Associated Press
    Novak Djokovic eats a banana.

    Novak Djokovic enters the U.S. Open as the No. 1 tennis player in the world. He credits his rise to the top on a gluten-free, dairy-free, idiosyncratic lifestyle that he details in his new book “Serve to Win.”  Sara Germano and Jeremy Gordon are following Djokovic’s decrees to see if they have what it takes.

    Sara’s Day 1 notes:

    Djokovic recommends a 14-day plan to achieve physical and mental excellence, but for budgetary reasons, I was limited to three days (8.8 ounces of manuka honey—a key component of the diet—costs about $25). Like Djokovic, I learned I was gluten intolerant several years ago and haven’t purposefully eaten a single crumb of wheat, barley, or rye products for nearly five years. But Djokovic’s diet plan presented several other critical challenges for me: I am hopelessly addicted to caffeine, and love cheese, both forbidden. Unfortunately, I also don’t have a personal chef.

    I bought enough groceries to make four distinct recipes from “Serve to Win,” most of which provide multiple servings. Djokovic recommends waking each morning with a glass of warm water (never cold!) and two spoonfuls of ($25!) manuka honey. For those unfamiliar with manuka honey, it’s not the honey glaze you find on pastries. It is bitter and tastes like a cough drop, with a stinging aftertaste. To say I elegantly swallowed two spoonfuls on my first morning would be…incorrect.

    Sara Germano
    The Vanilla Almond Smoothie, from Novak Djokovic’s diet and recipe book, ‘Serve to Win.’ Is it supposed to be green?

    Djokovic doesn’t provide calorie counts for his recipes and instead recommends eating according to how your body feels. I think this could be challenging for some, especially because I noticed what constitutes a serving size for someone who spends his day playing tennis is much larger than for someone who spends 12 hours a day at a desk. Breakfast was slices of gluten-free toast with almond butter, lunch was two servings of his Vanilla Almond Smoothie, and dinner was the Spicy Soba Noodle Salad (recommended for lunch, but hearty enough for evening). The salad was surprisingly delicious, and it only took 20 minutes to prepare, and it keeps well in the fridge.

    My first day without caffeine was agonizing. By lunchtime I was sluggish and cranky. I had a mid-afternoon “coffee” meeting with a colleague, during which I had to supplant my usual cup of joe with fresh fruit. Like many an addict forced to give up her vice, I discovered that I replaced my craving with more food—I remembered that Djokovic permits some dark chocolate with his morning oatmeal and snuck a few bites to get me through the rest of my day. This isn’t going to bode well for the end of bikini season.

    Despite my caffeine withdrawal, I could immediately feel one of the stated purposes for the Djokovic lifestyle: to be more aware of our bodies’ natural rhythms. Usually I have trouble falling asleep, but I collapsed into bed as soon as my day ended.

    ACE: Recipe for Spicy Soba Noodle Salad: quick, effective, tasty.

    UNFORCED ERROR: Cutting caffeine cold turkey.

    Jeremy’s Day 1 notes:

    In my escalating battle against serious exercise, I’ve slowly adjusted my diet over the last year to resemble something healthy, to the point where I’m not wholly embarrassed to tell my mother what I’ve been eating. Going gluten-free, even for a few days, seemed like an extension of that growing health consciousness, though I did have to consider that nearly 100% of my meals before going into this have some sort of gluten in them. But if I’d feel the energy benefits after just a day, as Djokovic claims in his book, it would be totally worth it.

    As someone who works from home, it’s usually too easy to forego breakfast upon waking up in favor of going right to my laptop, which offers all the sustenance through email, Facebook and Twitter that a millennial could possibly need. Compared to Sara’s reluctant honey consumption, starting the day off with a spoonful of manuka honey and a glass of room temperature water provided the temporary boost I needed to ignore the gremlin in my stomach; I actually found the slightly medicinal manuka taste to be oddly alluring, though the price tag reminded me to not indulge in a few more gulps (more on that in a minute). I was a little less excited about Djokovic’s power muesli, which I’d compiled from a few health store offerings and doused in almond milk to—the tactile sensation of oats sliding down my throat made me feel like a horse, and the jarring juxtaposition between soft and hard elements forced me to be hyper-aware regarding the risk of crunching down onto an almond and cracking a tooth. (Which actually happened with a particularly rude tortilla chip a few months ago, alas.)

