IT WAS FRIDAY, which meant it was Michael Grimm’s cheat day. The muscle mass he carried during his time as a Marine, as an undercover FBI agent, and even as a congressman has, at age 47, become more difficult to preserve on his naturally slight frame. To fight the atrophy—made worse by the strain of an investigation, an indictment, a guilty plea, a felony conviction, seven months in prison, and another month under house arrest—he exercises diligently. On a high-protein, low-carb diet, he ingests a notable quantity of meat, from chicken cutlets he breads and fries, to filet mignon he grills, to his mother’s meatballs, which she also makes in miniature for Sebastian, her son’s not mysteriously fat Yorkie, whom he calls “a bad boy” in a singsong voice.
On…
