The terrier mix is named Alabama. His tail thumps a beat on the side of the crate. “Alabama is a gobbler real bad,” Theresa says. In making their reports, the AFB techs must take into account the animals’ individual mealtime quirks. There are gulpers, circlers, tippers, snooters. If you weren’t acquainted with Alabama’s neighbor Elvis, for example, you’d think he was blasé about both foods just now set before him. Theresa gives a running commentary of Elvis’s behavior while a colleague jots notes. “Sniffing A. Sniffing B. Licking B, licking his paws. Going back to A. Looking at A. Sniffing B. Eating B.”
Most dogs are more decisive. Like Porkchop. “You’ll see. He’ll sniff both, pick one, eat it. Ready?” She puts two bowls by Porkchop’s front paws. “Sniffing A, sniffing B, eating A. See? That’s what he does.”
PARC techs also try to keep a bead on doggy interactions in the yards. “We need to know,” says McCarthy. “‘Are you down because you don’t like the food or because Pipes stole your bone earlier?’” Theresa volunteers that a dog named Rover has lately had a stomach upset, and Porkchop likes to eat the vomit. “So that’s cutting into Porkchop’s appetite.” And probably yours.
In addition to calculating how much of each food the dogs ate, PARC techs tally the first-choice percentage: the percentage of dogs who stuck their snout in the new food first. This is important to a pet-food company because with dogs, as Moeller said earlier, “if you can draw them to the bowl, they’ll eat, most of the time.” Once the eating begins, though, the dog may move to the other food and wind up consuming more of it. Since most people don’t present their dog with two choices, they don’t know the extent to which their pet’s initial, slavering, scent-driven enthusiasm may have dimmed as the meal went on.
The challenge is to find an aroma that drives dogs wild without making their owners, to use an Amy McCarthy verb, yack. “Cadaverine is a really exciting thing for dogs,” says Rawson. “Or putrescine.” But not for humans. These are odoriferous compounds given off by decomposing protein. I was surprised to learn that dogs lose interest when meat decays past a certain point. It is a myth that dogs will eat anything. “People think, Dogs love things that are old, nasty, drug around in the dirt,” Moeller told me earlier. But only to a point, he says. And for a reason. “Something that’s just starting to decay still has full nutritional value. Whereas something where the bacteria have really broken it down, it’s lost a lot of its nutritional value and they would only eat it if they had no choice.” Either way, a pet owner doesn’t want to smell it.
Some dog-food designers go too far in the other direction, tailoring the smell to be pleasing to humans* without taking the dog’s experience of it into account. The problem is that the average dog’s nose is about a thousand times more sensitive than the average human’s. A flavor that to you or me is reminiscent of grilling steak may be overpowering and unappealing to a dog.
Earlier in the day, I watched a test of a mint-flavored treat marketed as a tooth-cleaning aid. Chemically speaking, mint, like jalapeño, is less a flavor than an irritant. It’s an uncommon choice for a dog treat.* The manufacturers are clearly courting the owners, counting on the association of mint with good oral hygiene. The competition courts the same dental hygiene association but visually: the biscuit is shaped like a toothbrush. Only Rover preferred the minty treats. Which maybe explains the vomiting.
A dog named Winston is nosing through his bowl for the occasional white chunk among the brown. Many of the dogs picked these out first. They’re like the M&M’s in trail mix. McCarthy is impressed. “That’s a really, really palatable piece in there.” One of the techs mentions that she tried some earlier, and that the white morsels are chicken. Or rather, “chickeny.”
I must have registered surprise at the disclosure, because Theresa jumps in. “If you open up a bag and it smells really good—”
The tech shrugs. “And you’re hungry . . .”
IN 1973 THE nutritional watchdog group Center for Science in the Public Interest (CSPI) published a booklet titled Food Scorecard, which made the claim that one-third of the canned dog food purchased in housing projects was consumed by people. Not because they’d developed a taste for it, but because they couldn’t afford a more expensive meat product. (When a reporter asked where the figure had come from, CSPI founder Michael Jacobson couldn’t recall, and to this day the organization has no idea.)
