Can he find the hidden six-pack in a food writer?
It’s my job to write about food. To do my job well, I must keep a constant stream of assorted foodstuff aimed mouthward. Unfortunately, the most god-worthy creations of S.D.’s restaurants have one common ingredient. An ingredient that can conjure cankles on the waifiest of humans. “This evening, sir, we have pork tenderloin served with apple chutney, hen of the woods mushrooms…” and a stick of butter. “Our special is twin duckling breasts served with a roasted butternut squash puree…” and a stick of butter. “People rave about our lobster bisque—it’s made with a hint of tarragon…” and a 50-gallon drum of butter. I don’t complain about my job. I’m a lucky gorger. But there are side effects. Diabetes has significantly lost its sex appeal over the years. And I’d prefer not to lose a foot to gout (although, as one friend pointed out, I might be able to make a claim for disability coverage). It’s hard to storm out of a restaurant on one leg. So when friends told me that Anthony Farmer had ch
