The Abraham Appetite
By Mick Vann, Fri., Dec. 24, 1999
The Abraham Appetite
Our friend Robert has worms! That's the only plausible explanation his pals can come up with to account for his extraordinarily huge appetite. And what makes that reasoning even more bizarre is the fact that our Mr. Abraham is a vet (that's veterinarian, not vegetarian) -- a man who should be familiar with the symptoms of a serious worm infestation.
We all, Robert's dear friends, hate his guts. Not because he's effectively retired at such a tender age. Not just because he's been so successful of late in the recent stock market melee. We hate him because he can consume superhuman quantities of quality food while staying as thin as a rail, while we all succumb to massive middle-age spread.
When Robert sits down at the table to eat his first of many plates at a meal, small children are usually the first to notice the gluttonous gleam in his eyes, and they begin to flee for fear of being accidentally inhaled. Anything even remotely considered comestible isn't thought to be safe from Robert's gaping maw. There are rumors that he actually has developed those protective transparent extra eyelids that descend when he begins a feeding frenzy (just like the Great White Shark), but the thickness of his eyeglasses precludes confirmation. Watching him eat recalls visions of the amazing exploding Mr. Creosote from the Monty Python film, The Meaning of Life -- except, miraculously, Robert never, ever seems to expand.
I've witnessed his gluttony on many occasions, but none of his displays has been as noteworthy as during a holiday meal hosted by Chris and Diane Winslow a few years ago. Their daughter Havalah had requested my famous Hot and Sour Soup -- strange considering she was a teen whose entire diet consisted of Mickey D's, pizza, Oreos, and Dr Pepper. To everyone's horror, Robert began the feast by promptly polishing off three brimming bowls, even though we all kept reminding him of the need to pace himself -- there were many courses yet to come.
For an appetizer we had Capriata (think of it as Italian soul food), which was bruschetta topped first with mashed cannellini beans seasoned with sage, then collard greens with balsamic vinegar, then a sprinkling of Asiago cheese. Robert popped close to a dozen pieces in the blink of an eye, then begin to ravage the deviled eggs and crudité, then the pickles and olives -- all the while whining about how hungry he was, and "Why isn't the entrée ready yet?"
The main course consisted of thick, heavy slabs of pecan-grilled ribeye steaks with a roasted garlic and porcini mushroom demi-glace. They weighed 16 to 18 ounces each, and were beautifully trimmed by Johnny G's Meat Market. The sides were roasted new potatoes with garlic and parsley, creamed lima beans (don't ask me, it's an Ohio thing), green beans with onions and mushrooms, four-cheese and Oregon truffle baked macaroni, and a beautiful green salad Diane had composed. Plenty of food for 20 or so diners -- unless you figured Robert into the mix.
When the gargantuan platter of steaks was schlepped to the table by a herd of Sherpas, Robert immediately started carping about the 11-inch plates Diane was serving on, insisting that they were way too miniscule to do his appetite and portioning justice, especially with the number of dishes involved. When we suggested the possibility of multiple, successive rounds of food, he relented somewhat, but still looked like he had reservations about getting enough.
Plate number one vanished down Robert's pie hole with a blinding flash, a whir of serrated steak knife, and the clash of gleaming stainless utensils, as I was still buttering my yeast dinner roll. He started plate number two, this time limiting his steak intake to a half-piece, some 8 to 9 ounces. Diane eats like a bird, and portions her plate accordingly, and when Robert tried to lance her uneaten slab of meat, she wasn't above spearing the back of his hand with her fork, drawing blood. She warned him he would draw back a nub the next time he tried it.
That lesson quickly and decisively taught, he decided he should ask from then on, so we all had to endure a seemingly never-ending cross-examination of "Are you going to finish that?" He polished off everybody's leftovers in a scavenger-like fashion, like one of those time-lapse shots of vultures devouring a carcass on the African savannah seen on the Discovery Channel. We were too full to resist, and didn't want the food to go to waste. But the two labs, B.D. and Ellen Barkin, weren't the least bit happy about it. They always developed a downcast look when Robert showed up for dinner. Not because he sometimes gave them booster shots, but because any hope of leftovers rapidly diminished when Mr. Abraham arrived.
It's a given that the first slice of every dessert will go to Robert. Everyone else has hit the wall, and needs some settling time before the final course begins, while Robert is just hitting his stride. Ample pieces of Dutch apple pie, pecan pie, and cherry cheesecake were the first to be sacrificed, followed closely by a phalanx of lemon bars and coconut macaroons. By this point, Robert was definitely slowing down to a crawl. The final 3,000 calories of dessert had seen to that. We were now finally all on the same bloated playing field, but it had been a painful process to watch.
We all love Robert as a dining guest. He brings good wines and always compliments the chefs, though usually in a garbled fashion through a full mouth of food. We're very concerned, however, about his worm problem. Diane's sister Lynne is a doctor and clinical pathologist, and has agreed for the good of the group to conduct tests for parasites -- we just can't figure out a delicate way to ask him for a stool sample.
