Eat This Book: A Year of Gorging and Glory on the Competitive Eating Circuit

by Ryan Nerz

  And explode was the operative term here. Eleven pounds of noodles, cabbage, dough, and fish reemerged in a much less pleasant form. The projectile fountain covered the food, the announcer, the cameraman, and the chef. It was everywhere. Usually, before one regurgitates, the body issues some sort of warning, but Ed swears there was none. “I guess there was so much in there that it didn’t have time to warn me.” He told George he had to go to the bathroom. Now.

  Once locked in the bathroom, Ed’s suspicions were confirmed: When he exploded, it came out in all directions. He took off his clothes and was relieved to see that the mess below was pretty much contained. He cleaned himself up. There was a glut of paper towels, but for reasons unclear, no garbage pail. And there was the matter of his soiled Skivvies, which could neither be worn nor kept as a souvenir. Anyone would agree that this was a real dilemma.

  Ed surveyed the bathroom and spotted an opportunity. The bathroom ceiling was one of those drop ceilings, with panels. He wrapped the evidence in a nest of paper towels, stood on the toilet, pushed a tile up, and hid the bundle up above the tile. “I’m a crude American, I guess,” Ed explains later, laughing. “What can I tell you? I didn’t know what to do.”

  And so, in the end, Ed Krachie unintentionally exacted his revenge on the Japanese. They had duped him into eating against a champion and lured him to their country to perform an inhuman feat, but it was he who got the last laugh. Indeed, he stashed a crap-laden diaper in a restaurant infrastructure in Osaka, where, God willing, it still rests today. Though he did not continue on to the last leg of his journey, to Tokyo, he also was not forced to stuff down another obscene portion of food. Interestingly, though Japanese television producers have deemed footage of naked men burning their skin while sliding across hot metal acceptable, they apparently have no appetite for vomit. So regrettably, the most compelling footage from Ed’s eating biathlon remained on the cutting room floor.

  Ed Krachie’s on a diet. He’s lost thirty-four pounds in three months, and not from Atkins or that silly South Beach diet. “None of those fuckin’ diets work,” Ed says. “I realize I’m probably one of those guys with the fat gene, so I have to figure out what works for me.” His formula is no pioneering breakthrough—he works out daily and eats light.

  Krachie doesn’t compete much these days. He’s still proud of his accomplishments, but he admits that his ultimate flaw is that he’s unwilling to train. The contests were only fun when he was the Natural, the big, loud guy from Queens who just showed up and won. He occasionally competes in local unsanctioned events, such as the benefit he did in the summer of 2004 for the Joe DiMaggio Children’s Hospital near his home in Hollywood, Florida. He was so touched by the kids’ bravery that he has started volunteering there.

  That’s not to say he’s out of the game. There have been job offers that would bring him back to New York, his hometown and the hub of the sport. Instead of competing this time, Ed has visions of becoming a “player liaison” for the American eaters. He’s convinced the Americans need to go in a different direction if they are ever to have a chance at Kobayashi. “I think we really need to maybe set up a camp, if you will, like at George’s little conference room at the IFOCE.” A primary goal of the camp would be to study Kobayashi and figure out what it is about his technique and his body that makes him so unbeatable. “Being an engineer, maybe that’s a process for me to work on. But physically and mentally, I don’t wanna be the guinea pig.”

  Krachie’s scientific breakthrough, the Belt of Fat Theory, has already made a huge impact on the sport. In the November 2003 issue of Popular Science, the theory was finally published. “The size of the stomach at rest is inconsequential,” the article states. “All that matters is the stomach’s ability to expand, to adapt itself to the amount of food being shoved down the esophagus…. A skinny man’s stomach has little fat to push against it and fight the food for space.” In the ultimate cruel twist of fate, the article failed to mention Krachie as the theory’s progenitor.

  Does Ed feel vindicated, now that his theory’s been published and the top three eaters in the world—all of whom weigh under 155 pounds—seem to be living proof of its validity? Somewhat, but he’s not satisfied. He won’t be until he can use the theory to help his fellow American eaters dominate the sport once again. Of course, he wouldn’t turn his back on a little recognition. “Maybe in the future, with competitive eating getting so big, the New England Journal of Medicine will publish it. And that will be like my crowning achievement. I’ll definitely get a signed copy of that and hang it on my wall somewhere.”

