Last update - 00:00 02/08/2007
A tasty illusion of healthfulness
By Miri Hanoch and Eyal Shani
Nighttime. A nine-seater plane takes off on a western heading for Tel Aviv. A doctor of agronomy whose face I can't see in the dark insists on chatting with the young man next to him. The little one's nose is pressed to the window; she's gazing down at the ground and saying, "They don't see us up here." The scientist, who can barely make himself heard over the noise of the engines, is shouting: "If organic is your religion, then eat organic. If not, then there are lots of questions to which the answers are not exactly organic, I must tell you."
For a long time, we had organic vegetables delivered at a pretty reasonable price from Teva Habesor. They were fine, but once we insisted on getting carrots out of season and ended up with a heap of orange, watermelon-shaped things that cost a fortune. The chef had been waiting patiently for just such an incident and said: "That's it, I can't take having them choose for me, I'm going back to the souk." At the souk we tried to buy as many fruits and vegetables as we could with the Carmel sticker on them, meaning they're up to European standards, but the prices were right up there with the organic stuff.
So what is a person to do, I asked my organic girlfriend, whose son gets only rice crackers without salt, cornflakes without sugar and freshly-squeezed orange juice. "You do whatever you can," she said earnestly. But when this mother isn't looking, her kid goes gaga for sweets like Hansel and Gretel did upon arriving at the witch's enchanted cottage in the forest.
On Friday afternoon, I couldn't resist and I walked into the new organic supermarket on Sheinkin, the Organic Market. Whatever's in there, I told myself, I'm going to remain faithful to the health food shop next to Cafe Tamar. You don't just forget like that who's been feeding you for the last few years. I can take a peek, though, I decided. The new place is well organized, clean and bright, so you can see right away that a package of 5 frozen pretzel-rolls made from whole-wheat flour is going to cost NIS 26. Not that it's that much cheaper at my usual haunt, but at least it has an ambiance of a modest neighborhood grocery shop with a selection of ecologically friendly cleaning products, as well as quinoa and brown rice.
When I walked into the supermarket I felt a bogus air of sanctity, and sensed that with every step I took, I was essentially declaring myself a believer in the holy organic religion. Now, it's a little tricky to educate the public to buy their produce at triple the price, especially when in order to do so they have to work extra hours and drive a lot further. And especially while ignoring the group of homeless people sitting just a meter away on the benches outside - at least until they get moved a few neighborhoods to the south, so as not to become a burden on the consciences of the local organic residents.
I stopped in my tracks in front of the supermarket's impressive display of cornflakes. Mostly, I couldn't stop staring into the eyes of Kuriba, who appeared in a picture, riding on his mother's back. Born on October 3, 1999, I read, he belongs to a pack of mountain gorillas in Rwanda. He's a vegetarian and is part of a family of leaf-eaters. He likes to climb, to leap, to run and to play catch with his friends. Luckily for him, he's growing up in a forest. Kuriba is also known for his fits of anger, for the tantrums he has when he thinks he's being ignored. He screams and shakes the tree like a maniac, until his mother comes, picks him up and soothes him. She saves him from himself, but who will save her? This, in short, was what was written on one box of cornflakes, 1 percent of whose cost is donated to a foundation to save the gorillas.
"So, what do you think? It's good to help the gorillas this way, right?" I said, knowing that there's nothing she likes more than standing opposite a gorilla who's waving to her.
"Check how much sugar is in it," Daniella cut right to the point.
"Nine grams per 30-gram serving," I answered, afraid that my great gesture to the world would end here.
"That's a lot," she said. "A real lot. The simplest cornflakes that I'm holding right here in my hand, in the economy size box from the discount supermarket in Bnei Brak, has just one-quarter of that."
"But what about saving gorillas and being do-gooders who take care of the environment?" I tried to soften her up and sell her on Gorilla Munch.
"Instead of buying cornflakes for the gorillas, you could just stop buying wooden toys, for which they cut down forests, and then seven-year-old Chinese kids strip them for no pay, just so they can say 'handmade' on them," said Daniella, and then I felt even more confused.
"Okay, you must be right, like always," I stopped defending the foundation I had just joined, and gave up my dream of shopping at Organic Market and making this world a better place.
Later that day, the chef came home with a small bag from the same supermarket. I asked him quickly, "Nu, what do you say?"
"I don't know, there's something about it I don't like."
"So let's make granola at home, let's make something good and healthy," I said with an enthusiasm I knew wouldn't last.
"That's the funny thing," he said, chewing on some almonds and raisins. "Granola isn't healthy at all. It's full of fat and sugar, it's fattening, it's awful for you."
"But it's better than eating a hamburger and then a whole big piece of Toblerone, right?"
"I guess," he said, conceding defeat. Then he turned around and started quickly stirring some oats.