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

by Ryan Nerz

  Perhaps the event most suited to Cookie’s ability to manipulate multiple foodstuffs was the Battle of the Buffets, a competition televised by the Travel Channel. The competition, held in Las Vegas, a city known for its bounteous buffets, involved five courses—breakfast, lunch, appetizers, dinner, and dessert. Cookie’s strategy was to come in second in each round—just enough to advance—and then to seal the deal in the final dessert round, his specialty. This tactic proved crucial in the second-to-last round, when Rich LeFevre pulled way ahead of Cookie, only to be disqualified after suffering a Roman incident. The dessert round featured ice cream, which Cookie “whipped through like it was nothing.”

  (Appropriately enough, Jarvis’s nickname represents a perfect blend of his cerebral eating style and his sweet tooth. In sixth grade, renowned for his insatiable appetite for cookies, his classmates dubbed him Cookie Jarvis, after the name of the wizard on the box of Cookie Crisp cereal.)

  Recognizing that preparedness was the key to victory, Cookie continued to outsmart opponents. In buffalo wings, he kneeled to shorten the distance between hand and mouth. In pelmeni, a type of greasy Russian dumpling, the Jarvis spoon kept the dumplings from slipping away. In pasta, he tipped the bowl and used the spoon to shovel his way to victory in Little Italy. In chicken-fried steak, he used cocktail sauce to counteract the thick gravy, a tactic he would later employ in his corned-beef-and-cabbage victory.

  By the end of 2003, his confidence soaring, Cookie had set the circuit ablaze, accruing thirteen titles, including a nine-for-ten streak to close out the year. He was the number-one-ranked American eater, and the American hot dog record holder with thirty and a half. The trench coat was so filled with titles that they were almost stretching into the airbrushed flames. The future, it seemed, could only hold more success, more cash prizes, and more media attention. Cookie Jarvis felt invincible. At this rate, it seemed that, when the American Competitive Eating Hall of Fame opened its doors, the Jarvis trench coat would likely be its centerpiece.

  Initially, the Coat was intended for two purposes. The first was strictly informational. At events, or whenever he told someone he was a professional competitive eater, people always asked the same question: What have you won? So he started small, embroidering his titles on the back of a jean jacket, but it was soon filled to capacity, forcing Jarvis to think bigger. (The mind reels at the potential value of that prototype jacket on eBay.)

  The Coat’s second purpose was sponsorship. Cookie envisioned it as a sort of mobile advertising unit, not unlike how brand names are emblazoned on NASCAR cars. “I’d like to have Tums sponsor my jacket,” he explains. “Home Depot. Whoever! Just walk around with it. A walking advertisement. I mean, the race cars do it and I’m almost as big as them. And I’m all over the place.”

  This idea gives a glimpse into Cookie’s tireless entrepreneurial spirit. On the front of the jacket, he’s holding a house not only to exhibit his preternatural strength, but to show that he’s a real estate agent. Though he stopped short of adding his agency’s name—ReMax—to the jacket, he admits that his competitive-eating fame in no way detracts from business. “I made a closing today, and all they could talk about was competitive eating,” he says with smug laughter. “It’s like, they forgot about the closing.”

  Real estate is just one of his businesses. When asked, he reels off a list of side businesses with descriptions that hover somewhere between impressive and perplexing. He “does travel part-time.” He’s a marketing consultant for a product brokerage company. He sets people up in home-based Internet businesses, where they can earn a six-figure residual income out of the home. He is the customer manager of a Web site, www.bigmoney.unfranchise.com, which is associated with an entity called Market America and seems to do just about everything. Jarvis explains the endless possibilities of the Web site. “You can buy gift certificates or you can buy products. You can get ’em shipped or you can get ’em not shipped. You can shop at eight hundred stores with only one checkout. I can sell Web sites. I can sell custom vitamins. Pretty much anything you can think of. Custom gloves, custom whatevah.”

  Rich Shea once told me that Cookie tried to interest him in a “binomial.” I ask Cookie what this means. “That’s the Market America business. It’s a binomial product, meaning it’s not a multilevel marketing company.” Hmm.