  8

  Corned Beef, Cabbage, and Characters

  There is no sincerer love than the love of food.

  —George Bernard Shaw, Irish playwright and essayist

  MARCH 16, 2004

  Right before the 2004 Freirich Corned Beef and Cabbage Eating Championship, it occurs to me that maybe I’m losing perspective. The reason? For the first time in my brief stint on the circuit, I’m feeling starstruck. I mean, I admit to having felt slightly awed in the presence of Badlands and Sonya Thomas after having heard so much about their eating prowess. But I stand in the back room of Moran’s, an Irish restaurant in Manhattan, conjuring up the courage to introduce myself to Hungry Charles Hardy, an old-school eater who has attained legendary status in my mind, I am suddenly, painfully aware that my idolatry may be less than healthy.

  Trying to exude outward calm, I introduce myself to Hardy, whose authentic coolness quickly shatters my façade. His hair is done up in cornrows and he’s all blinged-out in a thick, shiny necklace. Larger than life at 340 pounds, he moves laconically, speaks with a deep, raspy voice, and has a confident, commanding presence that, to me, approximates that mysterious quality known as star power.

  Like a groupie finally meeting an adored rock star, I have to bite my tongue not to betray how much I know about Hungry Charles’s career. Such as how he missed winning the Mustard Yellow International Belt back in ’99 by a mere quarter of a dog. Or how he’s traveled three times to Japan, where he was allegedly taught the “secret of Zen eating,” which he steadfastly refuses to reveal. Or the fact that he’s an NYPD officer who has been a bodyguard for the rapper Cam’ron, and how he helped out at the World Trade Center rubble pile…I want to ask about all these things, but the risk of freaking Hungry Charles out seems too high.

  He’s not the only veteran gurgitator I’m meeting for the first time. I notice Krazy Kevin Lipsitz, a Staten Island native whose exaggerated facial features and humpback give him the look of a caricature come to life. He’s wearing a T-shirt, sweatpants, and a baseball cap with a dog’s fuzzy muzzle on the bill. I know the lucky dog cap symbolizes his love for his two dogs, Sabrina and Lynn, who train with him for contests. In fact, because my research has outdistanced my experience on the circuit, I know enough about Krazy Kevin to loosely qualify as a stalker. (I even know he has an actual stalker, a young woman from San Francisco, because she e-mails me updates from her Krazy Kevin fan Web site.)

  Both on and off the circuit, Krazy Kevin’s profile intrigues me. Having won only one major title, the 2000 Carnegie Deli Pickle contest, Lipsitz’s competitive-eating rep revolves more around perseverance than success. He boasts to reporters about his records for “most overall second-and third-place finishes,” as well as “most times entered” in the Ben’s Deli Matzo Ball Eating Competition. He has claimed that his performances in Nathan’s Famous contests have at times been compromised by an obscure malady known as Hot Dog Delirium. When HDD takes effect, at around the seven-minute mark of contests, Krazy Kevin’s mind goes blank and he slips into a hazy netherworld of half-conscious chewing.

  George Shea announces the tight battle between (from left) Badlands Booker, Cookie Jarvis, Hungry Charles Hardy, and Leon “Justice” Feingold, while the author checks the official time. (Courtesy of Matt Roberts/IFOCE)

  But the thing that intrigues me most about Krazy Kevin is his spam. Though he has never eaten it competi
tively, it’s the first topic that comes up when you Google-search his name. Turns out that, in 1997, several disgruntled customers of Kevin’s online magazine subscription service approached the New York State attorney general’s office. The complaint became a case, and the case went to trial. The customers claimed Lipsitz was spamming hundreds of mailing lists with false testimonials for his subscription service. Krazy Kevin’s lawyer argued that New York lacked jurisdiction because the customers were not New York state residents. He lost the case. The resulting New York vs. Lipsitz judgment is considered a landmark case in Internet legislation because, according to an online abstract, a “New York State judge upheld the state’s right to enforce consumer protection laws against advertisers who use the Internet to distribute false and misleading advertisements.”

  With all this in mind, I walk up to Krazy Kevin and introduce myself. He is pleasant, if a little wary of my pregnant gaze. Unable to contain myself, I admit that I’ve been wanting to meet him since I saw the documentary GutBusters.