    But fueled by seeds and oats and active biotic ingredients, I feel somewhat phenomenal. There’s none of my typical pre-morning slump, despite the absence of coffee, and as I gather my belongings to meet a friend and go grocery shopping I sense this signals the beginning of a brave, new era of gluten-free productivity. This feeling abates the instant I begin collecting foodstuffs to prepare the rest of my meals, and begin to understand the benefit of being a multiple Grand Slam champion. Djokovic’s tennis earnings mean he doesn’t feel the financial sting of those gluten-free ingredients as much as I, a freelancer combing through several overpriced organic food stores while weighing the cost-benefit between a $12 jar of almond butter and a $30 tin of manuka honey. Surely a teaspoon of almond butter can’t make that much of a difference in my smoothie, can it? Still, I’m able to make some smart decisions to give myself plenty to work with. Here’s one revelation I find pretty amusing: the same brandmaker of one type of rice pasta sells a pound of shells for $4.59, while 12 ounces of penne comes in at $5.59. Apparently, the sense of shame that comes with eating pasta shapes made for children is worth a full dollar’s discount and four more ounces of food, though I clearly lack the pride to care.

    Jeremy Gordon
    Gluten-free pasta primavera

    Djokovic’s other big advantage comes from having a professional team to prepare this stuff for him. It takes 20 minutes to prepare all the elements for the strawberry-banana smoothie (verdict: not bad!) and, when lunch rolls around a while later, a full hour to go from slicing squash and zucchini to the finished product of a slightly mushy plate of gluten-free pasta primavera. It’s also not bad, though all of the flavor comes from the vegetables—the sun-dried tomatoes should certainly not be optional—given Nole’s no-no against sugar-soaked tomato sauces and fatty cheeses. After a little work, a friend and I head to the grocery store to pick up the materials for dinner. And just like that, whatever energy advantage I’d felt from the morning is instantaneously sapped away with the force of a four whiskey hangover, my body begging for the caffeine I’ve sworn off. We get back and I head for my friend’s mattress almost immediately, keeping in mind Djokovic’s advice to take a 20-minute nap in the middle of the day. I wake up a little while later, fully rejuvenated, only to find that she’s taken a photo of my prone, lumpen body splayed on the floor and put it on the Internet. “Hey, you’re supposed to be giving me positive reinforcement.” (Indeed, Djokovic claims part of his success is from being surrounded by his loved ones all day, all of whom remind him regularly of what he’s playing for, which is delineated in the winsomely titled chapter, “My Secret Weapon—Friendships.”) “Oh, right. Yeah, you’re great,” my friend monotonously intones.

    No matter. Dinner comes in the form of a herb-marinated steak, which tastes as delicious as any herb-marinated steak ever does. At the cost of a cut of sirloin and the spices in my friend’s cabinet, it’s the cheapest meal of the day. I’m reminded of my senior year, when I dragged my somewhat bourgeois college best friend into a Taco Bell at his protest and made him watch me devour some small pile of meat, cheese and beans. “How can you eat that?” he asked me with mild disgust. “Because I was hungry and needed to pay no more than 88 cents to not be hungry,” I responded. That type of utilitarian price-to-hunger reduction isn’t so easy with going gluten-free, not until Taco Bell starts using corn tortillas.

    Sara’s Day 2 notes:

    Novak Djokovic provides a blueprint for “physical and mental excellence” in his new book “Serve to Win.” Journal reporter Sara Germano has been testing Djokovic’s gluten-free diet plan and details her progress. After forcing herself to swallow two spoonfuls of makuna honey on day one, here’s how she fared on day two.

