I really cannot understand how the Maltese can top the charts when it comes to obesity in the EU. I mean, how can we be so good at something when all we do is just sit around all day and do nothing?
When I was young, I was taught that success is only achieved through hard work and dedication, and I simply do not see the effort that accounts for this unrivalled triumph. It’s just not happening here, and yet, I recall another study on youth obesity among a number of countries, including the US, which had also put Malta right at the top.
A very surprising result indeed, given our active lifestyle and healthy diet. I pondered over this at length: what was the secret to this success? And could I ever join the ranks of these accomplished champions? Could I ever be part of this winning team?
Little did I know that I would be handed the answer to these questions on a platter.
On a recent visit to the island, I started the day at a local café and decided to breakfast on a toast and some fresh orange juice, when a shapely couple occupied the table next to me, as well as the surrounding airspace. It was barely nine in the morning, and my mind was slowly gearing up for the day, but the woman had already made up hers, and as soon as the waiter approached she uttered her decision with unwavering conviction: “Ciabatta, Chicken.”
The couple proceeded to order soft drinks. Forget about milk and fresh juice: this is the age of carbonation. With such a choice diet, how can we expect not to be the light healthy buzzards we are?
I looked around to see which other light dishes the rest of the patrons chose to start off the day with. Some had a lasagne. Others an assortment of savoury pastries, and a couple of beers to wash them down with. Others simply had the beer.
This is all at nine, mind you. Nine in the morning.
Clearly, I was the pauper here, and so I put my modest breakfast in a huddle to somehow create the illusion of a bigger dish and show that I too could partake in this decadent feast of overabundance. In all truth, however, I could not fathom the indulgence at such an early hour.
Still, this is not the worst early morning self-indulgence I have witnessed in my life: a work colleague of mine used to stuff three lunches in the course of an eight-hour day at the office, and, on one particular hungry morning, I recall him binging on a kingly box of take-away chicken for breakfast. At that hour, I can only stuff my waking stomach with light victuals – a croissant or a brioche – and this guy was gulping chicken bite after chicken bite. Certainly, I do crave for a full English from time to time, but I have never ventured so far into the Anglosphere as to lay anchor in America so early in the day.
Three qassatat for breakfast, at about half past eight. That’s the moment I realised I could not compete with such powerful athletes
A few days after this gastronomical culture shock, I was at another nearby café with my partner, and boy was the competition strong here! Armed with the knowledge I had so forcefully digested, we proceeded to order our ‘binge’ breakfast of qassata and arancina in our attempt to unhealthily melt into our environment, when an older lady, roadshow worthy, approached the counter and ordered some of the delicious pies at this Italian-run café.
“Three,” she said, as she held her hand up with three fingers outstretched to avoid any possible confusion, whilst also seemingly blessing the manna.
“These Italian, no Maltese, OK?” came the reply from behind the counter, in what was clearly an attempt to avoid a gastronomical mishap, an effort hindered by the language barrier, despite numerous valiant attempts at establishing some rudimentary form of communication.
Finally, the lady seemed to have understood.
“Italian?” she asked, though it seemed more of a challenge than a question.
“Yes.”
“Tre!” she loudly asserted, with a nod of the head so powerful, and displaying such a determination in her decision-making, that policymakers would have eaten their heart out.
Three qassatat for breakfast, at about half past eight.
That’s the moment I realised I could not compete with such powerful athletes.
Circumstances dictated by modern-day reality help ensure their regimen is maintained: more time at the workplace (for both, nay, all, genders) means less time to cook and more take-away binging, and, of course, less sport, not to mention a handy excuse for its absolute lack in their lifestyle. One could, of course, bike the way to work, but the Maltese put too much care into their appearance, and so would never risk appearing sweaty in their tight, button-popping shirts.
There are other reasons behind this athletic excellence, naturally. The smell emanating from the myriad of establishments selling the Maltese fast food fare are tempting to both locals and foreigners alike, and the overly urbanised small country is not particularly suited for outside activity, unless it be a barbecue by the seaside.
Junk food is good and tasty, and Maltese junk food is even better. But sometimes I wonder whether it’s the taste that is so alluring, or the price, and whether it’s the taste-buds that are making the decision, or the purse. For despite being light on the finances, this kind of food is heavy and substantial and can fill your stomach up faster than it empties your wallet. Poorer people often do not have a choice, especially nowadays that anything normally natural – i.e. occurring normally in nature – is labelled ‘bio’ and priced accordingly.
And so many go for the pastizz, and by doing nothing about it, end up being the best at something.