In honor of Cinco de Mayo, we asked OC's newest contributor, Fiona Duncan, to drink on the job and test out the Tequila Diet.
I've never dieted but I've thought about it plenty. I’ve thought about the Paleo diet and the VB6 diet, about juice cleanses, selective fasting, and raw food. I’ve thought about cutting out gluten and quitting corn syrup, about replacing dairy with coconut milk and Diet Coke with the white kind. And, if there’s one thing I’ve learned in all this, it’s that thinking about dieting will not help you lose weight.
The only diet-ish actions I've ever managed to maintain are those so entwined with daily life, I already conveniently fulfill them. Take my phobia of elevators, which means that I usually take the stairs. Or, my writer’s budget, which prioritizes nutritional essentials. So, when new research came out last month, drawing correlations between tequila and weight loss, I was delighted as I already delight in tequila.
According to science, a natural form of sugar found in the agave plant (from which tequila is brewed) could lower blood glucose levels and help with both type two diabetes and weight loss. The sugar, called agavins (not to be confused with the vegan-friendly agave syrup), is non-digestible and can act as a dietary fiber. In the study which made headlines last month, a team of researchers found that mice who were fed a standard diet with agavins added to their daily water ate less and lost weight.
Agavins have yet to be put to market as a sweetener. For now, humans outside the lab can only ingest the sugar via agave-plant derivatives like tequila. And so... the Tequila Diet! At least, that’s what the media, jumping on the recent popularity of tequila-based drinks, proclaimed last month.
I decided to put myself to the test. For one week, I drank only tequila-based alcoholic beverages. The timing was ideal: Today is Cinco de Mayo, and after the longest winter, spring had finally sprung in our hyperallergenic city. Congested dumb and horny dumber, it seemed like there was nothing to do but drink. As the trees blossomed above outdoor patios, so did the specials on Mexican restaurant menus. At Chavella’s in Crown Heights, I drank a jalapeño maíz margarita with brunch. At Mayahuel in the East Village, it was a cocktail called “Baby Dragon” (that’s strawberry infused Blanco spiked with cinnamon bark). At Clandestino in Chinatown, I was responsible with two tequila sodas—on a Monday.
My agavins experiment ended on Thursday evening at the Cafe de la Esquina outpost in Williamsburg, where I got deliriously—the most all week—drunk in a near-empty diner car. I arrived alone at 5 PM. Outside, the rain was violent. Umbrella or not, you couldn’t avoid getting wet. I sat at the bar and told the bartender my business: I am a journalist on assignment, researching the latest diet du jour.
Javier was his name, and he looked like a young, Spanish version of Jonathan Taylor Thomas. He wore a T-shirt that said “Sexico” though he’s not from Mexico. Javier is from the Dominican Republic. He’s lived in America four years and wants to stay.
After three sips of El Jimador Blanco, which Javier had me sample as “your standard cheap shot tequila,” I offered to marry him.
Tequila gets me high. I know many who feel the same. A friend of a friend who only drinks tequila likes to sing-song this precious axiom: Tequila, the one spirit that lifts my spirits. Javier claimed the “drunk vibes&rdqu
I've never dieted but I've thought about it plenty. I’ve thought about the Paleo diet and the VB6 diet, about juice cleanses, selective fasting, and raw food. I’ve thought about cutting out gluten and quitting corn syrup, about replacing dairy with coconut milk and Diet Coke with the white kind. And, if there’s one thing I’ve learned in all this, it’s that thinking about dieting will not help you lose weight.
The only diet-ish actions I've ever managed to maintain are those so entwined with daily life, I already conveniently fulfill them. Take my phobia of elevators, which means that I usually take the stairs. Or, my writer’s budget, which prioritizes nutritional essentials. So, when new research came out last month, drawing correlations between tequila and weight loss, I was delighted as I already delight in tequila.
According to science, a natural form of sugar found in the agave plant (from which tequila is brewed) could lower blood glucose levels and help with both type two diabetes and weight loss. The sugar, called agavins (not to be confused with the vegan-friendly agave syrup), is non-digestible and can act as a dietary fiber. In the study which made headlines last month, a team of researchers found that mice who were fed a standard diet with agavins added to their daily water ate less and lost weight.
Agavins have yet to be put to market as a sweetener. For now, humans outside the lab can only ingest the sugar via agave-plant derivatives like tequila. And so... the Tequila Diet! At least, that’s what the media, jumping on the recent popularity of tequila-based drinks, proclaimed last month.
I decided to put myself to the test. For one week, I drank only tequila-based alcoholic beverages. The timing was ideal: Today is Cinco de Mayo, and after the longest winter, spring had finally sprung in our hyperallergenic city. Congested dumb and horny dumber, it seemed like there was nothing to do but drink. As the trees blossomed above outdoor patios, so did the specials on Mexican restaurant menus. At Chavella’s in Crown Heights, I drank a jalapeño maíz margarita with brunch. At Mayahuel in the East Village, it was a cocktail called “Baby Dragon” (that’s strawberry infused Blanco spiked with cinnamon bark). At Clandestino in Chinatown, I was responsible with two tequila sodas—on a Monday.
My agavins experiment ended on Thursday evening at the Cafe de la Esquina outpost in Williamsburg, where I got deliriously—the most all week—drunk in a near-empty diner car. I arrived alone at 5 PM. Outside, the rain was violent. Umbrella or not, you couldn’t avoid getting wet. I sat at the bar and told the bartender my business: I am a journalist on assignment, researching the latest diet du jour.
Javier was his name, and he looked like a young, Spanish version of Jonathan Taylor Thomas. He wore a T-shirt that said “Sexico” though he’s not from Mexico. Javier is from the Dominican Republic. He’s lived in America four years and wants to stay.
After three sips of El Jimador Blanco, which Javier had me sample as “your standard cheap shot tequila,” I offered to marry him.
Tequila gets me high. I know many who feel the same. A friend of a friend who only drinks tequila likes to sing-song this precious axiom: Tequila, the one spirit that lifts my spirits. Javier claimed the “drunk vibes&rdqu