Seven

CHEW

It’s the nineteenth day of the Stanford experiment, and Olsson and I are, once again, sitting side by side at the dining room table at the center of our home lab. The place is officially a sty. We’ve just stopped caring. Because now we’re just a few hours away from it all being over.

I’m sitting with the same thermometer and nitric oxide sensor in my mouth, and the same blood pressure cuff around my biceps. Olsson’s got the same face mask around his head, the same EKG sensor on his ear. He’s wearing the same slippers as well.

We’ve done this drill 60 times in the past three weeks. It all would have been unbearable had it not been for the mounting energy, mental clarity, and overall well-being we’ve felt, such vast and sudden improvements experienced the minute we stopped mouthbreathing.

Last night, Olsson snored for three minutes while I clocked in at six, a 4,000 percent decrease from ten days ago. Our sleep apnea, which disappeared the first night of nasal breathing, has remained nonexistent. My blood pressure this morning was 20 points lower than its highest point at the beginning of the experiment; on average I’ve dropped 10 points. My carbon dioxide levels consistently rose and were finally nudging toward the “super endurance” mark shared by Buteyko’s healthiest subjects. Olsson, again, showed similar improvements. We did it all by breathing through our noses, slowly and less with full exhales.

“I’m done,” declares Olsson, with the same smirk on his face. He walks down the hallway one last time and goes back across the street. And one last time, I’m left alone in the clutter, where I eat the same dinner I had ten days ago.

The last supper: a bowl of pasta, leftover spinach, a few soggy croutons. I take a seat at the kitchen table in front of the same unread pile of the Sunday New York Times, pour a little olive oil and salt into the bowl, and take a bite. A few mashes in my mouth and it’s gone.

As random as it might seem, this mundane act—that few seconds of soft chewing—was the catalyst for writing this book. It’s what inspired me to turn the casual hobby of investigating what happened to me in that Victorian room a decade ago into a full-time quest to discover the lost art and science of breathing.

At the beginning of this book, I began to fill in why humans have such a hard time breathing, how all that tenderizing and cooking of food eventually led to airway obstruction. But the changes that occurred in our heads and airways so many years ago were only a small part of how we got to here. There is a much deeper history to our origins, which is weirder and wilder than anything I had anticipated when I first began.

And so, here, at the end of the Stanford experiment, it seems only appropriate to start over again, picking up where we left off, at the dawn of human civilization.

Twelve thousand years ago, humans in Southwest Asia and the Fertile Crescent in the Eastern Mediterranean stopped gathering wild roots and vegetables and hunting game, as they had for hundreds of thousands of years. They started growing their food. These were the first farming cultures, and in these primitive communities, humans suffered from the first widespread instances of crooked teeth and deformed mouths.

It wasn’t terrible at first. While one farming culture was plagued by facial and mouth deformities, another hundreds of miles away seemed not to suffer at all. Crooked teeth and all the breathing problems that come with them seemed totally random.

Then, about 300 years ago, these maladies went viral. Suddenly, all at once, much of the world’s population began to suffer. Their mouths shrank, faces grew flatter, and sinuses plugged.

The morphological changes to the human head that had occurred up to this point—that lowering of the larynx that clogged our throats, the expansion of our brains that lengthened our faces—all these were negligible compared to this sudden shift. Our ancestors adapted to those gradual changes just fine.

But the changes triggered by the rapid industrialization of farmed foods were severely damaging. Within just a few generations of eating this stuff, modern humans became the worst breathers in Homo history, the worst breathers in the animal kingdom.

I had a hard time comprehending this when I first came across it years back. Why hadn’t I been told about it in school? Why didn’t so many of the sleep doctors or dentists or pulmonologists I interviewed know this story?

Because this research, I discovered, wasn’t happening in the halls of medicine. It was happening in ancient burial sites. The anthropologists working at these sites told me that if I wanted to really understand how such a sudden and dramatic change could happen to us, and why, I needed to leave the labs and get into the field. I needed to see some of the Patient Zeros of the modern obstructed human, the turning point when our farm-fed faces fell apart on a mass scale. I needed to get my hands on some skulls: old ones, and lots of them.

I hadn’t been introduced to Marianna Evans yet, so I didn’t know the Morton Collection existed. I called some friends instead. One of them told me that my best chance of stumbling upon a large trove of centuries-old specimens was to fly to Paris and wait beside a set of trash cans along Rue Bonaparte. My guides would be waiting there on Tuesday night at seven p.m.

“This way,” the leader said. The rusting steel door behind us moaned and squealed and the sliver of streetlight grew thinner until there was no more light at all, only fading echoes. One of the guides I was following lit up her high-powered headlamp, the two others cinched their backpacks, and went down the first stone steps of a spiral staircase that led into pure blackness.

