Last night we watched the 2004 documentary Super Size Me again with some friends. It’s a colossal exercise in stunt journalism, but the message is on target: Big, bloated portions of food are one of the main reasons Americans are getting so darn fat. After 90 minutes of watching Morgan Spurlock stuff down triple burgers and large fries, we all sat down to dinner. No one reached for the bread basket. Then a lively conversation commenced over the salad course, about—no surprise here—how big, bloated portions of food are one of the main reasons Americans are getting so darn fat.
I knew it was going to be a long night when my husband, who has lived in Spain and France, started expounding on how small the portions are in Europe and saying that’s why Europeans are so much thinner than we are. Of course, all I heard was “My French ex-wife is thinner than my current wife, who was raised next door to a Chicago slaughterhouse and weaned on suet,” and even though that is not what he said, I made a mental note to give him hell later.
Then our friend Barbara, who is married to a Frenchman (who happens to be the size of a rhino), announced that she recently lost 15 pounds after two weeks in France, even though she ate foie gras every day. “But only tiny portions,” she said. The others at the table nodded in grave approval. Yes, we should all eat more like Europeans, the group at the table concurred.
I nodded too. And knit my brow trying to look serious and deeply concerned about the American Way of Life as I munched roasted lamb shank. But the truth is, I don’t want to eat like a European every day. Shamefully, I love groaning all-you-can-eat buffets, sandwiches that take two hands to hold, and muffins the size of cocker spaniel puppies. I love traveling, too, but when abroad my big American self gets bummed out when offered thimble-size drinks, itsy-bitsy yogurts, anorexic sandwiches, paltry salads, and desserts that couldn’t fill a hole in my tooth. Last time my husband and I were in Seville, Spain, I spent the whole trip hungry. I remember thinking I would trade all the tapas in Europe for one Never-Ending Pasta Bowl at the Olive Garden.
I confided my passion for big portions to my friend John once. He and his wife (both big-boned Americans) had just returned from living in Japan for years. “How was the food?” I asked, feeling a frisson of panic at the thought of subsisting on sushi and pickled root vegetables. “Uh, good,” he replied, eyes darting. “Small?” I prompted. “Yes,” John admitted. And then it all spilled out: He and his wife regularly went out to dinner, had an entire meal, then went out again that same night to eat a second time. The portions in Japan were just too puny! He seemed relieved to confess that this is one reason he could never imagine living in Asia again.
Now it’s my duty to say that I am very worried about the obesity epidemic in this country. And I do think most of us should eat less. But I’m a Midwestern girl with an appetite as big as the Great Plains, so I try to follow my colleague Rosanne’s 20/80 rule: You can eat as much as you want, as long as 80% of your plate is vegetables. Tonight when I pop a frozen potpie in the oven that says it serves two, don’t expect leftovers. But at least I will balance it out with a supersized spinach salad.
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