Tis the season for teary-eyed features about hunger in America: stories that touch our hearts and tap our wallets. But these tales also obscure a war being waged right under our noses. Literally, on our dinner plates. It's war, and that golden, buttery, yummy cheese puff coming at you from the party platter is more than just a fat bomb. It's a designer drug engineered to whet your appetite without slaking your hunger. Hey, have another.

Fact is, in America, having too much food is a far greater public health hazard than having too little. We've got plenty of grub to go around. Even after accounting for exported products, says nutritionist Marion Nestle, we have twice the amount of food needed to feed everyone in America. (If you're looking for the real political backstory to the fast-food docudrama Supersize Me, you should get a copy of Nestle's book, Food Politics.)

Our abundance is deadly. One out of five Americans dies from complications of being too fat. Being fat is a prelude to heart disease, certain cancers, diabetes, hypertension and stroke. Statistically, obesity is about as murderous as tobacco, taking some 20 percent of the population.

That some two percent of Pennsylvanians say they're occasionally hungry is in some ways more an issue of food distribution than it is of food supply. Inner-city kids eat poorly mostly because supermarkets won't put stores in dicey neighborhoods, and because the corner shops don't carry healthy food. Potato chips are more profitable.

Still, by any measure, our food is very cheap. Cheap and deadly. Fat happens because supersizing makes money.

The reason is simple supply and demand. With twice as much food as what's needed to go around, American food prices are very low. And so to make more profit, food suppliers — from industrial giants to corner resto chefs — try to make up the difference by selling you more.

But it's worse than just selling a bunch of cheap food at a steep discount. It is selling manipulated food, food that's formulated like a drug, food that has been weaponized. Addictive food that makes you feel hungry even when you're not. In her book, Nestle compares the shenanigans of tobacco companies with those of food conglomerates — reminding us that some of these corporations are the same. Their goal is to develop products to get you hooked. And like tobacco companies, food producers are now getting sued for knowingly hurting their customers.

Their weapons are salt, fat and corn syrup, the big three of food adulteration. Check out the stuff in those cheese puffs, in the chip dip or the wing dings. The Unholy Trinity of salt, fat and corn syrup keeps you coming back for more. Your stomach swollen, your head spinning, you'll keep on noshing even if you're aching.

That "healthy" roasted franchise chicken was injected with additives right at the slaughterhouse. Even Chinese food in America is laced with oil and loaded with calories. Weaponized food has made its way from corporate factories straight to our tables, with some 40 percent of our food budget spent on prepared food.

French Paradox, American Tragedy

That America has weaponized its food came home to me personally after a trip to Paris — after which, once again, I lost weight. It's called a paradox that somehow the French are able to eat all kinds of rich foods — glazed with butter, blanketed in cream — and still not bulk out. Some have credited the wine, but there's also a simpler explanation.

The French weigh less because they eat less. In Paris, the portions are consistently about half the size as in the States, though prices are about the same.

The French eat less because they eat more slowly, with lunches ordinarily lasting an hour or more. And they eat less because the food simply tastes better. You're satisfied because quality always trumps quantity. Supersizing doesn't exist.

Take a simple example of two typical, ready-made ham sandwiches, one from Philly International, the other from Paris' Charles de Gaulle airport. Each was about $6. The Philadelphia sandwich was loaded — stuffed with cheese, sprouts, flavored mustard, thick grainy bread, lettuce and a load of meat. The Paris airport sandwich came with two thin slices of cured ham and a slather of creamy butter on a fresh baguette. Less was more, because of the two the French was more satisfying. To American eyes, the big sandwich looked more appealing, but French one had finer butter, tastier ham and a crispier baguette.

The only advantage the American sandwich had was shelf-life. My wife had bought two Philly sandwiches on our way over, but we only ate one. For a week it sat at the bottom of a tote bag. On our way back, I sampled it. Tasted the same as it had when we left: a grease grenade with an addictive kick.

Want another bite?

bruce@schimmel.com