The dead were downstairs. Six million of them, spread out in a labyrinth of halls, stalls, cathedrals, ossuaries, black rivers, and billionaire playrooms. There was the skull of Charles Perrault, the author of “Sleeping Beauty” and “Cinderella.” A little deeper were the femurs of Antoine Lavoisier, the father of modern chemistry, and the ribs of Jean-Paul Marat, the assassinated French Revolution leader and the subject of Jacques-Louis David’s most morose painting. All these skulls, all these bones and millions of others, some dating back a thousand years, had been lying there, silently collecting dust underneath the Garden of Luxembourg in the heart of the Left Bank.

Leading the expedition was a woman in her early 30s with a purple-red mane that draped over a faded camouflage jacket. She was followed by another woman in a red pantsuit and a third in a fluorescent blue coat. They wore knee-high mud boots and overstuffed kitbags and looked like cast members from the all-female Ghostbusters reboot. I didn’t know their real names and was told not to ask. These guides, I would learn, prefer to be anonymous.

At the foot of the staircase was a tunnel made of rough limestone walls. As we pushed deeper, the walls grew a little tighter, eventually forming a hexagonal shape—narrow at the feet, wide at the shoulders, and narrow again at the top. The tunnel had been built this way for efficiency, to allow ancient limestone miners to walk single file in as little space as possible. But the curious result was that the hallways were the shape of a coffin. Fitting, perhaps, because we’d just entered one of the largest graveyards on Earth.

For a thousand years, Parisians had buried their dead at the center of the city, mostly in a plot of land that became known as Holy Innocents’ Cemetery. After hundreds of years of use, Holy Innocents’ became overcrowded, and the dead were stacked in warehouses on top of one another. Those warehouses became overcrowded too, until the walls collapsed and spilled decomposing bodies into city streets. With nowhere to put the dead, Parisian authorities instructed limestone miners to dump them into wagons and wheel them into Paris’s quarries. As new limestone quarries were dug out to build the Arc de Triomphe, the Louvre, and other great buildings, more bodies went underground. By the turn of the twentieth century, there were more than 170 miles of quarry tunnels filled with millions of skeletons.

The City of Paris offered a sanctioned tour of the quarries, called the Paris Catacombs, but that only covered a small portion. I’d come here to look inside the other 99 percent, where there were no tourists, descriptive plaques, ropes, lights, or rules. Where nothing was off-limits.

A group called “cataphiles” have been exploring the nether regions of this place since entering the quarries became illegal in 1955. They’ve found their way down through storm drains, manholes, and secret doorways along Rue Bonaparte. Some cataphiles had built private clubhouses within the limestone walls; others hosted weekly subterranean dance clubs. There was a rumor that a French billionaire chiseled out his own lavish apartment down there and hosted private parties, where guests do who-knows-what. Cataphiles made new discoveries all the time.

My guide, the woman with red-purple hair whom I’ll call Red, had spent 15 years mapping these dirty tunnels. She was fascinated with the stories and history of the place. She told me earlier that she discovered a new ossuary an hour’s hike from here in the crawl space of a cave. It was filled with a few thousand victims of a cholera epidemic that ravaged Paris in 1832. This was the time in Western history when small mouths, crooked teeth, and obstructed airways became the norm throughout much of industrial Europe. These were the skulls I was looking for.

We passed through halls, over puddles of stagnant water, and crawled face-to-butt like a human centipede through a kind of oversize rodent hole, until we reached a stack of wine bottles, cigarette pack wrappers, and dented beer cans. The walls were layered in decades of graffiti: the initials of two lovers, cartoon dicks, an obligatory 666. A few feet in front of us was a stack of what looked like kindling.

It wasn’t kindling, not wood at all. It was a heap of femurs, humeri, sternums, ribs, and fibulas. Bones, all human. This was the path to the secret ossuary.

By around 1500, the farming that had begun in Southwest Asia and the Fertile Crescent ten thousand years earlier took over the world. The human population grew to a half billion, 100 times what it had been at the dawn of agriculture. Life, at least for city dwellers, was miserable: streams of human waste gushed down city streets. Air was tainted by coal smoke and nearby rivers and lakes ran with blood, fat, hair, and acids from manufacturing runoff. Infections, disease, and plague were a constant menace.

In these societies, for the first time in history, humans could spend their entire lives eating nothing but processed food—nothing fresh, nothing raw, nothing natural. Millions did. Over the next few centuries, food would become more and more refined. Advances in milling removed the germ and bran from rice, leaving only the starchy white seed. Roller mills (and, later, steam mills) ripped the germ and bran from wheat, leaving only a soft, white flour. Meats, fruits, and vegetables were canned and bottled. All these methods extended the shelf life of foods and made them more accessible to the public. But they also made foods mushy and soft. Sugar, which was once a prized commodity of the wealthy, became increasingly common and cheap.

