Subscribe to San Francisco Magazine

Mod Lux Feeds

Now Playing

Are We Glowing Yet?

With the city swimming in juice cleanses, a food writer’s attempt to detox releases her inner smugness.

IF YOU LIVE IN SAN FRANCISCO, YOU PROBABLY KNOW SOMEONE WHO HAS CLEANSED. You might even be part of the cleansing demographic yourself: Wealthy enough to choose not to eat (which is why Gwyneth Paltrow cleanses more than the average human) and knowledgeable enough about environmental toxins to be anxious about your health. You have easy access to modern conveniences like a toilet. (Peeing, during a cleanse, is very time-consuming.) You allow yourself the occasional buttery morning bun at Tartine, but make up for it with veggie burgers wrapped in lettuce. Still, there’s the sense that you could be doing better—Craigslisting your flame-retardant couch, buying more organic.

Of course, you know that to help remedy this, you should eat more kale. In recent years, the leafy green has come to represent the panacea that will right the world’s wrongs. Maybe another superfood, like kukicha twigs, will swoop in to save us in 2013, but for now, raw kale is the main ingredient in the tsunami of juice bars and cleanse companies (including Can Can Cleanse, Living Greens, Sow, Thrive Cleanse, Urban Remedy, and Juice Shop) that have recently washed over our city. San Francisco—which has always had its share of greasy-faced gourmands bragging about their heritage pork belly conquests—is now equally full of people buzzing about when they last stopped eating solid food. These evangelists aren’t limited to women in stretch pants, social x-rays from L.A., and regulars at Café Gratitude. Even my unabashedly male friends with 360-degree bay views from their hedge fund offices have cleansed.

Deliberately not chewing on anything for 24-plus hours, I have discovered, gives you the time to talk a lot. It’s one of those noble but masochistic acts that makes you want to crow, like running a triathlon or giving birth without an epidural. As everyone oohs and aahs over your tenacity, you feel like a warrior—particularly in retrospect.

During the cleanse, however, it’s a different story. On the first day, faced with a bar’s worth of elixirs without a drop of fat in them, even a live chicken sounds scrumptious. The haunting smell of Cinnabons—something you haven’t inhaled since working at the mall in high school—suddenly wafts by like a ghost. The crunch of a Popchip being eaten across the office makes you gnash your teeth. And if you’re me, a week before the cleanse is scheduled to commence, the pit of dread in your stomach is leagues deep. In survivalist mode, you eat more than usual just to store up. Booze is consumed sentimentally.

I know all of this because, after endless glowing reports from friends who cleansed and lived to tell about it, I concluded that it was my journalistic duty to undertake one myself. I had attempted a one-day fast from Can Can last year, but caved six hours into it with a bratwurst at Leopold’s. This time, I chose a threeday cleanse from Bernal Heights–based Living Greens, which delivers its tasty, organic juices to your house every morning.

Although Living Greens gives strict instructions to ease into the ordeal—eliminating white flour, dairy, sugar, and alcohol a few days ahead of time—that wasn’t an option for me: War reporters have to go to the front lines, and food writers have to eat. I had already accepted a once-in-a-lifetime invitation to a 35-course Chinese dinner, cooked by a famous chef flown in from the Sichuan Province, that was scheduled for the night before. Consequently, I began my cleanse with a hangover, an Advil, and a toaster waffle. Already feeling like a loser juicer, for the rest of the 72 hours I supplemented the juice with very convincing rationalizations: “Quinoa is so healthy that it doesn’t even count.” “Wine is juice, right?”

Nevertheless, I got the gist of what real cleansing is all about. For one, your body chemistry does change—though the main adjustments may be to your mood rather than your toxicity level. Eight hours in, my emotional state was oscillating between the tranquil self-satisfaction of a Zen monk and the petulance of a toddler. After starting every morning with the sour slime of aloe juice, the sweetness of coconut water felt like the discovery of Technicolor. I could go on, but I’ll spare you the details—you can always read about some other writer’s juice cleanse while you’re on the elliptical flipping through Vogue or Men’s Health.

However, I will say this: As I chugged my way through lunch and dinner, I found myself pondering some existential questions triggered by my modern-day vision quest. Given that I spent three days never feeling the need for an Alka-Seltzer, does it follow that my whole profession is unhealthy—or even gross? Was my headache caused by toxins being released or by missing my Réveille Coffee fix—and, really, what toxins are we talking about, anyway? Will I start thinking twice before popping a handful of Goldfish while making the kids’ lunch? Could I be a—gasp!—closet vegan? And, of utmost importance, am I glowing? (Our photo editor said yes, but I also felt feverish.)