To my mind, the shocker was in the scores themselves. Thirty-six common American protein products were ranked by overall nutritional value. Points were awarded for vitamins, calcium, and trace minerals, and subtracted for added corn syrup and saturated fats. Jacobson—believing that poor people were eating significant amounts of pet food, and/or exercising his talent for publicity—included Alpo in the rankings. It scored 30 points, besting salami and pork sausage, fried chicken, shrimp, ham, sirloin steak, McDonald’s hamburgers, peanut butter, pure-beef hotdogs, Spam, bacon, and bologna.
I mention the CSPI rankings to Nancy Rawson. We are back at AFB headquarters, with Moeller again, in a different conference room. (There are five: Dalmatian, Burmese, Greyhound, Calico, and Akita. The staff refer to them by breed, as in, “Do you want to go into Greyhound?” “Is Dalmatian free at noon?”) It would seem that in terms of nutrition, there was no difference between the cheap meatball sub I ate for lunch and the SmartBlend the dogs were enjoying earlier. Rawson disagrees. “Your sandwich was probably less complete, nutritionally.”
The top slot on the CSPI scorecard, with 172 points, is beef liver. Chicken liver and liver sausage took second and third place. A serving of liver provides half the RDA for vitamin C, three times the RDA for riboflavin, nine times the vitamin A in the average carrot, plus good amounts of vitamins B12, B6, and D, folic acid, and potassium.
What’s the main ingredient in AFB’s dog-food palatants?
“Liver,” says Moeller. “Mixed with some other viscera. The first part that a wild animal usually eats in its kill is the liver and stomach, the GI tract.” Organs in general are among the most nutritionally giving foods on Earth. A serving of lamb spleen has almost as much vitamin C as a tangerine. Beef lung has 50 percent more. Stomachs are especially valuable because of what’s inside them. The predator benefits from the nutrients of the plants and grains in the guts of its prey. “Animals have evolved to survive,” Rawson says. They like what’s best for them. People blanch to see “fish meal” or “meat meal” on a pet-food ingredient panel, but meal—which variously includes organs, heads, skin, and bones—most closely resembles the diet of dogs and cats in the wild. Muscle meat is a grand source of protein, but comparatively little else.
Animals’ taste systems are specialized for the niche they occupy in the environment. “That’s driven their sensory systems down a certain path,” Rawson says. This includes the animal known as us. As hunters and foragers of the dry savannah, our earliest forebears evolved a taste for important but scarce nutrients: salt and high-energy fats and sugars. On the African veldt, unlike at the American food court, fats, sugar, and salt were not easy to come by. That, in a nutshell, explains the widespread popularity of junk food. And wide spreads in general.
Like dogs, humans also need a broad range of vitamins, minerals, calcium. We’re omnivores. Early man didn’t throw away the most nutritious parts of a carcass. Why ever do we? In 2009, the United States exported 438,000 tons of frozen livestock organs. You could lay them end to end and make a viscera equator. Figuratively speaking, they already ring the globe. Egypt and Russia are big on livers. Mexico eats our brains and lips. Our hearts belong to the Philippines.
What happened here? Why are we so squeamish? How hard would it be to go back to our healthier origins? For answers, we head to the Canadian Arctic, last stronghold of the North American organ-meat dinner.
* * *
* Moeller, who has tasted the naked Cheeto, likens it to a piece of unsweetened puffed corn cereal.
† Or that’s what we think we like. In reality, the average person eats no m
ore than about thirty foods on a regular basis. “It’s very restricted,” says Adam Drewnowski, director of the University of Washington Center for Obesity Research, who did the tallying. Most people ran through their entire repertoire in four days.
* This explains the perplexing odor of swamp water on certain floors of the Monell Chemical Senses Center during the 1980s. The basement was a big catfish pond.
* Not a Campbell’s product.
* Gone are the colored pet-food pieces of the early 1990s. “Because when it comes back up, then you have green and red dye all over your carpet,” says Rawson. “That was a huge duh.”
* My brother works in market research. One time after he visited I found a thick report in the trash detailing consumers’ feelings about pre-moistened towelettes. It contained the term “wiping events.”
* The Holy Grail is a pet food that not only smells unobjectionable, but also makes the pets’ feces smell unobjectionable. It’s a challenge because most things you could add to do that will get broken down in digestion and rendered ineffectual. Activated charcoal is problematic because it binds up not just smelly compounds, but nutrients too. Hill’s Pet Nutrition experimented with adding ginger. It worked well enough for a patent to have been granted, which must have been some consolation to the nine human panelists tasked with “detecting differences in intensity of the stool odor by sniffing the odor through a port.”