This new, highly processed diet lacked fiber and the full spectrum of minerals, vitamins, amino acids, and other nutrients. As a result, urban populations would grow sicker and smaller. In the 1730s, before the onset of industrialization, the average Briton stood about five-seven. Within a century, population shrank two inches, to less than five-five.

The human face began rapidly deteriorating, too. Mouths shrank and facial bones grew stunted. Dental disease became rampant, and the incidence of crooked teeth and jaws increased tenfold in the Industrial Age. Our mouths got so bad, so overcrowded, that it became common to have teeth removed altogether.

The sideways grin of the Dickensian street urchin was not the affliction of only a few sad, impoverished orphans—the upper classes suffered, too. “The better the school, the worse the teeth,” a Victorian dentist observed. Breathing problems skyrocketed.

Back in the quarries, Red led me through the narrow opening of the ossuary, across rocks and bones and broken bottles. She told me how the cholera epidemic of the early 1800s killed close to 20,000 people. The authorities had nowhere to put the dead, so they dug a big hole in Montparnasse Cemetery and buried them with quicklime to disintegrate the flesh. The ossuary was located at the bottom of that hole.

About ten more minutes of crawling and we reached it, a room surrounded by piles of bones and skulls. I had expected this place to have a horror-show creepiness, but it never materialized. Instead, entering there, surrounded by remnants of all these ancient lives, there was only a long and heavy stillness, like the sound of a rock dropped in a well after the echoes fade away.

Red and the cataphiles placed candles on the skulls and pulled cans of beer and groceries from their packs. I turned and wormed myself deeper into the chasm, pulling my body along the floor until it felt like my chest might be stuck between two huge boulders. At one point, I considered that if any of us might suddenly get trapped in here, if we were to break a leg, panic, or lose our way, there was a good chance we’d never make it back out. Our skulls would join the millions of others lining these walls, becoming candle holders for cataphiles in some future world.

Onward and inward, another wiggle and another yank, and I was in the thick of it—hundreds of more skulls in all directions. These people had been city dwellers, and they’d very likely relied on the same highly processed industrial foods. To my eye, their skulls all appeared lopsided, too short, their arches V-shaped, and stunted in some way. I stayed for a while bathing in them, inspecting them, feeling them, comparing them.

Admittedly, I was very much a novice at inspecting skeletons, and perhaps some of the jaws and other pieces were mismatched. Nonetheless, there was such a clear difference in the shape and symmetry of these specimens compared to the dozens of hunter-gatherers and other ancient indigenous populations I’d seen in books and websites before coming here. These were the Patient Zeros of the modern Industrial human mouth.

“Voulez-vous manger quelque chose?” Red said, her words echoing off the bare walls. I shimmied back beneath the crawl space and joined the group. They were smoking, sharing swigs of arak from a flask, and passing around snacks in the flickering glow of candlelight. Red pulled off a chunk of soft white bread and a slice of plastic-wrapped cheese and handed it to me. Beneath the stare of all those age-old eyeholes, I took a bite and mashed it in my crooked mouth a couple of times.

Researchers have suspected that industrialized food was shrinking our mouths and destroying our breathing for as long as we’ve been eating this way. In the 1800s, several scientists hypothesized that these problems were linked to deficiencies of vitamin D; without it, bones in the face, airways, and body couldn’t develop. Others thought the lack of vitamin C was the culprit. In the 1930s, Weston Price, the founder of the National Dental Association research institute, decided it wasn’t one specific vitamin or another, but all of them. Price set out to prove his theory. But unlike his predecessors, he wasn’t interested in the causes of our shrinking mouths and deforming faces. He was interested in finding a cure.

“Since we have known for a long time that savages have excellent teeth and that civilized men have terrible teeth, it seems to me that we have been extraordinarily stupid in concentrating all of our attention upon the task of finding out why all our teeth are so poor, without ever bothering to learn why the savage’s teeth are good,” wrote Earnest Hooton, a Harvard anthropologist who supported Dr. Price’s work.

Over a decade starting in the 1930s, Price compared the teeth, airways, and general health of populations around the world. He examined indigenous communities whose members were still eating traditional foods, comparing them to other members in the same community, sometimes the same family, who had adopted a modern industrialized diet. He traveled to a dozen countries, often in the company of his nephew, a National Geographic researcher and explorer, and compiled more than 15,000 print photographs, 4,000 slides, thousands of dental records, saliva and food samples, films, and a library of detailed notes.

The same story played out no matter where he went. Societies that replaced their traditional diet with modern, processed foods suffered up to ten times more cavities, severely crooked teeth, obstructed airways, and overall poorer health. The modern diets were the same: white flour, white rice, jams, sweetened juices, canned vegetables, and processed meats. The traditional diets were all different.

