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If anyone could be called a gastronome, it was American writer AJ Liebling. “The primary requisite for writing well about food is a good appetite,” he observed. His wasn’t good, it was gargantuan. One meal he documented in Paris in 1955 started with Alsatian wine paired with trout “doused with enough melted butter to thrombose a regiment of Paul Dudley Whites” (White was the leading American cardiologist of his day). This was followed by not one but two meat courses (why choose?). To round things off, three bottles of Krug were shared between him and his dining partner, theatre impresario Yves Mirande, whose appetite was even bigger than his. When Mirande’s health faltered two years later, Liebling attributed it not to his lifetime of excess but a regimen of moderation newly prescribed by doctors that Liebling believed was depriving his friend of the essential joys of eating. Abstinence, he argued, was fatal. The conceit was belied by Liebling’s own fate. Overweight with an ailing heart and kidney, Liebling died at the age of 59 after being admitted to hospital for bronchial pneumonia. He ate himself to death.
Yet his determination to enjoy life’s pleasures continues to seem heroic. Have we given up on that gourmand philosophy? Rising costs have hit that sector hard; last year saw dozens of upscale London restaurants close, including stalwarts such as Le Gavroche and Galvin at Windows. The rate of new openings slowed last year too. According to one UK report, spending on upscale dining declined by 11 per cent, suggesting the number of people willing to splurge on a 20-course tasting menu is dwindling, too.
Additionally, the growing shift towards temperance (global alcoholic sales fell one per cent by volume in 2023, according to drinks research group IWSR) and what insiders call the “mainstreaming of moderation” have also played their part. Calorie counting and diets are nothing new. But the fixation with monitoring our glucose levels and other indicators while still at the table is. As wine and spirit sales in the US slump (by 8 per cent and 3.9 per cent respectively, according to industry figures) in line with a global decline, it’s hard not to conclude that health is trumping hedonism. Decadent eating is no longer fashionable. And most gluttons are now only to be found in grotesque mukbang videos, where eating has become a performance that others can enjoy remotely and guilt-free.
Liebling scoffed at anyone being concerned for their livers. But these days it’s hard to ignore the costs of eating and drinking (a cancer risk warning recently advised against any alcohol consumption whatsoever) or the zeitgeisty ways for offsetting those costs. Weight-loss drugs such as Ozempic have been a breakthrough because they eliminate the need to cut back or compensate by mimicking the gut hormone (GLP-1) and making people feel full faster. (Mounjaro and Zepbound also work by simulating a second hormone, GIP). These drugs are believed to have contributed to the first decrease in US obesity rates in more than a decade. Could they also signal the death of appetite as we know it? Polls from 2024 show one in eight American adults has used GLP-1 drugs and one in five Britons would use them if they were available on the NHS. At least 500,000 Britons are already taking these drugs privately. According to Morgan Stanley Research, global sales of weight-loss drugs are expected to reach $105bn by 2030.
Morgan Stanley Research also found 63 per cent of people on Ozempic are spending less on dining out – a phenomenon being seen on both sides of the Atlantic. One New York restaurateur told me a table of four might typically “share appetisers, maybe a pasta course and fish” rather than ordering a full meal each of fish, steak and sides as they used to. Another reported: “Guests are having fewer individual carb-heavy plates and a lot more protein.” One Notting Hill restaurateur suggested Ozempic was the reason many of his regulars had stopped coming, while others still ordered the way they used to (“out of muscle memory”), but left a lot of their food untouched.
Weight-loss drugs not only shrink people’s appetites. They have been shown to affect our desire for certain items such as alcohol and snack foods as well. “The type of food GLP-1 users want changes; their tastebuds change,” says New York-based physician Dr Alexandra Sowa, author of The Ozempic Revolution (HarperCollins, £25). “People crave fewer sweet, salty, hyper-palatable junk foods and more unprocessed wholefoods: vegetables, meat, eggs, dairy. When many of my patients dine out, they order the plain protein and vegetables, not because they’re on a diet but because that’s actually what they want.”
Wassim Saliba is a fashion PR, calls himself a food lover and dines out three or four times a week. A year ago, he started microdosing Ozempic to lose his muffin top. Microdosing isn’t recommended by doctors but it has become increasingly popular. For one week every three or four months he took Ozempic. “It felt like going on a retreat,” he says. He lost the paunch but realised how much he enjoyed eating for pleasure and is reluctant to go on Ozempic for longer periods.
Emma Topher (not her real name) works for Amazon Web Services. She considers herself a food connoisseur. After being on diets for years, she started taking Mounjaro last April. It curbed her appetite, quietened her “food noise” and helped her draw a distinction between a love for eating (where consuming more is part of the pleasure) and love for food (where the amount is secondary). “Previously, my being full wouldn’t stop me,” she says. “Now I get to try less but there’s still enjoyment.”
Where will this all lead? As food companies such as Nestlé launch new brands specifically targeted at GLP-1 users (its Vital Pursuit range includes “portion-aligned” meals such as protein pasta and pizza that are high in protein, fibre and vitamin A), so restaurateurs are reconceiving menus with restricted appetites in mind. “I’m sure there will be investors who want to put money behind ‘Ozempic restaurants’, where portions are smaller and everything is designed to support the goal of losing weight,” says London-based restaurant PR Gemma Bell. “But I wouldn’t make Ozempic the primary message, as the public could easily see these places as void of fun and entertainment. Restaurants should always talk about the ‘joy’ of their food, excellent produce and skilled team.”
In terms of gastronomic style, we might see the return of nouvelle cuisine – exquisite plates made up of delicate morsels that make a virtue of smaller portions and healthier cravings. “Or chefs just working on their dishes to make them less calorific, or less ‘filling’, with fewer carbs,” Bell suggests. “We could all benefit from that.”
And who knows? This might even spell the end of the plump gourmand and usher in a new generation of slim, svelte, appetite-suppressed foodies. Is that rumbling in our stomachs or AJ Liebling turning over in his grave?