* As is jalapeño—though according to psychologist Paul Rozin, Mexican dogs, unlike American dogs, enjoy a little heat. Rozin’s work suggests animals have cultural food preferences too. Rozin was not the first academic to feed ethnic cuisine to research animals. In “The Effect of a Native Mexican Diet on Learning and Reasoning in White Rats,” subjects were served chili con carne, boiled pinto beans, and black coffee. Their scores at maze-solving remained high, possibly because of an added impetus to find their way to a bathroom. In 1926, the Indian Research Fund Association compared rats who lived on chapatis and vegetables with rats fed a Western diet of tinned meat, white bread, jam, and tea. So repellent was the Western fare that the latter group preferred to eat their cage mates, three of them so completely that “little or nothing remained for post-mortem examination.”
3
Liver and Opinions
WHY WE EAT WHAT WE EAT AND DESPISE THE REST
THE NORTHERN FOOD Tradition and Health Resource Kit contains a deck of forty-eight labeled photographs of traditional Inuit foods. Most are meat, but none are steaks. Seal Heart, one is labeled. Caribou Brain, says another. The images, life-size where possible, are printed on stiff paper and die-cut, like paper dolls that you badly want to throw some clothes on. The kit I looked through belonged to Gabriel Nirlungayuk, a community health representative from Pelly Bay, a hamlet in Canada’s Nunavut territory. Like me, he was visiting Igloolik—a town on a small island near Baffin Island—to attend an Arctic athletic competition.* With him was Pelly Bay’s mayor at the time, Makabe Nartok. The three of us met by chance in the kitchen of Igloolik’s sole lodgings, the Tujormivik Hotel.
Nirlungayuk’s job entailed visiting classrooms to encourage young Inuit “chip-aholics and pop-aholics” to eat like their elders. As the number of Inuit who hunt has dwindled, so has the consumption of organs (and other anatomy not available for purchase at the Igloolik Co-op: tendons, blubber, blood, head).
I picked up the card labeled Caribou Kidney, Raw. “Who actually eats this?”
“I do,” said Nirlungayuk. He is taller than most Inuit, with a prominent, thrusting chin that he used to indicate Nartok. “He does.”
Anyone who hunts, the pair told me, eats organs. Though the Inuit (in Canada, the term is preferred over Eskimo) gave up their nomadic existence in the 1950s, most adult men still supplemented the family diet with hunted game, partly to save money. In 1993, when I visited, a small can of Spork, the local Spam, cost $2.69. Produce arrives by plane. A watermelon might set you back $25. Cucumbers were so expensive that the local sex educator did his condom demonstrations on a broomstick.
I asked Nartok to go through the cutouts and show me what he ate. He reached across the table to take them from me. His arms were pale to the wrist, then abruptly brown. The Arctic suntan could be mistaken, at a glance, for gloves. He peered at the cutouts through wire-rim glasses. “Caribou liver, yes. Brain. Yes, I eat brain. I eat caribou eyes, raw and cooked.” Nirlungayuk looked on, nodding.
“I like this part very much.” Nartok was holding a cutout labeled Caribou Bridal Veil. This is a prettier way of saying “stomach membrane.” It was dawning on me that eating the whole beast was a matter not just of economics but of preference. At a community feast earlier in the week, I was offered “the best part” of an Arctic char. It was an eye, with fat and connective tissue dangling off the back like wiring on a headlamp. A cluster of old women stood by a chain-link fence digging marrow from caribou bones with the tilt-headed focus nowadays reserved for texting.
For Arctic nomads, eating organs has, historically, been a matter of survival. Even in summer, vegetation is sparse. Little beyond moss and lichen grows abundantly on the tundra. Organs are so vitamin-rich, and edible plants so scarce, that the former are classified, for purposes of Arctic health education, both as “meat” and as “fruits and vegetables.” One serving from the Fruits and Vegetables Group in Nirlungayuk’s materials is “1/2 cup berries or greens, or 60 to 90 grams of organ meats.”
Nartok shows me an example of Arctic “greens”: cutout number 13, Caribou Stomach Contents. Moss and lichen are tough to digest, unless, like caribou, you have a multichambered stomach in which to ferment them. So the Inuit let the caribou have a go at it first. I thought of Pat Moeller and what he’d said about wild dogs and other predators eating the stomachs and stomach contents of their prey first. “And wouldn’t we all,” he’d said, “be better off.”
