Personal Fat Trimming Preoccupies Lawmakers

It’s belt-tightening time in the Capitol--in more ways than one.

As legislators struggle to cut fat from a bloated state budget, many are waging their own private battles of the bulge.

Diet season is in full swing in Sacramento, producing a crop of leaner, meaner political fighting machines better able to withstand the stress of lawmaking--and, not incidentally, more likely to look good on the campaign trail.

Trapped in an insular world of gastronomic excess, long hours and sedentary floor sessions, legislators are forever striving to shed weight. Before an election, the pressure is more intense, as campaign consultants gently remind them that the TV camera adds 10 pounds.

This year, the weight-loss craze has taken hold with unusual ferocity. Though the public debate is about taxes, deficits and agonizing policy choices, the backroom talk often dwells on who lost how much--and, more important, how they did it.

Let us count the pounds:

* Assemblyman Rod Pacheco (R-Riverside) has dropped 101 on a doctor-supervised program that requires him to eat what he ruefully calls “pseudo food.”

* Sen. Martha Escutia (D-Whittier) is down 25 pounds with the help of a personal trainer and a determination to just say no to the mounds of sweets in the Senate lounge.

* Sen. Jim Brulte (R-Rancho Cucamonga) and Assemblyman Dennis Cardoza (D-Merced) wanted more immediate results, and turned to surgeons to help them lose about 100 pounds apiece.

“Legislators have lost hundreds of thousands of pounds through the years, only to gain them back and lose them again,” Brulte said recently between bites of a Chinese chicken salad.

Though staying healthy is what motivates many dieting lawmakers, Brulte said politicians have an extra incentive: the need to run for reelection.

“We’re graded every two or four years,” he said, “and it’s pass or fail.”

The politician’s war on fat actually begins the day of the decision to run for office. Once in the race, a candidate is consigned to a grueling schedule of lunches with advisors, fund-raising dinners with donors and endless “meet-and-greets” with future constituents. There is little time for steaming broccoli or swimming laps.

Dan Schnur, a GOP consultant, said, “A politician’s lifestyle probably couldn’t be designed to be more damaging to someone’s health.” Even the grub at campaign headquarters is bad, he said: doughnuts in the morning and “three-day-old pizza” after dark.

When the victorious arrive in Sacramento for their first terms, their lives are jam-packed with learning the ropes, writing bills and studying for policy committees. Thrown off their normal routines, all but the most disciplined watch good dining habits vanish.

Many eat every meal out. Most attend five or six fund-raising receptions a night, where a minefield of temptation awaits: platters of fried finger food, open bars, mountains of cheese.

More trouble lurks in the members’ lounges, where lawmakers gab between bills or during caucus meetings. Ice cream bars beckon from the freezers, cookies and pastries tempt on tables, enchiladas arrive for lunch. One lounge specialty stirs moans of pleasure and pain: banana cream pie from a famous local eatery, Frank Fat’s.

Sooner or later, most legislative newcomers confront the inevitable “freshman 10”--or 20, or 30, depending on the degree of gluttony.

“Coming to Sacramento is like joining the ‘Love Boat’,” Pacheco said. “There’s food around 24 hours a day, it’s all free and it’s all good and it’s all you can eat. You think you’ve died and gone to heaven.”

The morning after, however, can be painful.

Assemblywoman Charlene Zettel (R-Poway) gained 25 pounds her rookie year, weight she attributes not just to the hectic schedule but to “loneliness munching, being away from home.”

For Assemblyman Abel Maldonado (R-Santa Maria), it was 36 pounds. At first he hid his expanding girth beneath baggy suits. Now, he’s a disciple of a high-protein, low-carbohydrate diet that is popular with many lawmakers because it delivers quick results.

“It’s super, super hard, but the weight has come off,” Maldonado said. Opening a desk drawer, he showed his secret stash: “I’ve got four cans of tuna, six cans of chunky chicken and a can of Spam,” he said. But not a sliver of bread.

Assembly Speaker Herb Wesson (D-Culver City) also bulked up as a freshman, gaining 15 pounds. His problem? The evening fund-raisers.

“I’m not a rich man, so I figured, hey, this is great, I can go out and eat for free every night,” he said. What’s worse, he began taking doggie bags full of food home from the parties.

“I’d get home with some lamb chops, microwave those suckers, dip them in mint jelly at 11:30 at night,” Wesson recalled.

Alarmed by the scale, he initially tried the “cabbage diet” to slim back down--”I stayed on it for about three hours.”

Now he cooks a big pot of something healthful--”like my jammin’ chicken and noodle dish”--on Sunday night, and eats leftovers during the week.

Wesson has also made a change in the speaker’s office, where the former tenant, Bob Hertzberg (D-Sherman Oaks), kept heaping bowls of chocolates around for all to munch. Wesson’s offering? Rice cakes and carrot sticks.

Some Capitol dwellers are legendary for their dietary discipline. At the head of that list is California’s governor.

Close associates of Gray Davis say they have never seen a person of greater gustatory willpower. Davis starts each morning with a tofu shake flavored with frozen berries, they say, then has carved turkey, broccoli and water for lunch--every day.

Dinner is a bit more exotic, but Davis never ventures into the high-fat zone. He also avoids soda and has a glass of wine only occasionally. He rides a stationary bike each morning and keeps up his energy by munching protein bars throughout the day.

“He’s like Dr. Pritikin’s evil twin,” said one associate, comparing Davis with the diet guru.

In the Assembly, Carole Migden (D-San Francisco) is another model of restraint, staying trim despite her stressful job as chairwoman of the powerful Appropriations Committee. Asked to share her secret, Migden came clean: “Deprivation. It works every time.”

Like society at large, the Legislature has evolved in the food choices it provides to members. When Sen. Debra Bowen (D-Marina del Rey) arrived in Sacramento in 1993, doughnuts were the only morning snack in the lounge.

“Now, after a lot of griping, we’ve got cottage cheese, bagels--even carrots and celery,” Bowen said. Over in the Assembly, Migden said the staff has responded to her requests for vegetarian meals, but occasionally disappoints: “One time, I got two pieces of bread with raw eggplant between them,” she recalled.

Though there is no gym for legislators, the nearby Capital Athletic Club offers them a deal on memberships. But only about 10 lawmakers--out of 120--belong, the sales manager said.

Several others burn calories on the treadmill and the Stairmaster in the Senate’s women’s lounge, Sen. Escutia among them. Escutia, who gained 20 pounds her freshman year and 40 more during two pregnancies, said she’s “a little envious” of colleagues who have lost weight recently through surgery or special diets. “I’m just trying to sweat it off,” she said.

Sen. Tom Torlakson (D-Antioch), a triathlete and the Legislature’s unofficial fitness promoter, said Escutia has the right idea. A former running coach, he said regular exercise helps lawmakers keep the mind sharp. In an election season, working out can bring other benefits--such as another term. Political advisors say voters make up their minds about a candidate in seconds, largely on the basis of visual impressions.

“If you’re packing too much poundage, it can hurt,” said a GOP consultant, Ray McNally. “Rightly or wrongly, it sends a message that, ‘Here’s somebody who’s not too energetic and may not be up to the job.’ ”

Though no one doubted the abilities of the former Assembly speaker, Jess Unruh, even he periodically tried crash diets to shed the nickname partly inspired by his ample girth: “Big Daddy.”

Tony Beard, the Senate’s chief sergeant at arms, has seen many trends in his 21 years on the job. In the old days, he recalled, there was an ashtray on every desk, and the only jogging legislators did was “over to the Hotel Senator for a Scotch at 4 o’clock.”

“Times have sure changed,” he said.