"I'm going to talk to you about rice cakes, which are very important to me," says Peter Rosenthal.
On weekdays, Rosenthal is a math professor at the University of Toronto and a noted defence lawyer. On Sunday mornings, he is one of Harvey Brooker's disciples.
Following Brooker's diet precepts means learning to love the little things – like rice cakes. For 10 minutes, Rosenthal does a decent impression of genuine enthusiasm. He tosses out bags of rice cakes to the 100 men gathered around him. They taste like cardboard.
"They have that great crack you get out of other snacks," Rosenthal says. "Like potato chips." Someone in the audience groans erotically.
Rosenthal, who looks like an aging linebacker, lists off toppings to punch up a rice cake – half a wedge of Laughing Cow cheese (11 calories, he says), or a "very, very, very thin" layer of margarine (6 calories).
"Here's a trick," says Rosenthal. "Eat it upside down. Your tongue goes on (the spread) first. That way you taste it more." A dozen heads nod. This is useful stuff.
"I'm Peter and I've lost 37 1/2 pounds," Rosenthal says before he leaves the stage.
All hundred guys clap lustily. Hands reach out to slap Rosenthal on the back as he returns to his seat. And then Harvey Brooker takes the small stage. This is the Sunday morning Power Hour at Brooker's namesake weight-loss clinic for men only.
"This is church for us," says Mike Parsons, a west-end realtor. "This is the Harvey Brooker church."
The program is, in essence, a dietary regimen. Men are allowed so many starches, vegetables, proteins, etc., per day. They must eliminate most sugars, white flour, alcohol and oils.
"It's the Canada Food Guide, is what it is," says retired mailman Randy Ward, who lost 94 pounds and now weighs 188.
So, what makes these men willing to pay $1,875 for information they could patch together themselves on the Internet? Why do seemingly successful guys want to get rice cakes thrown at them?
The clientele tend toward the middle-aged business set – a lot of male-pattern baldness, golf shirts and BlackBerrys. During the hour before the meeting, while the men wait to weigh in, they talk about Phil Kessel, cottages and work stress. They chew on apples (three fruits allowed per day) and drink artificially sweetened coffee.
Many of them are successful entrepreneurs. The doyen of Canadian print journalism, Robert Fulford, is in attendance this morning. CBC host Michael Enright is a member. Brooker claims a "couple of billionaires" on his roster, but won't name them.
The hyper-successful mix cheek by jowl with cab drivers and cops and mechanics.
There are no pills, vitamin B12 injections or specialty foods. Brooker maintains that the secret, if there is one, is himself. "The whole business is personality driven," Brooker says. "I have to take pride in that."
Brooker is a small, solidly built 65-year-old. In his 20s, he shed a bunch of weight and has maintained it for nearly four decades.
After losing his weight, Brooker made dieting his business. Over the next 30 years, he operated a pair of franchises purchased from U.S.-based diet chains. It was a slow-motion business disaster.
In 1985, he began a subset to his faltering unisex business – a Sunday meeting for men only. At first, it was something he did for fun. And for Brooker, this sort of proselytizing is clearly fun. When his second business collapsed in the early '90s, "all I was left with was this hobby on Sunday mornings."
He kept at it. At times, only a dozen men would show up. Brooker's wife, Helen, went back to law school in middle age, anticipating the family's need. But in 1998, shortly after he began advertising, the men-only diet business found its stride. Today, he has roughly 250 active clients, many paying the full-ride – $1,875 for a 12-month course. Personal coaching sessions are extra.
Vanity is only one of the things that drove members here, to the second floor above one of those anonymous two-storey business malls at Dufferin St. and Finch. Ave. W.
Many are beset by serious weight-related health problems. This must be the only roomful of men in Canada who all seem to know that Allopurinol is used to treat gout.
The meeting itself is like a Tony Robbins presentation delivered at the Water Buffalo Lodge. Brooker rereads the 20 rules his dieters must maintain (Rule #1: "Come each Sunday for the fellowship").
Brooker wanders the room, picking out success stories. He knows everyone by name. As he pulls them out of their seats, speakers repeat Rosenthal's 12-step mantra: "My name is X and I've lost Y." Every speaker gets a round of applause.
One man, Brian, tells the group that for the first time in 35 years he walked a golf course and carried his own bag the whole way. He was playing with his grandson that day. The applause has a new, emotional edge.
Brooker asks all the men who've lost 90 pounds or more to stand up. Nine men rise. One of them has shed 180 pounds. How many men over 70 years old do we have here, Brooker asks. Another eight stand up. The applause keeps rolling.
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