 Steamin' An Adventure in the Fat-Free Zone |
 "Oh, Christine! Guess what? They have the free range octopus back on the menu!" |
They don't eat much grease
in diet-conscious California
of TheColumnists.com
You just can’t get good grease anymore. It’s
a cruel reality for someone raised in a city where White Castle
sliders are both a food source and engine lubricant, where hot
dogs are considered a religious experience and the Chicago Stockyards
elevated marbled steaks and marbled arteries to an art form.
But in this millennium, health concerns have raised national
awareness of the quality and long-term effects of our diets.
The American Heart Association’s studies indicate that by
paring down fat intake, people will live longer and feel better
while greeting each tasteless meal with all the enthusiasm of
a root canal. If you want to live to be a hundred, you’ll
eat those twigs and berries and like them, dammit!
Never has this new attitude
been more apparent than on a recent trip to California.
Until you visit there, non-natives are blissfully unaware that
the entire state’s been legally declared a fat-free zone.
Anyone caught snarfing cholesterol-laden goodies will be remanded
to a detox center for Wheatgrass juice I.V. transfusions, followed
by a bracing chaser at the Oxygen Bar.
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this is California and we serve no red meat. However, I can ask the chef to prepare a tofu tenderloin with a raspberry reduction, which gives it a rather pleasing ruddiness." |
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Some fat addicts require more desperate measures. They’re enrolled in an intensive 12-step program where they’re encouraged to acknowledge their weakness, and ‘let go and let Richard Simmons.’ In California, Chef Paul Prudhomme would be tried and executed for dietary treason, and let’s not even think about Julia Child.
So what happens when a stranger in a strange land hits the California restaurant scene expecting a menu that approximates real food as we know it? As one who’s been to that particular mountain and seen the other side, I’m here to tell you: it ain’t pretty.
Consider the first restaurant I visit in Malibu. It’s a tony little bistro with organically correct table linens (“no weevils were slain to make these napkins”) and the type of breezy beach decor that screams ‘sandbox by the sea.’ The menu touts seafood specialties. A good sign, I think.
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Lumberjack breakfast is made of soy-infused, organically-grown sawdust. How marvelous!" |
Health zealots won’t find a lot to carp about with low-fat, high-nutrient fish. The salmon with gravel chutney is a possibility until I notice the additional $100 ‘preparation fee.’
“Preparation?” I ask the anorexic waitress. “That’s a little steep for a fish fry. What kind of prep are we talking here?” She rolls her lipid-free eyes, obviously out of patience with yet another rube from the outside world.
“Liposuction,” she hisses. “A state requirement to ensure our fish are totally fat-free. You have no idea what cosmetic marine biologists cost these days.”
Hmmm. She has a point. But there are other menu options to consider. I decide to pass on the free-range octopus and the Oysters Casino, (oyster-free, casino-free, with just a dollop of radicchio puree) and go with the steamer clams. And am amazed when my dinner arrives--a tureen of bubbling water with some empty clamshells lobbed in for garnish. There are no actual clams--shellfish being the bane of the cholesterol conscious--but by inhaling the steam, I get a complimentary facial that will clarify my fat-free pores. Such a deal!
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thighs! I'd better tell them to leave the croutons out of my field greens salads!" |
My next restaurant foray
is even less successful. This time, my friends take me to a steakhouse
--an obvious misnomer since steak is a crime against the state
in La-la land. We enter Heather’s Tofu Corral--a rustic
Old-West type eatery that features wagon wheels, antique ranch
implements, and hot and cold running soymilk. There is nothing
on the menu that’s ever passed through a corral. The waiter
informs us that we have our choice of steak --actually slabs
of soy products molded in appropriate shapes, served with a zucchini
fan and a side of mushrooms. Of course, the mushrooms haven’t
been picked yet, but for an extra fee, Ramon the fungus chef,
will be happy to fetch some from a nearby bog conveniently left
over from last summer’s mudslides.
I opt for the salad bar.
I decide to branch out to ethnic restaurants. Maybe the global village of culinary preparation is more sympathetic to the quest for triglycerides for the common man. But once again, the fat-free mandate rules with an iron whisk. I visit Jorge’s Guacamole Ole only to find Chili sans queso and reboiled beans. At Wong’s Lotus Garden, the house speciality is Sweet and Sour Stalks. Even at Le Cirque du Fromage, where rich, creamy sauce preparations are a matter of Gallic pride, the only fromage on hand consists of Brie-shaped scratch ‘n sniff coasters emitting just the faintest whiff of whey. Just enough to remind you of past high-calorie glory days while you sip your mountain spring water and spoon up some kelp sorbet.
The nightmare continues. Five days behind California state lines and I don’t recognize any of the stuff these people are eating. Every Burger King I pass has been boarded up with National Guardsmen posted around the perimeter. The restaurant logo is now just a sad reminder of an overweight despot from less vigilant times. My grease jones has left me a desperate woman. I consider a quick drive-through at the nearest KFC, but fat deprivation has made me paranoid. It could be a trick of the food police, designed to lure unsuspecting addicts like me suffering from cholesterol withdrawal. What if I’m incarcerated in a dietary work camp and force-fed rose-hips?
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look at those bodies! Maybe there's something to this California cuisine after all!" |
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After 10 days in California,
it’s time to go. The three hour flight to Chicago feels
like a century in grease-years, but finally we touch down in
Grease City. In spite of severe withdrawal, I have to be cool.
There could be some California moles planted at O’Hare Airport,
ready to whisk me back to the land of fruits and nuts. It’s
important to be cool. I struggle for a noncommital expression
and stroll slowly through the terminal until I see it. I’m
20....then 10, then five feet away from that orange and yellow
sign with the big crown. Close enough for me to break into a
run, skid up to the order counter, and listen to those magic
words:
“Have it your way.....”
© 2002 by Gina Gallo.
The Gina Gallo caricature is © 2001 by Jim Hummel. The other
cartoons are from IMSI's Master Clips Collection, 1895 Francisco
Blvd. E., San Rafael, CA, 94901-5506, USA.
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