Wednesday, August 13, 2008

Can't I Just Finish My Waffle?

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We Californians are often the envy of New Yorkers, not only for our nearly perfect weather (aside from the occasional, terrifying earthquake) but for our surplus of visually appealing, overly tanned actors. So when I read about New York’s new law mandating that chain restaurants post the calorie counts of their menu items where customers are sure to see them, preferably on the menu boards themselves, I feared that the envy level of Gotham state citizens would balloon to pathological levels. 

But just a few days later, I learned that this “information creep” was already spreading Westward. Other “Don’t ask, we’ll tell” food disclosure laws are set for Seattle, San Francisco, and Santa Clara, California. If you’re not careful, your town could be next! These cities are trumping New York, forcing restaurants to reveal not only calories, but also sodium, carbs, fats and cholesterol. Look, I’m no defender of trans fats or 920-calorie fast-food lunches (that’s a Big Mac with medium fries, and not even a drink). But if I wanted to do all that reading when I’m dining out, I’ll bring a book.

Also, our uber-fit governor in California, “Ahnold” Schwarzenegger, has sent a warrant out for the immediate arrest of every trans fats in the state. By the year 2010, if you’re a trans fat in California, you’d better grab the rest of the Doritos in the family and make a run for the border. In fact, you won’t even be able to ask “Do you want fries with that?” in certain economically depressed areas of Los Angeles, since the City Council is nixing any future fast-food joints in areas where they are worried that folks are just getting too big for their husky-sized britches.

This leads me to ask a simple question: Wasn’t eating out supposed to be fun? 

Government officials predict that posting calorie labels will slim the nation’s ranks of obese people by hundreds of thousands, and also prevent tens of thousands of cases of diabetes. Naturally, I’m all for that. But have they thought about the unintended consequences of the law, such as the increase in panic attacks and heart palpitations that are afflicting thousands of diners who discover that a modest piece of crumb cake at Au Bon Pain carries 470 calories? What about the health hazards of having the corn muffins at Dunkin’ Donuts sticking in diners’ craws, now the secret is out that they have a whopping 510 calories? And who will offer emotional support for the sudden-onset depression among folks who cope with the shock that even the virtuous-sounding fat-free chocolate chip muffin at Starbucks sets you back by 390 calories?

I am not surprised that one woman broke down in tears at a TGIF’s when she discovered that the pecan-crusted chicken salad (served with mandarin oranges, dried cranberries and celery) rattled the caloric Richter scale at 1,360 calories. “I could have had the cheeseburger and fries for only 1,290 calories,” she moaned.  “What a rip-off!”

This is another perfect example of “We’re from the government, and we’re here to help.” Sure, most of us may be flax-seed deprived and overloaded on sugar and fat, except for those really annoying, Whole Foods vegan-types. But when I dine out, the only numbers I want to see are the prices, and with inflation running so high, I usually don’t even want to see those. A little bit of knowledge can be a depressing thing.

I predict that unless these calorie counts go back into hiding on restaurant web sites, where they belong, sales of blindfolds will skyrocket in New York, California, and anywhere else that in-your-face calorie count information laws pop up. I predict that people out for a good meal will simply walk into their favorite restaurant and just slip on their blindfold when the waiter offers them a menu. Besides, they already know what they want, since it is their favorite restaurant. And if I see feisty New Yorkers demonstrating in the streets and shouting “Hey hey! Ho ho! Calorie counts have got to go!” I’ll cheer them on from my comfy confines of a California-based couch.

So, if you happen to run into me anytime soon at an Au Bon Pain, you’ll recognize me right away. I’ll be the one eating with a blindfold on.


(This column adapted from my new blog at Diet.com.)

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