Goodlife
The Chief Eating Officer is asked to betray his profession with the onset of weight-loss treatment
For over six decades, I have served humanity with unwavering dedication
Some become doctors. Some become lawyers. I became something far nobler — a Chief Eating Officer
Not by accident. By divine appointment. At Speciality Restaurants, my job description has always been brutally simple: “Eat first. Ask questions later. If necessary, order another portion for research purposes.”
Someone had to ensure that the soy sauce at Mainland China had the right balance. Someone had to verify whether the hand-pounded mustard in the Hilsa at Oh! Calcutta had enough bite. Someone had to confirm that Chourangi’s Kathi Roll could still transport a homesick Bengali straight to College Street. Someone had to protect the honour of Siciliana’s risotto, pasta and tiramisu from culinary mediocrity. And someone — perhaps history’s bravest soul — had to make sure that Sweet Bengal’s Kheerkodom still disappeared in exactly two bites.
<img src="https://healthylife7.com/wp-content/uploads/2026/08/1787430262265.jpg” alt=””>
Herb Chicken Concighile
It was public service. I merely made the sacrifice. Yes, I crossed the 100kg mark. But great institutions require great personal commitment. Then came Mounjaro. The pharmaceutical equivalent of a hostile takeover. One tiny injection every week. One microscopic needle. One gigantic assault on my personality. The doctor smiles
“You’ll stop feeling hungry.”
Excuse me?
Do you also tell Beethoven not to listen to music? Do you ask Sachin Tendulkar to stop looking at a cricket ball? Do you tell Shah Rukh Khan not to smile? You are asking a Chief Eating Officer not to feel hungry
Every Monday has become emotionally complicated. I stare at the injection. The injection stares back. One of us is about to commit treason. I have begun having dreadful dreams. In one dream, I enter Mainland China. The chef proudly presents 12 new dishes. I politely say, “No thank you. Just one spoon.” The chef faints
In another nightmare, someone offers me the season’s first Hilsa. I ask, “Can I have only half a piece?” My ancestors immediately remove my surname from the family records. Then someone lovingly places a freshly made Kheerkodom before me. I whisper, “Let’s cut it into quarters.” The sweet maker silently removes me from the customer loyalty programme
Ilisher Korma
Chooza Dum Biryani
Then there is the Siciliana dream. A glorious truffle pasta arrives, fresh burrata, warm focaccia, olive oil glistening. I lovingly photograph it and order a salad. I wake up screaming and friends tell me, “You’ll feel healthier.”
Wonderful. But what if I also feel unemployed? For 67 years my philosophy has been magnificently simple: “Live to eat”. Now modern medicine wishes to replace it with “Eat to live”
Sounds terribly sensible but also terribly boring. My family watches with cautious optimism. My chefs watch with suspicion. The weighing scale watches with smug satisfaction. Only my tailor has stopped calling
Don’t misunderstand me. I know why Mounjaro exists. It may well add years to my life and that is a wonderful gift. But there is a tiny emotional problem. What exactly do I do with those extra years… if I spend them refusing second helpings?
I have even briefly considered finding the inventor of Mounjaro. Not to harm him, of course. Merely to invite him to a 12-course tasting menu at Mainland China, followed by Hilsa at Oh! Calcutta, Kathi Rolls at Chourangi, Siciliana’s legendary tiramisu… and finally a plate of freshly made Sweet Bengal Kheerkodoms
Then, just as he reaches for the second one, I would gently whisper
“Sorry, Professor… your injection says you’ve had enough.”
Tiramisu dela Casa
Justice. Poetic justice. Yet, deep inside, I know the truth. The real joy was never about overeating. It was about curiosity. The first bite. The conversation around the table. The laughter. The chef waiting anxiously for a nod. The discovery of a new flavour
Perhaps Mounjaro cannot take that away. Perhaps I can still be the Chief Eating Officer. Only with smaller portions… and much longer opinions
Though I still maintain that a Kheerkodom is so small it should legally qualify as a portion-controlled dessert. My doctor, regrettably, disagrees. So, here’s my new motto: I shall taste everything, finish less, praise generously, walk a little more, argue with my doctor every Monday
And continue believing that food is one of God’s greatest love letters to mankind. If you ever see me ordering just one dessert please don’t look shocked
Just sit beside me, quietly finish the other half and, if that dessert happens to be a Kheerkodom, kindly pretend you never saw me considering a second one. Some battles between medicine and temptation are best kept confidential
After all, friendship, like good food, is always best when shared
Pictures courtesy the writer
Anjan Chatterjee is the chief of Speciality Restaurants, which owns Mainland China, Oh! Calcutta, Cafe Mezzuna, Sigree Global Grill, Hoppipola, Asia Kitchen and more. And yes, he is a foodie. He can be reached at [email protected]
