According to A.J. Liebling, “the primary requisite for writing well about food is a good appetite. Without this, it is impossible to accumulate, within the allotted span, enough experience of eating to have anything worth setting down. Each day brings only two opportunities for field work, and they are not to be wasted minimizing the intake of cholesterol.” He then goes on to describe a meal he shared with his friend Yves Mirande in 1955, which included a trout soaked in butter, beef stew, young guinea hens, and asparagus, paired with an Alsatian wine, two clarets, and three bottles of champagne. And that was just lunch.
To a lesser extent, a colleague and I occasionally partake of a Liebling-inspired feast. Once it was German (herring in cream, a wurst platter for me, schnitzel for him, and Black Forest cake), and my dining companion was compelled to “take a constitutional,” pacing up and down the block, before dessert. Other times it has been traditional American fare like prime rib with freshly shaved horseradish and a side of potatoes. More often than not, however, it has been Japanese: a daunting array of sushi, including salmon roe topped with the raw yolk of a quail egg, seaweed-wrapped fermented soybeans, and live sea urchin, which my friend calls the “foie gras of the deep.” Sadly, our culinary exploits have become less ambitious in recent years.
It turns out a physician warned my colleague that continuing this sort of Caligulan diet would make him fifteen pounds heavier in no time. But his mistake may have been going to the doctor in the first place. Liebling viewed medical advice with disdain and believed that attempting to improve one’s eating habits was bad for one’s health. He similarly scorned what he called the “hepatic obsession”: Why were people so concerned about their livers, anyway? (A writer for the New Yorker, Liebling died at the ripe old age of . . . 59.)
I myself similarly erred by agreeing to have my blood pressure checked by my father, a recently retired surgeon. Apparently, a reading of 140/110 is not ideal for a 34-year-old. (Normal blood pressure is about 110/70.) I’m not exactly overweight, and I do work out. But genetics plays a key part, as does stress. Not to mention eating: “Is there a lot of sodium in your diet?” my father asked. At which point I confessed to owning a box of Beef Sticks and processed cheese from Hickory Farms.
So now my life has changed. I run a bit more, take blood pressure pills, and eat less decadently (with the recent exception of a dinner at Restaurant Daniel in New York that included veal cheeks, calf’s liver, and sablefish). I’ve added oranges, bana-nas, and green vegetables to my diet–excellent sources of potassium, which reduces hypertension–and limit my intake of caffeine and sodium. I tend to avoid fries and even potato chips at lunch and rather than focus on polishing off my plate and automatically going up for seconds, I simply stop eating when I no longer feel hungry. A novel concept, I agree. But the heaviness I experienced after consuming a 24-ounce Cajun ribeye, a half bottle of wine, and a thick slice of cheesecake is gone. My health is clearly improving.
Of course I cry myself to sleep just thinking about the choucroute “en croûte” at Brasserie Beck. Or disco fries (French fries in gravy and melted cheese) from my favorite Jersey diner. Or the Filet-O-Fish, perhaps the finest sandwich ever invented. In fact, I think about food more than ever–and the many dishes I must now avoid. I recently became incensed at a commercial for Alpo and its new product line, “Chop House Originals,” touting a “Filet Mignon flavor.” Even the dogs are eating better, I thought.
I always knew that my gustatory indulgences would eventually come to an end. I just didn’t think it would happen so soon–and before my competitive eating career had taken off. (So much for my dream of conquering “Eagle’s Challenge Burger” at Eagle’s Deli on my next trip to Boston: five pounds of beef, twenty slices of cheese, twenty pieces of bacon, a five-pound bag of fries, and my proud picture on the wall.) Instead I find myself telling younger coworkers that I need to take it easy because of my blood pressure. And they look at me as if I’ve just announced I’m wearing Depends.
On a recent night, I went out for drinks with a friend who is also my age. I told him how horrible it was to have high blood pressure and contemplate issues like suffering a massive stroke. “We’re getting old,” he said and explained how he too must cope with his own ailments, though I doubted his ills could beat mine. He disagreed. I asked how bad it could be. He replied, “Anal fissures.”
I guess he’s right.
VICTORINO MATUS
