RFK Jr.’s Protein-Maxxing Advice Made Me Want To Throw Up

I took RFK Jr.'s advice

and ate nothing but high-protein foods for a week,

and I found myself barfing in the office bathroom.

Earlier this year, the U.S. Health Secretary unveiled

a historic reset of dietary guidelines for Americans.

And the very first item was prioritizing protein.

The department claimed that official dietary guidance

in years past had quote, demonized protein

in favor of carbohydrates.

In order to meet the level of daily protein intake

recommended by the U.S. Department of Health,

which, for me, is around 138 grams of protein per day,

I switched to a diet consisting solely of foods, drinks

and supplements marketed as high in protein.

The food industry has responded

to RFK Jr.'s Make America Healthy Again agenda

with a dizzying assortment of high-protein items

now available in chain restaurants and on store shelves,

despite his frequent claim

that ultra processed foods are making Americans sick.

Ironically, the biggest barf inducer for me was

from Ghost's Nutter Butter Flavored whey protein powder.

My partner Mads uses it as workout fuel,

and I saw it as an easy shortcut to get 26 grams of protein.

This glass is supposed to be

like more than 50% of your daily protein,

and I feel like I can taste it.

I foolishly took the jar suggestion

to add a heaping scoop of the Ghost powder

to five or six ounces of water

and wound up trying to choke down a glass

of peanut butter sludge.

Shortly after getting into the office this morning,

I puked some of the Nutter Butter

protein powder that I had.

Not all of it, so I think I preserved a good amount.

After I vomited, Mads told me

that she only ever puts a small dose of this foul powder

in her cereal milk.

As a protein maxing noob,

it was a lesson learned.

For my breakfasts,

I paid $20 plus $7 in shipping fees

for a box of something called Man Cereal.

It packs 16 grams of protein, 2.5 grams of creatine.

[cereals crunching]

I could barely chew through it.

And it's easily the worst food I ingested

for this experiment.

The Maple Bacon flavor is touted as sweet, smoky and sigma,

further confirming that the stuff is made for gym bros

who listen to problematic podcasts.

Lunches came from a variety of fast food

and fast casual chains

that have looked to cash in on protein mania,

with some meals feeling more like recession indicators

than health food.

On its high-protein menu,

Chipotle has a protein cup,

literally a cup of steak or adobo chicken with nothing else.

I opted for the over-glazed chicken,

which cost me $4.70

for a straightforward 32 grams of protein

and instantly understood the term boy kibble.

Dinners were no less disappointing.

For example, Sweetgreen's steak mezze plate,

34 grams of protein, was remarkably bland

considering its five-ingredient side medley,

but I couldn't finish out the week

without an order from a local spot

called Burgers Never Say Die.

They serve beef tallow fries

that are popular with RFK Jr.

and other anti-seed-oil truthers,

because while they contain almost no protein themselves,

they definitely belong to the kind of worldview

that prescribes smoked brisket for your health.

And that's just how I expect fries to taste.

But for me, personally, I couldn't see

what all the fuss was about.

And how did I feel physically?

Unwell.

Sure, I could have gone a more sensible route

to maximum protein with lots of salmon,

and spinach, and the like,

but it was by far more appropriate

to this moment in American culture

to explore all the products that have been

either cynically repackaged as protein rich

or had a modest amount of protein injected into them.

Tastes like cough medicine.