It’s been a week since the labelling of calories on restaurant menus was made mandatory in England, and what a week. What a week! The first day saw diners gazing into the menus as if deep lakes or mirrors, their eyes finally focusing on these new codes, printed jauntily under the chips. Some tried texting the numbers, only to receive error messages or adverts from sim-card manufacturers. Some worried they were new prices, under Brexit. Some assumed they were star ratings from previous customers, the carbonara performing particularly well, the carrot sticks abominable. As the week continued, its days unfolding like a picnic blanket, the British public found itself changing.
On day two, people picked up their menus tentatively, as if boobytrapped. The cryptic numbers, they’d learned, in a series of hurriedly called town meetings and late night WhatsApp conversations, were a cipher – the higher numbers were bad and caused death, while the lower numbers were righteous and good, though may lead to occasional headaches in the afternoon. But still, people were drawn to the foods their bodies told them they wanted – the baguettes, the croquettes with the internal cheese that burns the tongue in a way that’s fabulous, the large plate of meat with a shaving of parsley and an exquisitely carved garnish of carrot in the shape of a duck. It was a confusing day, and that night they slept badly in sheets of guilt, their dreams taking the form of deathly pastas and puddings that burned.
Day three began at dawn. A number of people had gathered to get to the bottom of this “calorie labelling”, and they were doing this by travelling around their cities to interrogate as many meals as possible – they took breakfast, elevenses, brunch, lunch, dinner, tea and supper, noting the calories in a little notebook with integral penholder. Elsewhere, people were taking it in turns to stare into the eye of a Five Guys cheeseburger and whisper appalling things. Bad foods needed to be punished – men took it in turns with the spade, digging a pit in the softer mud beside the river, and one by one people arrived to throw in the lunches they didn’t eat, muttering curses, first upon the foods, which came together in a bright and oily stew, and then upon themselves, for wanting them. How weak they were, how lazy. Having purged, they queued on the shore for a simple kale caesar salad, and shared such tips as: did you know, it uses more calories to eat a stick of celery than it does to stand very still in a storm of your own making? Did you know, breakfast is the most important meal of the day? Did you know that?
There was an air of excitement as day four began… Something was happening. Obesity was receding before their very eyes as men and women were choosing health! Shedding layers of ignorance and incompetence as if cardigans, they moved forwards as one with joy and a certain lightness of head that could be pleasurable at times, a reminder of their hard work. Through hunger they marched, batting whingers out of the way, those who shouted things like, “Exacerbating situations of people with disordered eating!” and “Outdated calculations don’t consider people’s age, size or activity levels!” and “Calories tell you nothing about a food!” and “Everyone processes food differently!” It was sad, but some people couldn’t be helped, that’s nature.
On day five, one third of England’s restaurants closed down, some making statements, such as: “We at Humperdink’s Family Steakhouse, est 1974, have become aware of the errors of our ways,” others sharing rumours of staff being told to take large bites out of muffins in order to reduce their calorie content. Whistleblowers reported that the staff members who refused, unwilling to risk increasing their own calorie intake, were respectfully fired. A butter factory burned down in mysterious circumstances, but nobody was badly hurt and the air smelled amazing.
Day six was a great day, because that was the day England solved its relationship with food. What had been a difficult, sometimes toxic connection, confused by memory, metaphor, gender and class, a relationship of forbidden desires and grief, and late-night cravings, and the curry your mum used to make, and hurriedly eaten chocolates, was suddenly sluiced clean of shame and made good. All it took, it turned out, was a teaspoon of information about energy, popped on the menu. The answer had been in front of England’s nose the whole time. Eating-disorder charities, no longer required, used their remaining funds to put on a modest street party and everybody danced and sang, late into the night.
On day seven, there was a feast, to celebrate the changed minds and shape of England. Families reunited, hugging and apologising for decade-old slights, mothers and daughters laughing together over juice. Workers threw their ties over a shoulder and joined in, carrying tables out to streets and parks, where each person had a chair and a menu, and the firm promise that they would live long and happy lives. Everybody had the soup.
Email Eva at e.wiseman@observer.co.uk or follow her on Twitter @EvaWiseman
