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HEALTH


RICHARD BERCUSON Yes, I’m that weak– but my cousin was right


Food. I’m for it. There aren’t many things I won’t try to eat,


so long as they’re not moving on the plate. It wasn’t always this way. My ravenous


appetite developed when I got more into running years ago. By the time I began training for my first marathon, there wasn’t a refrigerator or food cupboard I didn’t long to become intimate with. The way I saw it, I was burning lots of fuel


and just about anything available to replenish the supply would do. Some exceptions applied. Corn


chips didn’t end well. Nor slabs of steak. Certain red wine vintages were problematic. Fortunately, none were in France, which greatly reduced the risk. One can’t be too careful. The truly great thing about


marathon training – and yes, there are some great things about it – is


the compunction to shamelessly shove your face into just about any food. It’s an easy equation to balance: energy out = energy in. Then a terrible thing happened. I started


learning about food. The bombardment came from everywhere and has not abated. My Parisian cousin, with whom I share


an affinity for good wines, tried every which way to instruct me on the need to take up a Mediterranean diet. She’d been on it for years herself as had most of her friends. Fine, I’d said, except I didn’t exactly know


what it was other than it seemed to involve lots of lettuce and olive oil. And wait. Isn’t The Mafia involved in the olive oil business? On my last visit to her tiny 10th


arrondissement Paris abode a few years back, she fed me samplings. I’d taken a bit of time off running and feared blubber would overtake me. This would have probably happened if I’d feasted on chocolate, rich desserts, succulent


8 BOUNDER MAGAZINE


breads and Canadian beer. It’s hard to find Canadian beer in Paris. Lots of wonderful other exotic ones, though. For breakfast, she fed me fresh cheese,


baguette and butter, fruit, and coffee. Lunch usually involved a salad of some description, more baguette, a spot of wine, water, yogurt and maybe a small pastry (if I was good). Dinner varied. One night in a restaurant, we


had salad, beef bourguignon, a cake, baguette, more cheese, and copious amounts of wine. Another evening, I devoured smoked salmon, baguette, soup, and cheese for about $10. An interesting point: Nothing we ate came


packaged. We also walked all over the city. In three days, I lost a kilo. Did I mention


I’d snuck in a couple of dark chocolate bars between meals? If I kept eating like that and stayed a month, I’d become a skeleton. On that same sojourn, I transferred this


new diet to Lyon where I connected with my son, then living the Bohemian lifestyle as an impoverished elementary school English language assistant. He had breakfast cereal à la North America


and I’d brought him a jar of peanut butter to keep his tastebuds grounded. But these were the only homages to home cuisine. The rest of the time, we ate fresh bread,


cheese, soups, salads, inexplicably delicious pastries, and small portions of pasta or meat. We also walked all over Lyon. A week with him and I lost another kilo. I


would’ve lost more but daily visits to pastry shops slowed my metabolism. The trip was a gastronomic education. Yet


within a week of being home and reacquainting myself with what we might call the Colonial Diet, I was back to mass marketed motor oil coffee, tasteless breads, and not nearly enough fruits and veggies plus all too frequent packaged “foods.” Only my running regimen


continued on page 43 www.bounder.ca


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