There’s a classic “Simpsons” episode in which Homer, attempting to set a Guinness-type world record for his hometown, inadvertently sets a different record, as the judges declare Springfield to be “America’s Fattest City.”
At which point a triumphant Homer taunts, “In your face, Milwaukee!”
“The Simpsons” creators might want to re-dub that episode, now that Men’s Fitness magazine’s annual survey, released last week, says that America’s Fattest City is . . . Chicago.
We’re No. 1! We’re No. 1! We’re (pant, wheeze) No. …
When I first heard the announcement, I was so upset that I spilled my extra-whip venti vanilla latte all over my deep-dish pizza. I even started to write an angry letter to those know-it-alls at Men’s Fitness, but the nearest mailbox is, like, on the other side of the newsroom, near the vending machines. So I’m waiting until I run out of M&Ms.
I confess that the news caused me to experience a little flush of pride; either that or I’m still red from tying my shoes a few minutes ago. After all, as the paper’s arbiter of what’s yummy and what isn’t, I’m at least partly responsible for our civic, er, growth. For years, I have been directing my readers to 3-pound porterhouse steaks, chocolate souffles and deep-fried everything. The road to Dietary Perdition is paved with gold brick sundaes, there’s a Krispy Kreme on every corner, and I’m the guy passing out street maps.
It’s not completely my fault. I tell you where to find foie gras in chocolate sauce, but I never said anything about eating the whole thing. I’m nobody’s poster boy for self-restraint, but even I doggie-bag often.
I know, I know, restaurants provide way too much food. You want to know why? Because if they don’t, customers complain about the “skimpy portions.” Here’s a rant I receive about three times a year: “I dined at Charlie Trotter’s last week, and the portions were so small I left hungry. I had to stop for a cheeseburger on the way home.”
Brrriinng, brrrriinngg. That’s the Clue Phone; it’s for you. If you still feel the need for a cheeseburger when you’re leaving a restaurant, you need to reassess what you mean by “hungry.” Feeling, at the end of a meal, as though you could have eaten a bit more is not hungry. It’s the ideal.
There are several ways to react to this slap-in-the-jowls from Men’s Fitness. One is indifference (“Men’s who?”), another is defiance (“We’re here. We’re beer. Get used to it.”) and a third is to resolve to do something about it.
So let’s try the doggie bag. And exercise. It’s OK to follow my advice if you also follow Julie Deardorff ‘s (whose health column appears in Q on Sundays).
Milwaukee, for the record, is now the nation’s fifth fittest city. I’ve been to Milwaukee and scanned the general populace, and I’m telling you: This is a gap we can close in a hurry.
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pvettel@tribune.com