  One can’t help but be impressed by the magnitude of Cookie’s ambition. From day one on the circuit, his goal was to be the number one competitive eater in the world—and even that wouldn’t be enough. The plan beneath the plan was to use competitive eating as a vehicle to fame, if not international superstardom. “Guys like Stone Cold Steve Austin and Hulk Hogan used wrestling as something they made a lot of money in, to get them to the movies. And basically my concept is the same thing.”

  The skeptic might be tempted to snicker at such lofty ambition, but the extent of Cookie Jarvis’s media exposure suggests he’s not so out there. One of his goals was to get on The Tonight Show with Jay Leno—mission accomplished. He’s also been on the John Walsh Show, The Morning Show with Al Roker, The Daily Show with Jon Stewart, Fox and Friends, CBS News, CNN News, ESPN News, as well as a half-dozen cable specials on competitive eating. He was on the front page of the Wall Street Journal, complete with illustration. He was the feature of a Playboy article, the wet dream of many a red-blooded American male, and perhaps most notably, he landed a speaking role on a 2004 episode of the NBC TV show Las Vegas, starring James Caan.

  Though his exposure is indisputable, some might contend that Cookie’s yen for self-promotion borders on pathological. Before contests, he throws T-shirts into the crowd featuring his name and his three Web sites. After most contests, especially victories, he is the last one to leave the horde of reporters. Without any trace of irony, he ranks the rush of getting media coverage “between a good piece of chocolate cake, and sex.”

  Cookie and the media make natural bedfellows, because he is among the most avid talkers I have ever met. During our two-and-a-half hour interview, he receives no less than seven phone calls, and he answers each one. If a sport were made of phone talking, Cookie would be neck and neck for the top ranking with some teenage girl. Every eater on the circuit has stories about getting multiple voice mails from Jarvis, often in the following format: “Hey, [insert name], it’s Jahvis. Gimme a call on my cell.” The amount of daily Cookie calls to the IFOCE averages around a half dozen, and there have been unconfirmed rumors that a special board was once dedicated to the daily tally.

  Say what you want about his unlimited cell phone minutes, but Cookie’s incessant phoning has made him the eyes and ears of the circuit. Everyone calls Cookie, and Cookie calls everyone. Within minutes of the end of any given contest in which Cookie has not competed, he will call one of the participants. His timing is uncanny, a sixth sense.

  This constant communication has both positive and negative sides. It powers the circuit’s rumor mill, but also establishes a constant touchstone of communication. One major draw of the circuit, as with all teams and organizations, is the common human desire to be a part of something greater. Outside of the IFOCE, Cookie is the unifying force that connects the individual eater to the circuit, and there is nary a secret, rumor, or training technique that hasn’t been stored in his mental file cabinet. “I’m like the interconnection between the world of eating,” Cookie explains. “I consider myself one of the pillars, or the foundation of the IFOCE.”

  NOVEMBER 26, 2003

  It’s the day before Thanksgiving, the American holiday that best reflects the values of competitive eating. A collection of the finest gurgitators in the known universe has gathered at Mickey Mantle’s Restaurant on Central Park South in Manhattan for the Thanksgiving Meal Invitational. The field, which includes the winners of eight Harvest Series events, are bent over plates piled high with a unique and demanding foodstuff—“turducken,” a semiboneless turkey stuffed with a boneless chicken, duck breast, and layers of sausage stuffing. Unbeknownst to fa
ns, eaters, and journalists alike, in a matter of minutes, the course of American competitive-eating history is about to change dramatically.

  When the final whistle blows, the Shea brothers announce a stunning upset. A hundred-pound rookie, Sonya Thomas, has edged out the number-one-ranked American eater, the 409-pound Edward Cookie Jarvis. The final count reveals a photo finish. While Jarvis has consumed seven and a half pounds of Thanksgiving meal (featuring turducken, green beans, cranberry sauce, and yams), Sonya has eaten seven and three quarter.

  It is Sonya’s first major win over a field of top-ranked eaters. The loss halts Cookie’s ongoing dominance for the 2003 season and lodges a wrench in the spokes of his confidence. Though the appearance of the Japanese at Coney Island has lent credence to Krachie’s Belt of Fat Theory, the sight of a hundred-pound woman snatching a Thanksgiving eating crown over hundreds of pounds of raw masculine eating prowess is all but confirmation of the theory.