If we could strip away the influences of modern Western culture and media and the high-fructose, high-salt temptations of the junk-food sellers, would we all be eating like Inuit elders, instinctively gravitating to the most healthful, nutrient-diverse foods? Perhaps. It’s hard to say. There is a famous study from the 1930s involving a group of orphanage babies who, at mealtimes, were presented with a smorgasbord of thirty-four whole, healthy foods. Nothing was processed or prepared beyond mincing or mashing. Among the more standard offerings—fresh fruits and vegetables, eggs, milk, chicken, beef—the researcher, Clara Davis, included liver, kidney, brains, sweetbreads, and bone marrow. The babies shunned liver and kidney (as well as all ten vegetables, haddock, and pineapple), but brains and sweetbreads did not turn up among the low-preference foods she listed. And the most popular item of all? Bone marrow.
AT HALF PAST ten, the sky was princess pink. There was still enough light to make out the walrus appliqués on the jacket of a young girl riding her bicycle on the gravel road through town. We were joined in the kitchen by a man named Marcel, just back from a hunting camp where a pod of narwhal had been spotted earlier in the day. The narwhal is a medium-sized whale with a single tusk protruding from its head like a birthday candle.
Marcel dropped a white plastic bag onto the table. It bounced slightly on landing. “Muktuk,” Nirlungayuk said approvingly. It was a piece of narwhal skin, uncooked. Nartok waved it off. “I ate muktuk earlier. Whole lot.” In the air he outlined a square the size of a hardback book.
Nirlungayuk speared a chunk on the tip of a pocketknife blade and held it out for me. My instinct was to refuse it. I’m a product of my upbringing. I grew up in New Hampshire in the 1960s, when meat meant muscle. Breast and thigh, burgers and chops. Organs were something you donated. Kidney was a shape for coffee tables. It did not occur to my people to fix innards for supper, especially raw ones. Raw outards seemed even more unthinkable.
I pulled the rubbery chunk from Nirlungayuk’s knife. It was cold from the air outside and disconcertingly narwhal-colored. The taste of muktuk is hard to pin down. Mushrooms? Walnut? There was plenty of time to think about i
t, as it takes approximately as long to chew narwhal as it does to hunt them. I know you won’t believe me, because I didn’t believe Nartok, but muktuk is exquisite (and, again, healthy: as much vitamin A as in a carrot, plus a respectable amount of vitamin C).
I like chicken skin and pork rinds. Why the hesitation over muktuk? Because to a far greater extent than most of us realize, culture writes the menu. And culture doesn’t take kindly to substitutions.
WHAT GABRIEL NIRLUNGAYUK was trying to do with organs for health, the United States government tried to do for war. During World War II, the U.S. military was shipping so much meat overseas to feed troops and allies that a domestic shortage loomed. According to a 1943 Breeder’s Gazette article, the American soldier consumed close to a pound of meat a day. Beginning that year, meat on the homefront was rationed—but only the mainstream cuts. You could have all the organ meats you wanted. The army didn’t use them because they spoiled more quickly and because, as Life put it, “the men don’t like them.”
Civilians didn’t like them any better. Hoping to change this, the National Research Council (NRC) hired a team of anthropologists, led by the venerable Margaret Mead, to study American food habits. How do people decide what’s good to eat, and how do you go about changing their minds? Studies were undertaken, recommendations drafted, reports published—including Mead’s 1943 opus “The Problem of Changing Food Habits: Report of the Committee on Food Habits,” and if ever a case were to be made for word-rationing, there it was.
The first order of business was to come up with a euphemism. People were unlikely to warm to a dinner of “offal” or “glandular meats,” as organs were called in the industry.* “Tidbits” turned up here and there—as in Life’s poetic “Plentiful are these meats called ‘tidbits’”—but “variety meats” was the standout winner. It had a satisfactorily vague and cheery air, calling to mind both protein and primetime programming with dance numbers and spangly getups. In the same vein—ew! Sorry. Similarly, meal planners and chefs were encouraged “to give special attention to the naming” of new organ-meat entrées. A little French was thought to help things go down easier. A 1944 Hotel Management article included recipes for “Brains à la King” and “Beef Tongue Piquant.”