eat right

In the summer of 1993, when still languishing in high school but between terms, a friend and I hopped on our bikes and set out to touch the westernmost part of the French hexagon. Looking at the map beforehand, we assumed it would have to be somewhere in Brittany, though the exact point eluded us. We just set out and and went, speculating someone would be able to direct us when we got closer.

What we didn't know at this point was that France is not the U.S. The biggest, greatest, best and most is not always signposted. In Brittany, two spiky pieces of land jut westward into the Atlantic Ocean, both appearing to try hard to outcompete the other. From our road map, it was impossible to tell on which one could cycles farther to the west. The many Offices de Tourisme that we entered to disambiguate this point were of absolutely no help. The friendly representatives inside just stared at us when we inquired and showed us the nice church in their village or the municipal campground.

As distance was our gospel and speed our dream, we didn't stop for the church, and even the campgrounds didn't distract us. That was a luxury in which we indulged every three days only. We rarely visited official attractions, and the Office de Tourisme wasn't really a destination either. For the most part, we got off our bikes only when we needed food, during the day or at night before heading for the nearest pasture on which to pitch the tent.

One evening, we made it to the Petit Casino just in time. After we had stocked up on baguettes, cheese, yogurts and ice cream, the proprietor of the little store locked the door behind us and closed for the day. While we were balancing our loads and getting our bikes ready, he cleaned up and threw out food that was about to go bad, fruits that wouldn't survive a warm summer night. They fell right before our feet like manna from heaven. Some looked a bit dodgy but most were of perfect ripeness. I have never had juicier cantaloupes.

This sweet story was dragged from a rarely visited part of my memory upon reading an article in last weekend's Financial Times Magazine that detailed the wastefulness of the modern food industry. It's a disturbing read and a topic that deserves more attention than it's getting. Had you asked me about food waste before this weekend, I would have told you about a campaign here in the U.K. raising awareness of the amount of food that is thrown out by households. I would have also told you that people are idiots for throwing things out, and that I nearly always eat everything that's in my fridge. As I learned this weekend, it's not so much about me not throwing things out. It's about the system.

It's about grocery stores having shelves fully stocked with perishable produce minutes before they close. Customers expect that. I expect that. I clearly remember my shock walking through a half-empty Tesco in February when the delivery trucks got stuck in snow that had fallen knee-deep. It's convenient to always be able to buy anything, but the dark side to this comfort is waste. When shelves are full, lots of things are not sold. Before they go bad, they're thrown out.

It's about suppliers shipping first-class items only and chucking everything inferior because it's not worth their time. It's about 'best before', 'sell by' and 'display until' dates confusing consumers.

But most of all, it's about sustainability. The way we shop for victuals has a global effect in these globalized times. Economists know that food prices are related across continents, while ecologists worry that demand here leads to agricultural expansion with all its side effects there. A more efficient distribution of food would alleviate quite a few problems in this world. The merchant at the Petit Casino who saw us eat the fruits he had binned would probably agree. Our win wasn't his loss. He threw us a delighted Bonne Soirée before taking off into the night.