What Exactly Is Decadence Anyway?

Two summers ago I had a delightful lunch at an Oregon winery. The foie gras on the hamburger was a touch so special I couldn't let it go to waste and removed it, shared and ate it separately.
The dessert was black pepper ice cream with a lavender meringue and raspberry sauce.
Neither the sort of thing I'll ever likely eat again, nor anything like them.
I didn't feel decadent though, just lucky.
But if I had to do that 200 times a year, I think I'd just rather stick to my hummus and naan and the occasional grapefruit, maybe some meatloaf for dinner.

The waiter arrived and placed before Maxime a large white plate. At the center was her foie gras, a short pillar of puréed duck liver on a piece of crisp toast with a lacy web of caramelized sugar on top; the sides were studded with cherries and sprinkled with pistachios, and a transparent sauce, made of white port gelée, surrounded the entire creation like a moat. She considered the dish for a few moments, as if trying to determine the best angle of attack. With the side of her fork, she broke off a piece of the complicated construction, and tasted it. The dish, which I later tried, activated every sense with which humans are equipped: the foie gras was smooth and as rich as butter, its silky texture contrasting with the caramelized sugar, which shattered like a pane of microscopically thin glass against the teeth and tongue, its sweetness offset by the sour cherries, the rounded aromatic flavor of the toasted nuts, and the texture and taste of the port gelée.