  “At the end of that show,” I say, “didn’t you say you wanted to do a contest with one of the kosher meats, like corned beef or pastrami?”

  “Uhhh…” Krazy Kevin looks at me as if I’m crazy. “Yeah, I think so.”

  “Well, now you’ve finally got one,” I say, “you must be so psyched.”

  Krazy Kevin nods agreement, and then the moment drifts awkwardly. He says it was nice to meet me and moves on. I walk over to Don “Moses” Lerman, the eater I’m most excited to meet. He is dressed like a pre-bout prizefighter, wearing a hooded terry-cloth robe with his name embroidered into it. His butter-eating record is one of my favorites, and from what I’ve read, he’s one of the more quotable eaters on the circuit. He once described the Nathan’s Famous contest as follows: “You’re gonna see an eating frenzy the likes of which you never saw. Maybe if you were at the aquarium during shark-feeding. And I caution the public, please do not attempt this at home. This is for the trained gourmand only.”

  I arrange an interview with Don, then walk up to Ed “Cookie” Jarvis, who, at six feet eight inches, 460 pounds, isn’t difficult to locate. I’ve met Cookie before, but his magnitude still overwhelms me. Cookie and I discuss today’s competitive foodstuff—he tried the corned beef and thinks it may be a little dry. He asks me a favor: Could I go get him a bowl of cocktail sauce from the kitchen? Without hesitation, although I should be overseeing the preparation of dozens of one-pound plates of corned beef and cabbage, I amble out of the banquet room in search of cocktail sauce.

  As I wade through the crowded room toward the kitchen, I notice that most of the eaters are talking to each other. The sociology of the circuit interests me, and I have often grilled Dave Baer about the details. Most of the eaters in the top twenty get along. Naturally, groups have formed, but they overlap considerably. For example, Badlands and Hungry Charles are particularly close, but this alliance seems self-evident because they’re the only major black eaters on the circuit, and both New Yorkers. Cookie Jarvis, Krazy Kevin, and Don Lerman—known as “the three amigos” in GutBusters—seem to share a bond. All three of them got started on the circuit at around the same time; Lipsitz and Lerman are Jewish; and Cookie is, well, Cookie. He is by all accounts the eyes and ears of the circuit, a one-man rumor mill. Among the other eaters in attendance, Crazy Legs gets along with everybody, but seems particularly close with Badlands and Hardy. Beautiful Brian Seiken is a roving satellite, a friend to all the eaters but ultimately a lone wolf. His main attachment to the circuit is his inside-dope competitive-eating news Web site.

  Though their chatter seems friendly enough, I sense an undercurrent of tension in the room. All the top gurgitators are extremely competitive and will do whatever it takes to get an edge, before and during the competition. Word has it that Hungry Charles goes with a silent, no-nonsense, intensely focused approach beforehand. Badlands does the Zen warrior thing, closing his eyes and centering himself, often visualizing his performance while listening to his iPod. Sonya Thomas, who isn’t here today, has already gained a reputation for feigning fatigue and illness. I’m told Cookie Jarvis goes with a slightly more boastful, I’m-hungrier-and-more-prepared-than-thou psych-out approach. When I spot him engaged in a pleasant chat with Krazy Kevin and Beautiful Brian, I think, I’ll bet he’s not telling anyone about this cocktail sauce plan.

  Fifteen minutes before the competition, it looks as if all systems are go. Dave Baer and Freirich rep Phil Percoco have spent hours doling out one-pound portions of corned beef and cabbage on foam plates. The eaters are still milling around, chatting with reporters and each other, catching occasional glimpses of the plates gathering behind the stage. George Shea is doing his thing, waxing ludicrous for a horde of local news stations about the sport he helped invent.

  It’s around this time that Nancy Goldstein, an IFOCE employee, walks up to me with a problem: The EMT hasn’t shown up. Tardy EMTs have long been the bane of IFOCE announcers, because no event can start without them. I tell Nancy to keep calling the guy, and I go report the bad news to George. The thing is, George Shea, despite his silver tongue and equanimity under pressure, suffers from a bit of tension. This probably has as much to do with the fast-talking, hyperkinetic world of New York public relations as with any congenital defects. But when I pull him aside from his verbal flight of fancy to announce our lack of an EMT, I notice that his right hand—the one gripping the microphone—starts to shake. “Okay, okay…. It’s no problem. I’ll just buy some time, and you keep calling that EMT. And have ’em send another one if they can’t find him.”

