Read Online Fat Chance by Deborah Blumenthal - Free Book Online Page A

and the Dow slid to a record-low level.”
    Tex and Larry look at each other, drop their plates and go running out of my office.
    â€œIs that true?” Tamara says after they’re gone.
    â€œSo, I heard wrong,” I say, helping myself to just a strand of spaghetti with each of the different sauces.
    I fill out the survey, and then, don’t ask me how, put the leftovers out into the newsroom, then write my column as the sharks attack.
    Diet Foods: High in Calories, Low in Taste
    America’s obsession with losing weight is to blame for the food industry’s outpouring of “low-fat” and “no-fat” versions of virtually all the foods we love: low and no-fat ice cream, yogurt, cookies, pudding, whipped cream, mayo, cream cheese, cottage cheese, milk, cake, chips, and my—ugh—favorite, fat-free salad dressings that are gluey-tasting syrups made up basically of sugar.
    The truth is: Not only doesn’t the low-fat stuff taste good, it’s finally being unmasked for the fraud that it is. The idea behind low-fat foods is that they’re supposed to save you fat and calories, make you healthier and help you lose weight.
    The truth is: America is getting fatter because of low-fat products. Guilt-free goodies, people think, give them license to eat more, and eat with impunity.
    The truth is: Not only don’t low-fat and no-fat NOT mean low in calories, these poor imitations are often HIGHER in calories than the original, because they have added amounts of sugar in an attempt to mask flavor that is lost when fat is reduced.
    When I go to the grocery story, I look for food-food. What does that mean? The real McCoy. Plain butter. Not air pumped. Plain milk. Not the kind where the fat is removed. Nothing added. Nothing taken away. Nothing genetically engineered. Do I have tobuy a farm? Raise my own animals? Grow my own crops? It may come to that. Stay tuned.
    It’s almost become a routine now. Every month or so, Bill Wharton takes me to lunch. Very simply, I’m his cash cow, and his goal in life is to keep the paper a success, something he’s done for over twenty years by vigilantly watching the bottom line. The Daily Record is having a banner fourth quarter, and Bill is particularly proud of “Fat Chance.” But also, he likes me. Somewhere in that enlarged, underexercised heart of his, he has a soft spot for my loud mouth and pleasing plumpness, I think, not to mention my irreverent wit and occasionally off-color jokes. He’s got five boys, and, well, you get the picture.
    Of course, not all of Wharton’s innovations at the paper are as successful as the column. The style section’s recent cover stories make him wonder if he’s getting too old for all this stuff.
    â€œCross-dressing birthday parties; Upper East Siders who color-scheme their homes to coordinate with their dog’s fur; and hair stylists who are buzz-cutting customers’ astrological signs onto the backs of their heads. The editor is a moron,” he hisses. “But I’ll keep mum and give her more rope to hang herself before I pounce and obliterate her authority.” He gulps down some Maalox and scratches his head.
    â€œI used to have a handle on the news, a gut feeling about what was fresh,” he said, one day over an osso bucco lunch at Carmine’s. “Now that part of the job is in the hands of a bunch of kids who think that Charlotte Russe was a star of film noir.”
    So why, on this day, a full week after he called me, did I still not return his phone call?
    â€œThe fourth-quarter numbers look great,” his messagesaid. “Your column continues to be a smash, why don’t we break out some champagne over lunch, restaurant of your choice.”
    In hindsight, I now realize what a mistake it was to ignore him. Just as Tamara and I were—for the tenth time—cranking up the volume of our nauseating fitness tape, we saw the door of