  In the next few meetings between Cookie and Sonya, Cookie wins only one, a mano-a-womano chicken-wing challenge at Hooters in Manhattan. He maintains his number one ranking, but Sonya’s takeover feels imminent. This transition is so radical that it defies sports analogies. It’s as if Michael Jordan’s NBA scoring title was usurped, not by Kobe Bryant, but by a five-foot-two-inch female point guard. It’s as if a one-armed amputee edged out Tiger Woods for a major PGA title. It is, in a word, unthinkable.

  Since the gradual shift in the competitive-eating power structure that began in late 2003, Cookie Jarvis’s attitude toward the circuit has soured somewhat. It’s not that he has any less affection for the sport, or for the eaters, but he does not like to lose, and he doesn’t seem to be acclimating too rapidly. Though he has always been constructively critical of the way the circuit is conducted, his protests have grown more frequent.

  When asked what rule he would institute if he were George Shea, Jarvis doesn’t hesitate. “My biggest improvement would be professional scales at every event.” The Jarvis Amendment would require weighing each competitor’s food before each event, then weighing the leftovers and subtracting the difference for the official count. Cookie claims that not weighing the food invites unjust rulings in close contests. Specifically, he felt that his Thanksgiving turducken squeaker loss to Sonya was too close to call without extensive weighing. “If you don’t do something about it,” he says, “then the guys are all pissed off, like myself.” It occurs to me that some of Cookie’s bitterness stems from his constant contact with other eaters. He is the unofficial complaint receptacle of the circuit.

  Cookie thinks IFOCE eaters should be pursuing advertising contracts with more tenacity. “I told George that I’d like to get a second agent for just that. ’Cause I think I’m missin’ the boat on that. I could be doin’ like a ‘Pizza! Pizza!’ commercial for Little Caesars. Or maybe Rolaids…” Cookie smiles for an imaginary camera. “After all these competitions, take Rolaids.”

  He’d like to see drug testing implemented in the IFOCE. He has made allegations of the use of “throat relaxers” on the circuit, which he feels should be investigated. “Hey, if a horse wins by some exorbitant amount, they take him to get tested right after the race,” he explains. “Kobayashi should have been tested the first year he came. I’d like to do a sonogram on him, see what his stomach looks like. And a drug test. They might even have some herbal thing in Japan that I don’t know about.”

  Though his relationship with his “nemesis” Sonya Thomas is relatively cordial, Jarvis feels that her presence dilutes the fraternity-like camaraderie of the circuit. While many of the guys hang out with each other after the contests, Sonya—partially due to her gender, partially to her difficulties with English—often sticks to herself or heads straight to the airport with her winnings.

  Cookie also thinks that the Nathan’s Famous competition should be restructured. The Japanese could bring over a half dozen eaters and have their own competition, while the Americans stage their own. One way or another, the American champs should be recognized. Regardless of who wins, Cookie feels that the contest should introduce cash prizes, which it presently lacks. “I mean, you eat thirty hot dogs, and you’ve got nothin’ to show for it,” he explains.

  In fact, Cookie has felt so dismayed at times by the state of the circuit, he’s even considered hanging up the spoon. That’s right—retirement. Has it come to this? Any gurgitator will agree that a Cookie-less circuit is a difficult reality to swallow. Without the thick pillar that is Cookie, the circuit’s social nexus, would the competitive-eating circuit collapse under its own weight? Other eaters have begged him not to go, even threatened to boycott his departure. “It’s like when Hulk Hogan left wrestling,” Cookie explains. “Then they dragged him back in. Then he would leave and they’d drag him back in again. A lot of these guys are like, ‘Come on. You’re one of the great eaters in the world.’ ”

  Cookie Jarvis is a man at odds with himself—a lumbering paradox—and his personal crossroads is suggestive of the modern American gurgitator’s many frustrations. He seems satisfied to have leveraged his eating greatness to become a media darling, then expresses frustration at not having an advertising contract. He is considered cocky by some, always talking smack and playing precontest mind games, and yet he is generally well-liked and bighearted and inclusive. One moment, he’s professing his dogged determination to be the best eater in the world, even if that requires Kobayashi tossing his cookies at Coney Island. Then the next moment, he’s talking about retirement. Now he’s saying his training cuts into his family and career, and then he’s saying the sport will be in either the X Games or the Olympics in ten years, and he wants to be around for the big show.