    The following morning, I overslept by an hour, and awoke feeling like I was crawling through quicksand. I could barely coerce myself into another two spoonfuls of manuka honey. Warm water gave me cottonmouth, but Djokovic wrote that cold water inhibits digestion. “Hey, Novak, you know what also inhibits digestion? Being a mouth-breather.” (For those keeping score: extra chocolate + mouth breathing = my aesthetic is rapidly declining.)

    Sara Germano
    The nursing room at the Journal’s offices in midtown Manhattan, the only available private space for employees. Not great for napping.

    My slow start to the day meant I didn’t have time to prepare a new recipe for dinner, and had to sub a breakfast recipe and smoothie for my other meals. Fortunately, the gluten-free oats with almond butter and banana were hearty enough to get me through midday. I elected to make another smoothie for dinner–filled with spinach, almond butter, almond milk, and bananas–this was no “diet” drink. I disturbed a few coworkers on deadline while using the blender in the kitchen, which started to leak everywhere.

    Djokovic makes no mention in ‘Serve to Win’ of his infamous napping pod, but he recommends taking time out during the day for mindful meditation and stretching. No problem for a world-class athlete, but tough to do in a typical-midtown-Manhattan office building. The only private space available at the Journal’s office is a tiny closet-like room for nursing mothers. I snuck in during the midafternoon for some downward-dog yoga poses and then laid out on the counter space to decompress. [Note to coworkers: I used disinfectant wipes on the counter before leaving!] The light was off, but my colleagues had lined the room with photos of their newborns, and I could feel their eyes staring down at me. I began to kick myself for disturbing the space and after 20 minutes I begrudgingly returned to my desk questioning my minuscule worth in the universe.

    ACE: Gluten free oats with almond butter and banana–filling enough for a midday meal, if non-traditional.

    UNFORCED ERRORS: Mouth breathing, oversleeping, feminist guilt.

    Jeremy’s Day 2 Diary:

    In Djokovic’s book, he talks about the importance of slow, considerate eating, contrasted to the lightspeed hovel of stuff in hole that informs the modern approach to dining. (I once hosted an Australian guest who could clean his plate in the time it took me to put my napkin on my lap.) As much as I tried to keep this tenet in mind, I found it near impossible when put against the more pressing need to get full so I could keep working—and I work from home, which means there was no one to even keep tabs on my productivity. I can only imagine how Sara must’ve felt in the Journal office, surreptitiously shuffling a tupperware of greyed Soba noodles to and from her bag before any of her co-workers could judge.

    Jeremy Gordon
    Jeremy had no problem finding a place to nap.

    On the second day of the diet, I prepared and ate every meal by myself, which made it even harder to slow down. The basics were the same: manuka honey and water, check; strawberry-banana shake, check; gluten-free pasta primavera, the preparation of which was quickened because I’d saved some vegetable trimmings from the day before, check; lovingly herb-encrusted steak, check. I’d begin each meal as I normally would, shoveling down two or three spoonfuls within ten seconds before reluctantly remembering to slow down—to enjoy life as Djokovic must, and remember the psychic benefits of concentrating on each bite like it was both my first and last. This squash was delivered from the Earth to my body, I’d mock-narrate in my head. I am thankful to it and every piece of squash that follows. I couldn’t tell if it really made much difference, but even a day in I felt like my body was adjusting—I didn’t have any faux hangover as the afternoon went on, and a steady stream of fruit left over from the smoothie helped ameliorate the hunger that would’ve been normally sated with a slice from my local pizza joint.

