Of all the many reasons to consider “The Wrestler” the steamingest pile to appear in theaters in donkey’s  years, the scenes involving food and drink were more cringe-inducing than the stomach-churning violence. Did anyone not immediately suspect, on hearing the irredeemable lowlife was being assigned to the deli counter, that slicer and fingers would meet for dramatic effect? Did no one assigned to continuity notice that he was both free to work weekends and available to hang in a bar on a Saturday? And I guess George Bush the First, the one who didn’t know from scanners, was in charge of styling the deli scenes. What supermarket doesn’t have a printout function on its scales? Even in grimmest Jersey? If states could sue, I might even chip in for its legal bills. At least we were spared the reconciliation dinner by candlelight, if not the implication that bad dads turn daughters gay. Sweet Jeebus in spangly tights. Six seasons of “Top Chef” watched “Clockwork Orange”-style would not have been as painful.