In Alaska, Price found communities who ate seal meat, fish, lichen, and not much else. Deep inside Melanesian islands he found tribes whose meals consisted of pumpkins, pawpaws, coconut crabs, and sometimes long pigs (humans). He flew to Africa to study the nomadic Maasai, who subsisted mostly on cow’s blood, some milk, a few plants, and a bite of steak. Then he traveled to Central Canada and studied indigenous tribes who suffered through winters when the temperature, according to Price’s notes, could reach 70 degrees below zero and whose only food was wild animals.

Some cultures ate nothing but meat, while others were mostly vegetarian. Some relied primarily on homemade cheese; others consumed no dairy at all. Their teeth were almost always perfect; their mouths were exceptionally wide, nasal apertures broad. They suffered few, if any, cavities and little dental disease. Respiratory diseases such as asthma or even tuberculosis, Price reported, were practically nonexistent.

While the foods in these diets varied, they all contained the same high amounts of vitamins and minerals: from one and a half to 50 times that of modern diets. All of them. Price became convinced that the cause of our shrinking mouths and obstructed airways was deficiencies not of just D or C but all essential vitamins. Vitamins and minerals, he discovered, work in symbiosis; one needs the others to be effective. This explained why supplements could be useless unless they’re in the presence of other supplements. We needed all these nutrients to develop strong bones throughout the body, especially in the mouth and face.

In 1939, Price published Nutrition and Physical Degeneration, a 500-page doorstop of data collected during his travels. It was “a masterpiece of research,” according to the Canadian Medical Association Journal. Earnest Hooton called it one of the “epochal pieces of research.” But others hated it, and vehemently disagreed with Price’s conclusions.

It wasn’t Price’s facts and figures, or even his dietary advice that made them bristle. Most of what he’d discovered about the modern diet had already been verified by nutritionists years earlier. But some complained that Price overreached, that his observations were too anecdotal and his sample sizes too small.

None of it mattered. By the 1940s, the idea of spending hours a day preparing meals of fish eyes and moose glands, raw roots and cow blood, coconut crabs and pig kidneys, seemed outdated and quaint. It was also way too much work. Many people moved to cities to get away from those foods and the grimy lifestyle that came with them.

Price, it turned out, was also only half right. Yes, vitamin deficiencies might explain why so many people eating industrialized foods were sick; they might explain why so many were getting cavities and why their bones were growing thin and weak. But they couldn’t fully explain the sudden and extreme shrinking of the mouth and blocking of airways that swept through modern societies. Even if our ancestors consumed a full spectrum of vitamins and minerals every day, their mouths would still grow too small, teeth would come in crooked, and airways would become obstructed. What was true for our ancestors was also true for us. The problem had less to do with what we were eating than how we ate it.

Chewing.

It was the constant stress of chewing that was lacking from our diets—not vitamin A, B, C, or D. Ninety-five percent of the modern, processed diet was soft. Even what’s considered healthy food today—smoothies, nut butters, oatmeal, avocados, whole wheat bread, vegetable soups. It’s all soft.

Our ancient ancestors chewed for hours a day, every day. And because they chewed so much, their mouths, teeth, throats, and faces grew to be wide and strong and pronounced. Food in industrialized societies was so processed that it hardly required any chewing at all.

This is why so many of those skulls I’d examined in the Paris ossuary had narrow faces and crooked teeth. It’s one of the reasons so many of us snore today, why our noses are stuffed, our airways clogged. Why we need sprays, pills, or surgical drilling just to get a breath of fresh air.

The cataphiles gathered their packs and bottles and cigarette butts from the ossuary, and I followed them back through the crawl spaces, across the fetid streams, up stone staircases, and out the secret door onto Rue Bonaparte. They scurried me past the police station and onto the Métro, where a trail of human bone dust followed me like breadcrumbs from Victor Hugo station back to a friend’s apartment.

I left Paris mildly haunted. Not by the piles of bones in those underground warrens, but by the comprehensiveness of our folly. What looked like human progress—all that milling, mass distribution, and preservation of food—had horrible consequences.

Breathing slow, less, and exhaling deeply, I realized, none of it would really matter unless we were able to get those breaths through our noses, down our throats, and into the lungs. But our caved-in faces and too-small mouths had become obstacles to that clear path.

I spent a few days feeling sorry for humanity and then quickly set off in search of solutions. There had to be procedures, manipulations, or exercises that could reverse the past few centuries of damage from soft and mushy industrialized food. There had to be something that could help me with my own obstructed airways, and the wheezing, respiratory problems, and congestion I’d often experienced.

I started by visiting modern medical offices, meeting with specialists who looked at the top of the nose and worked down from there.