As William turns the corner, I roll down my window and toss my french fries into the yard next to the Wimbledon house. “You’re killing me. Those smelled amazing.” “That’s the point,” I reply. “The cooking oil they use sets off our olfactory senses designed to seek out foods with high fat. We’re programmed to be addicted. Add in salt and the fructose in ketchup, and it’s the perfect food—if you’re a Neolithic caveman getting all his other nutrients by eating gallbladders and animal intestines.” “Your girlfriend must love your pillow talk,” William says, shaking his head. “I’m not allowed to use
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