    That kind of culinary convenience is easily afforded to the gluten-eating, or rather, anyone who’s fine with eating anything, whenever. Vegetarians know the difficulty of trying to find a vegetarian snack when you’re in the middle of nowhere, as do vegans. Things were even more trying when I attended a friend’s birthday party later that night, bottle of gluten-free red wine in hand, and found a table filled with party snacks roped off from my perusal. I enjoyed some of the broccoli and carrots, but could only stare at the boxes of pizza so close and yet so far away. (“Just break gluten edge,” my friend from the day before cooed at me. “This is the best pizza I’ve ever had.” “You’re supposed to be encouraging me!” “Oh right. Yeah, you’re great.”) This explanation also annoyed one friend who doubted that I could accomplish anything in three days, despite Djokovic’s written insistence. “This is the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard and you should apologize to all of us for even bringing it up,” said she, the bossy drunk. But how could she understand my social burden? I’m happy to say I didn’t eat any of the pizza, even though no one would’ve noticed. For that and other reasons, I’ll hopefully feel better than ever in the morning.

    Sara’s Day 3 Diary:

    With all the sacrifices Djokovic has made for the betterment of his game–gluten, dairy, cold water, caffeine–none amount to the sacrifices of those closest to him. In what he credits in “Serve to Win” as his “secret weapon;” Djokovic says his family and friends devote their days to surrounding him with positive energy. He writes, “I’m very careful about the people I have around me. I spend almost every waking moment with my physiotherapist, my manager, and my coaches. My girlfriend is with me most of the time, and my parents often are as well.”

    Hey, if a professional tennis player based in Monaco with an estimated $20.6 million income in 2011 should have no problem finding an entourage–why can’t I do the same?

    I called my mother—a public-school teacher currently on summer break—at the start of this project, and asked if she wouldn’t mind being my spiritual reinforcement for a day.

    “Oh, honey, you know I’d love to,” she said (unfortunately inviting a gag reflex on my part with her use of the H-word) “but, um, I’m visiting your aunt in Syracuse this week.”

    Ugh, okay. See you on Thanksgiving, Mom.

    Sara Germano
    Smoky Sirloin Steak prepared just the way Djokovic suggests. Sorta.

    I turned to two college friends instead, who agreed to shadow me, perhaps because I promised them a full home-cooked dinner a la Djoko: Smoky Sirloin Steak, Crispy Sweet Potato Fries, leftover Spicy Soba Noodle Salad and a nice bottle of Cabernet Sauvignon (yep, red wine is permissible in moderation).

    Only one problem: I’ve never cooked a steak before. In my first attempt, I accidentally charred the sides too much, but in my obsession with perfecting it, I forgot the sweet potato fries in the oven, and burned them to mostly-black crisps.

    To my friends’ credit, and perhaps because they were taking their spiritual-reinforcement role seriously, they emphasized how great the food was.

    One of my guests said that he even preferred blackened fries to regular fries. But when pressed for any criticism, the most he would offer was, “I had little faith this meal would turn out well, but it was fine.”

    ACES: Red wine and friends (breaking news, eh?)
    UNFORCED ERRORS: Burning my food, lack of parental support


    The Djokovic diet is not for the faint of heart–for someone who is already gluten-free, I found it a huge imposition to give up dairy and caffeine. Furthermore, taking time for stretching, meditation, and facilitating positive reinforcement are no small tasks. Also, if you are the type of person who needs a diet plan with precise calorie counts and serving sizes, this is not for you. World-class tennis is often an endurance sport, and Djokovic eats like an endurance athlete—I was taking in multiple servings of nuts and nut-butters each day, which can be extremely fattening.

    To Djokovic’s credit, his recipes are easy to follow and quick to prepare, which is saying a lot considering he has a personal chef, and most of us do not. More to the point, through his other habitual recommendations, I began to be more aware of my body’s acute desires and needs. Introspection is a natural byproduct of his lifestyle, both from reinforcing daily meditation and from asking friends to hang out and support you (and maybe cranking up Whitney Houston’s “Greatest Love of All”).

    Lastly, a few quirks and inconsistencies I noticed: why is cold water verboten, but ice is okay for smoothies? For someone who cautions against taking in too much sugar, Djokovic doesn’t mention that many gluten-free products tend to be quite high in sugar content. Gluten-free bread is still a carbohydrate product—it just doesn’t have wheat, barley, or rye grains.

    And as for the manuka honey? Save your money. I would have rather spent it on Djoko’s fabled donkey cheese.

