Like most other Americans, I've heard for years that our national cuisine contains too much fat. But I never took this personally until I came to Japan. For the first month or two after arrival my wife and children and I felt constantly famished—even after we had gotten over the price shock that at first made us reluctant to buy anything at all. Although it took us a while to realize it, we were being starved for fat: a meal couldn't leave us feeling really full unless it laid down a rime of fat globules in our mouths and stomachs. (Let's not talk about our arteries.) Japanese food is varied and flavorful, and when accompanied by mounds of rice it can even seem filling. But for us it lacked staying power, because it had so little fat.
A week or two after arrival we suddenly grasped what was wrong when we passed one of Tokyo's countless McDonald's outlets and, overcome by atavistic cravings, turned back and rushed in. We ate Big Macs and drank milkshakes, felt the grease on our lips and fingers, and carried a full feeling with us the rest of the day.
We've adjusted more gracefully after our several months here. We live on rice, fish, pickles, noodles, and miso soup, made from soybeans. Most of the time we feel satisfied. We tell ourselves that Japan is making us healthier, even though we puff and trudge when we climb subway steps and generally feel like we're falling apart. But the idea that fat distinguishes the two cultures stays with us, like the fat from an order of fries.
It's not that the Japanese are uninterested in greasy, fat-drenched food. They are wild about McDonald's, Kentucky Fried Chicken, Mr. Donut, and other American-style fat mines. Their own cuisine features one cheap, popular item that approximates the hot dog in nutritional value: ton katsu, a fatty pork cutlet, breaded and prepared like a Texas chicken-fried steak. I need hardly add that the local ton katsu outlet is my family's favorite haunt. Sushi eaters pay a premium for toro, the oiliest part of the tuna. Some of the most expensive food to be had in Japan (which is saying something) is its domestic beef, which is so thickly marbled with fat that every bite is a swirl of red and white. For sheer stupefying obesity, the biggest Japanese sumo wrestlers, at 400 pounds and up, make William "The Refrigerator" Perry look like an overpublicized fake.
But while recognizing that fat has its place, and even according it some dignity, the Japanese somehow avoid getting carried away. After we'd been going to a local public bath for several weeks, one of my sons looked around the room, inspecting the bodies one by one. Then he asked, in his loudest voice, "Daddy, why aren't there any fat people in Japan?" His question made me realize why I felt so at home in the baths. In America the typical locker-room situation always made me think of myself as an underdeveloped weakling. Here I was merely a taller version of everyone else.
About a month later I visited Yokosuka, a port town south of Tokyo where the U.S. Navy has a base. For the first time in Japan I saw dozens of American families on the street, not just the scattered businessmen and consultants of Tokyo. I stared goggle-eyed at my countrymen, amazed not at how tall they were or what a variety of colors they came in but at how many of them were fat. How do they do it? I found myself wondering. How can they possibly eat enough to become so much fatter than the Japanese? (The Japanese Ministry of Agriculture says that there's no mystery at all about the difference in girth. The average American is said to ingest 800 calories a day more than a Japanese—3,393 calories versus 2,593.)
Because fat in America runs along class lines, it should not be surprising that sailors' wives were fatter than the downtown sharpies from IBM. Still, I marveled at us as Americans, regardless of class. Every tank town in America has better sports facilities than can be found practically anywhere in Japan, but we take it for granted that we and our friends will get bigger and heavier with each passing year. Why did this happen to us? How do the cooped-up Japanese remain so lean and fit?
Primitive cultures attach moral and political significance to body size—powerful chiefs had better look well fed—and I'm afraid that I am starting to do the same thing. Forty years ago the physical contrast between Americans and Japanese was between the tall, strong victors and the short, weak vanquished. Now it looks to me like a contrast between a soft culture and a hard one—between people who eat to satiation and those whose portions are small.
The Japanese do permit themselves excesses: each night on the subway I see businessmen who are fall-down, throw-up drunk. But they generally curb their appetites and channel their energies into production, not mere exercise. On a trip outside Japan I watched a body-builder from UCLA work out in a hotel gym. I thought about the hours of hard work his physique had cost him. There are very few who resemble him in Japan. His counterparts spend their time not in the gym but with the work group.
Some Japanese friends tell me that things are changing. Kids are overeating now; adults are starting to worry about weight. I don't believe it, but I take heart ftom their concern. When Jane Fonda's Workout Book becomes a best seller in Japan, we'll know that our industries have a chance.