Deluded dieters can kid themselves with child-size portions
By Beth Teitell
Wednesday, August 11, 2004
I had a right to be hostile. Yes, I'd ordered a kiddie-size cone, but that didn't mean I wanted a kiddie-size cone.
Who did the server think I was? Some ``just say non to seconds'' European who favors portion control over dieting extremes to manage weight?
(Am I wrong, or is there something more than vaguely annoying about the Continent dismissing the low-carb craze? It's the we-don't-have-a-problem-with-portions attitude that gets me. I think it's a conspiracy. Sure, we're the most powerful country in the world, but when you go to Paris and peek at a clothing label, and find that your American size 10 is now a size 806, or whatever, they've won the war.)
``This cone is too small to be Death by Chocolate,'' I whispered to my companion as we stepped outside the ice cream store. ``It's more like Flesh-Wound-Stop-Your-Whining By Chocolate.''
``If you wanted a bigger cone,'' she said, cheerfully licking her medium, ``Why didn't you just order one?''
Why? What a dumb question.
Because I'm an American and I diet, that's why.
And yet, I had only myself to blame. Good lawyers don't ask a question unless they already know the answer. And clever ice cream customers don't order a kiddie cone unless they know who's behind the counter. A worker who's absent-minded or trying to stick it to her employer (my favorites)? Or some goody-two-shoes likely to weigh your purchase before handing it over?
Usually I take a read on the scooper's mental state by asking for a sample. If she fills the tiny cup so high it's a legitimate serving unto itself, I know it's safe to order the kiddie. The wink is understood.
Unfortunately, I was with a new friend, and sample shame prevented me from doing my research.
So why did I order a kiddie?
It wasn't a financial issue. Even though kiddie cones are the least expensive, they're even more of a rip-off than the larger ones, an annoyance that almost makes them seem higher priced.
No, I ordered a kiddie because I wanted to enjoy real ice cream, but I didn't want to eat too much of it.
Or, to be more precise, I didn't want to order too much.
If the scooper had taken it upon herself to shovel on a few extra ounces, it wouldn't have been my fault. And in the end, that counts more than even calories.
As I was finishing my cone (10 seconds after starting it) a sudden realization hit my brain more sharply than an ice-cream headache: In Paris, my kiddie cone would have been labeled a ``grande.''
I didn't know whether to feel better or worse.