    Jeremy’s Day 3 Diary:

    As fortune would have it, I’ve timed the third day of this diet to come on a Saturday when I’m celebrating my birthday—please, hold your applause—at MoMA PS1’s Warm Up, an all-day event where lightly intoxicated youngsters like myself congregate to celebrate the waning days of summer by dancing to live music and pretending to think about the exhibitions of modern art being showcased for our distraction. That raises a problem which Djokovic, who claims that more than half of his day, every day, is dedicated to the pursuit of getting better at tennis, never has to face: social obligations, and being caught in the wild with no bowl of gluten-free pasta primavera to be found. If I’m to remain devout, I’ll have to time my meals so I don’t get too achingly hungry in the middle of the day.

    Thankfully, I’ve gotten an early start, and whether it’s because of the diet or the ten hours of sleep I don’t feel a trace of the previous night’s red wine, though my friend’s attempted shaming is still ringing in my ear. What does she know? She isn’t here to see my stretching as I read The Economist and prepare a bowl of muesli, reveling in my agency as a rapidly matured adult. San Antonio is experimenting with tax-funded pre-kindergarten, I’m warming to the taste of oats, and I feel as clear-headed as I ever will at 10 a.m. on a weekend.

    Of course, the muesli goes through my system almost right away, and as the afternoon creeps up I’m beginning to take liberties with Djokovic’s slow eating scheme. My digestive pace is controlled, yes, but I’m also digesting food every thirty minutes to load up on calories before my intended flirtation with culture. There’s some more pasta primavera, another shake, and some gluten-free tortilla chips and salsa I’ve picked up from the grocer which might be cheating a little bit because there’s no recipe for them in the book, but they’re specifically mentioned as an approved snack food and anyways who makes their own tortilla chips? I feel fully loaded and ready to get fully loaded, which my friends are eager to indulge. The weather is sunny and breezy, the music is on point, and my pre-emptive snacking is doing the trick.

    And then… it hits. A hunger that starts small and grows outward, taking up the lower half of my torso as I scan the on-site menu for appropriate options. The only thing that seems appropriate is the “Mexican corn,” or elotes, which provide a temporary boost to the system lest I keel over from exhaustion into one of the wading pools.

    But I realize pretty soon that I’ve got to ingest something stronger, and quickly beckon my posse to head toward any source of food. We pack into a nearby diner and I order the least gross-sounding steak on the menu, now disregarding Djokovic’s slow eating rule with complete zeal. The conclusion of my dietary road stop without incident seems to be a foregone conclusion, but then my friends have the total indecency to surprise me with birthday cake, putting me on the spot.

    Do I abandon my principles? Do I live a little and indulge in the moment? If Djokovic was in this position, what would he do? Probably have the waitress fired for offering such temptation.

    But I’m all too human, and my instinct is that three hours before the three-day period is over is an alright time to make this exception. With that lack of devotion I’d never make No. 1 in the world, but who cares? The cake is delicious, and if I feel any worse after the reintroduction of gluten to my body after its brief but noticeable absence, it’s masked by the wine. The rest of the night goes swimmingly, and though my first meal of the next day is a gluten-packed sandwich from my local bodega, it’s only because of convenience. I liked being temporarily gluten-free. I liked the energy benefits I imagined it gave me, and the unjustified sense of moral righteousness that came from announcing to the world that my hands would never again touch a piece of bread.

    But the convenience is a big problem, as is the price. Going gluten-free takes more time and requires more money than I’m able to afford, which Djokovic admits as an advantage in his book (as well as being a genetic superfreak who’s better at hitting a ball than I’ll ever be at anything in my life, but let’s keep it simple). It’s something to aspire toward when I’m older, but for now I’ll have to accept that being a culinary hoodrat is a temporary but unavoidable part of my identity. That means bodega sandwiches, birthday cake, and yes, the occasional trip to Taco Bell. But if nothing else, I’ll have Djokovic’s voice in my head reminding me that I can do better.