The Fun Part of Hog Fat

The basic Pritikin Diet, for those unfamiliar with its restrictions, is composed primarily of rice crackers and of soy beans cooked in rainwater.

Occasionally it allows for small pieces of a rare fat-free fish found only in the Chukchi Sea off the north coast of Alaska or for bits of chicken raised by nuns near Lourdes.

There is scant allowance for fun in the diet, no T-bone orgies or bacchanalian delights of rare prime rib. If a cow should wander in to your Pritikin party, you are to shoot it immediately and bury it in lead.

The purpose of the program, as you might have guessed, is not to encourage your hedonistic tilt but to keep you alive. You can’t have both.

Nathan Pritikin suspected long ago that a poor diet meant heart problems and set about to keep America healthy.

I am guessing at his intention, of course, because Mr. Pritikin died in 1985, no doubt while enjoying a delicious bowl of pureed broccoli soup.

I mention this only because I attended a white-tie Pritikin dinner the other night at Chasen’s, a restaurant not necessarily noted for its dietetic restrictions.

I am not the food editor of the L.A. Times, but I was a member of Pritikin for a year due to excesses of behavior over many years and could not pass up a chance to see if the organization’s concept of gourmet dining had improved at all.

It hasn’t. Steamed carrots and herbal tea are still prime elements of the Pritikin Way.

I tried to prepare for that possibility in advance by eating some Fritos and drinking a martini before leaving the house, a violation of ethics not unlike that which cost Ben Johnson his gold medal in Seoul.

I figured booze and greasy chips would take the edge off of any dietetic abominations I was forced to endure.

“If you are going to have a martini, you’d better have one now,” my wife had said earlier. “They will no more offer you a martini at Pritikin than they will serve you a cup of hog fat.”

The dinner was in Chasen’s California Room. We strode in to the strains of Pritikin’s theme song played on violins, a sprightly piece in march tempo I remember hearing often during treadmill sessions at the Sherman Oaks facility.

I can’t recall all of the words due to an insufficient fiber diet that causes synaptic memory gaps, but I do remember it involved the repetitive phrase, “Triglycerides, triglycerides, fat, fat, fat!” Very nice.

As we passed the restaurant’s main dining room, I noticed comedian George Burns in a far booth. This seemed somehow symbolic because Burns represents the very antithesis of everything Pritikin stands for.

He drinks booze, smokes cigars and, I’m certain, eats foods that are rich in animal fats and low in carbohydrates. Also he is 92 years old and looks just fine.

I said, “Hey, there’s George Burns!” and was greeted with the kind of silence reserved for a breach of taste equivalent to demanding sex at the Holy See.

The entree, as I suspected, was a choice of skinless, boneless chicken and that fat-free fish caught in the Chukchi Sea.

It is said that the chicken is actually bred skinless and boneless through a secret Pritikin formula that alters its DNA and renders it tasteless.

I chose the fish, which was of a similar quality.

“I swear the fish has turned to tofu,” I whispered to my wife.

“Don’t embarrass me,” she said. “It’s fish. Just eat it.”

“I say it’s tofu, and I say to hell with it.”

Robert Pritikin, the founder’s son who is now chairman of the board of the Nathan Pritikin Research Foundation, glanced at me from across the table.

“I’m waiting to see if you like it,” he said cheerfully.

“Mmmmm,” I replied. That could represent anything from delight to gas pains.

The dessert wasn’t bad, I suppose, because there’s not a lot you can do to ruin slices of melon, although it was probably necessary to handcuff the Pritikin dietitian to prevent him from boiling it.

Notwithstanding my carping remarks, however, I admire Pritikin for its high purpose and its sense of humor.

Comedian Dom DeLuise, for instance, is not exactly built to the standards of a Pritikin Poster Boy, but he was the evening’s entertainment, providing a monologue that mercilessly ridiculed a room jammed with true believers.

At the end, there were handshakes and air kisses all around. I went home and ate the rest of the Fritos.