  One message remains consistent, though. Jarvis has accepted the Belt of Fat Theory and is committed to losing weight. Having slipped in the rankings behind svelte gurgitators like Kobayashi, Thomas, and LeFevre, the writing on the wall is like a mural in neon graffiti. He’s hoping to interest Subway in a sponsorship deal, under which he would shed pounds eating exclusively at Subway for a series of commercials, much like the “Subway Guy,” Jared Fogle, who weighed 425 pounds before his Subway diet.

  Call it a hunch, but I don’t see Cookie retiring anytime soon. Undoubtedly among the most gifted cross-eaters eating today, he will continue to dissect foodstuffs, psych-out opponents, and talk reporters’ ears off. Though there has been speculation about his health, Jarvis claims that he undergoes frequent checkups and is in good health. He’s doing his damnedest to lose weight, and when he succeeds, world beware. “When I’m thin, I’m tellin’ you…watch out. It’s gonna be trouble. There’s gonna be a new sheriff in town. Jahvis is gonna be back in action.”

  11

  Downing Deep-Fried Asparagus

  You needn’t tell me that a man who doesn’t love oysters and asparagus and good wines has got a soul, or a stomach either. He’s simply got the instinct for being unhappy highly developed.

  —Hector Hugh Munro

  APRIL 21, 2004

  Being an emcee out on the circuit is like being a rock star on tour. That is, a rock star without the groupies, the posh travel arrangements, the stalking paparazzi, the raucous bouts of drug-fueled sex, the divalike demands, and the screeching hordes of fans.

  But for a few hours aboard my JetBlue flight to Sacramento, I am able to suspend disbelief and almost be a semistar of sorts. The woman seated next to me has taken such an interest in my job that, after interrogating me extensively, she confesses that despite being a successful real estate mogul, she isn’t particularly happy with her job. To sense envy from such a well-dressed woman buttresses my already warm feelings toward my job and this trip. Our conversation soon leaks to nearby passengers, and before I know it I’ve developed a four-person fan base in the vicinity of seat 21D. One of them, an older man, even vows to come see the competition at the Stockton Deep-Fried Asparagus Eating Championship, my present destination.

  Upon touchdown, the illusion dissolves into disappointing reality
. I drive to my buddy Luke’s off-campus house near the University of California at Davis, where I spend the night on his couch. The next morning, I call James “Big Ox” Martin, a local rookie, to confirm his appearance on the UPN morning news show Good Day Sacramento. Big Ox explains that he is unable to get his work shift off. Sweet. There is a special variation of Murphy’s Law that applies to hosting eating contests, which takes into account the unreliability of eaters and EMTs, as well as the difficulties of preparing and weighing immense quantities of food. Adding insult to injury, a flurry of phone calls to my list of registered local eaters results in one air ball after another.

  The upshot is, as of 6:00 A.M. the morning of the TV spot, I sorely lack an eater for the on-air asparagus eat-off we’ve planned against a news anchor. That isn’t the only fun part. Moments after I lock myself out of my friend’s house, I realize that my jacket, camera, and stopwatch are still on the couch. After my window-banging elicits suspicious glares from a neighbor walking her dog, I abort the mission, hop in the rented OldsmoPlymouth and head south on I-5, knee-steering, one hand on my coffee cup, the other pressing cell phone to ear, explaining to various producers that things aren’t looking as good as we’d hoped for this eat-off thing.

  In a stroke of good fortune, the UPN anchor for the segment is Mark S. Allen, a freethinking young lad who once hosted Comedy Central’s Short Attention Span Theater and has a history of pulling wacky stunts. (He once lived on a billboard for a month, which he fell off of, breaking both legs.) By the time I meet up with him, at the Civic Auditorium of the Stockton Asparagus Festival, he has already recruited some young Filipino guy to eat against him for the segment. After briefly interviewing me on camera, Allen talks to the kid, who clearly has a strong competitive-eating pedigree.