By Sadie Stein

Like many earnest New Yorkers, I had until recently only the vaguest notion of what the whole trans-fats ban was actually all about, save vague notions of civil liberties and heart disease. Bedeviled by guilt, I resolved to devote a day’s study to the issue.

Filled with civic zeal, I paid a visit to the rather grim horse’s mouth, bantransfats.com, where I was immediately confronted by the image of a sinister-looking, desiccated Oreo. This site, which sells an exceedingly lame tee shirt bearing the legend: “Don’t Partially Hydrogenate Me!” abounds with pathetic attempts not to sound preachy. (As usual, this has the discomfiting air of a youth pastor loosening his tie.) In addition to a number of chemical diagrams and scary statistics, bantransfats provides the reader with a list headed, “What not to eat.”

A lover of lists, I was enchanted. I printed out a copy, spotting a chance to take my study from the lab to the streets.

To my disappointment, the first few “rules” were not rules at all, but dealt instead with the duplicity of labels. “If the label says zero trans fats, don't believe it!” BTF warned. “Be careful when consuming products with labels from outside the United States. Sometimes they contain partially hydrogenated oil but it's not on the label.” Beyond boring me, these injunctions seemed to obviously be one rule, stretched into three to make the list seem more impressive. "Trust no one," I summarized on my note pad, making a special note of the threat of foreign espionage.

Then we got to the real stuff: “In restaurants, bakeries, and other eateries, ask whether they use partially hydrogenated oil for frying or baking or in salad dressings. If they say they use vegetable oil, ask whether it is partially hydrogenated. Don't be shy about asking. Assume that all unlabeled baked and fried goods contain partially hydrogenated oil, unless you know otherwise.”

This was more like it: specific rules dictating conduct was what I needed! “Ask about that fried food. Ask about the oil in the salad dressing. Ask about that donut. Ask about that piecrust. Ask about that bread. When you ask, you are sending a message to the seller of the food that you don't want trans fats.”

While I balked at the thought of marching into bakeries, interrogating salespeople, and braying about vegetable oil, in the interests of science, I decided to put the injunction into practice and set off for my local bakery. A small place in business since the 50s, it is the sort of neighborhood bakery that sold varicolored cookies and gelatinous pies for only a few dollars. It was manned, as usual, by two local teenagers and a leering old man who lounged in the corner drinking milk. When the chatty lady ahead of me had received her change, her coffee regular and her cheese Danish, I stepped forward boldly and surveyed my options.

"Ask about that donut!" rang in my head as the girl waited impatiently.

“What kind of donut is that?” I muttered, finally.

“Glazed,” she said.

“I’ll take two,” I said boldly.

With the uncomfortable conviction that I hadn’t really done my civic duty, I selected my next quarry, a yuppified gourmet shop on the next block.

“Hi,” I said to the pony tailed man slicing a soppressata. “What baked goods do you have?”

“We have these amazing artisan whoopee pies,” said the man eagerly, indicating the Blue Willow platter on the counter. “They’re made with coconut cream!”

“Oh,” I said nervously. “Um…is it…is it good?”

“Amazing!” rhapsodized a mother buying some organic milk.

I regarded the item in question, which was fat and smug-looking.

“Thank you,” I said, “I’ll take two,” and left the shop.

Ten minutes later, I found myself in the local Korean market. While the man behind the counter rang up my bag of almonds, I screwed my courage to the sticking point and grabbed one of those ubiquitous fig bars found at such registers.

“Hi,” I said ridiculously, since I’d already greeted him. “Can you tell me if this is-“

“One dollar!” he barked.

“Thank you, but, is it –“

“That one dollar,” he maintained.

Clutching my fig bar, I exited the store.

Next was the French bakery where I often bought bread. As I approached the counter, a scrawny middle-aged woman with a mane of red curls and a profusion of tribal jewelry burst in and stepped ahead of me.

“Are those fried?” she demanded, indicating some cookies.

“Of course not,” said the French owner, taken aback.

“What about those? What are they made with? Oil?”

“No, everything is made with butter.”

“But what about your frying oil?” she pressed. “Is it vegetable? Those are fried, right?” pointing to some beignets.

“Yes, but-“

“Are they made with trans fats?” she pounced. “ I only eat polyunsaturated oil. And I think I speak for the rest of this community!”

“I will check with the kitchen,” replied the owner, tight-lipped.

I edged away, revolted, but the woman turned to me with a conspiratorial look.

“You always have to ask, right?” she said rhetorically. “Otherwise, who knows what we’re putting in our bodies!”

The owner returned from the kitchen then to confirm that the frying oil was up to standard.

“Good. Good for you,” said the woman. “I just want to know where it’s safe to shop. I have kids,” she added, and left without buying anything but with the air of one who had not been partially hydrogenated.

The owner gave a shrug of disgust. “The third today,” she said.

I left, clutching my baguette, beignet and bag of cookies, thoroughly educated.

Sadie Stein is a writer living in Brooklyn.