  I check back in with Nancy, who is outside on her cell. The EMT dispatcher swears the guy is like ten minutes away. Nancy says he made this ten-minute claim before, about twenty minutes ago. I run back inside, moist with sweat, only to discover that George has started the introductions. The room is so crammed with cameras that I have to push my way through. As I approach the stage, George flashes me a questioning look. A couple of the eaters gesture for me to get them more water. I run toward the bar and ask for glasses. The annoyed bartender says they’ve already sacrificed most of their pint glasses, but he’ll try to wash a few more.

  By the time I get the extra glasses to the table, George has finished his introductions. The eaters are standing over the table, waiting to eat. I haven’t been on the circuit long, but I know that the proper rhythm for an eating contest is to raise the expectations to a fever pitch with the intros, then start the contest with minimal delay. The timing is off. Reporters are checking their watches and looking around. George pulls me aside. “Is he here yet?” he whispers. I shake my head. “Would you mind taking the mic for a second while I go see what’s going on?” he says. My eyes pop open. “Uhhh…” The blood rushes to my face. I’ve got nothing prepared and am not feeling altogether calm. “I mean, yeah, sure, I guess.”

  George saunters back toward center stage, pulling me with him. “Folks, I would like to introduce my fellow announcer and head judge today, Mr. Ryan Nerz. Ryan’s going to talk briefly about the rules of today’s event.”

  Dear Lord, I think, as he hands me the mic. The rules! I haven’t put a moment’s thought into the rules, which in this case seem bland and self-evident.

  “It’s a ten minute event,” I say, then mutter something about strength and stomach capacity. Instincts tell me to pace across the stage, that the motion will provoke ideas, but there’s no room with all the cameras, so I just stand there, cornered. “Each plate is one pound and has been weighed to the nearest ounce, with corned beef and cabbage in equal proportions. Each eater has three plates before him, with more waiting in the wings. The eaters have been advised to eat all of the corned beef and cabbage on a plate before moving to the next one. Dunking is allowed; preapproved utensils and condiments are also permitted. Again, the competition will last ten minutes….”

  I have nothing more to say. The few sounds in the room—muted chatter, shuffling feet—seem damn near deafening. Everyone is look
ing at me. I am staring blankly at a small crowd and maybe a dozen cameras, but it feels like a paparazzi circus. If there is a quadrant of my brain that realizes this is no big deal—it’s just an eating contest—that quadrant has shut down. Behind me, I sense the impatience of the eaters, standing over their heaping plates of increasingly lukewarm food. For reasons I can’t explain, I need to make a good impression on these guys, and I feel that I’m blowing it. Where the hell is George? Where’s that EMT?

  “So as George said…we’ve got an incredible cast of eaters today, representing not only New York’s finest gurgitators, but the finest in the country, even the world.” The crowd already knows this, and I’m sure they don’t care. Help! “We’ve got Crazy Legs Conti from the East Village, Hungry Charles Hardy from Brooklyn, Badlands Booker, originally from Queens but now representing Long Island…”

  I spot George, coming toward me at a fast clip. Instead of trying to make a smooth transition, I abandon ship, ducking away from the spotlight while speaking into the microphone. “And here’s George Shea, here to give you the final updates before the competition starts.”

  “We’re fine,” he whispers as I hand him the microphone. “He’s here.” As George launches into his spiel, I abscond into a side room and take deep breaths to still my pounding heart.

  For the first five minutes of the competition, it looks like a six-way tie for first. Cookie, Badlands, Hungry Charles, Crazy Legs, Beautiful Brian, and Leon “Justice” Feingold are matching each other bite for bite, plate for plate. I notice Allen “Shredder” Goldstein, a Cookie Jarvis protégé, eyeing Tim Janus, a fellow promising rookie on the circuit, while he eats. It almost looks as if Goldstein is mimicking Janus’s bite speed, using him as a pacer. I make a mental note of a potential future comment: Goldstein is widely considered the most talented counterbiter on the circuit.