and leveling action, they were ideal dessert choices. The parsley cake had the sensuous feel of moist moss, which may sound gross, but wow was it nice. The gelato, cool and reeking of weed, slid around in our mouths like a balm. Eating this dish stoned was an experience I am likely to remember on my deathbed.

Toward the end of dessert, Black Sabbath’s debut album materialized on the turntable, and nobody, not even the chefs, was able to speak during the first track’s rain, bells, and doom. I took advantage of the lull to think about what we’d just accomplished. After three hours of consuming copious amounts of marijuana in carefully prepared dishes, I was perfectly high and perfectly full. It is with the memory of that feeling fresh in my mind that I am here to tell you what you already know: Legalizing pot would, in addition to engendering medical miracles and rendering moot a large sector of illegal-drug-related crimes, allow quantum leaps in the world of cooking. Maybe if we all pray really hard to Jah, pot will one day infiltrate snooty haute cuisine and local artisanal eateries alike, all over America. And I’ll be able to say that I was there on day one. As I sat there and let the meal wind down, I thought, satiated and stoned, We are pioneers.

And then Parachini broke the post-Sabbath silence. "Next time," he said, "let’s do this with LSD."