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

by Ryan Nerz

  “So you’ve won many awards yourself?” Allen asks.

  “Exactly,” he answers. “At home.”

  “Wait. Back up a minute,” Allen says. “What kind of stuff are you doing at your home? Competitions with your family?”

  “Well…you know, we eat government cheese, or anything free.”

  Allen nods. “I have experience with government cheese, but today, my friend, will be my first experience with an asparagus-eating competition.”

  They discuss how the asparagus will be prepared. The Filipino kid has no preference, and defers to Mark S. Allen’s South Beach diet, which demands that the asparagus be steamed. Before we begin the one-minute exhibition, Mark S. Allen asks me what Kobayashi does to prepare. When I say that Kobayashi reportedly talks to his stomach, Mark asks me to talk to his. At this point, my unfamiliarity with news media becomes suddenly, glaringly obvious. In a high-pitched, vaguely Asian voice that sounds like a gay swami after sucking down a balloonful of helium, I pretend to rub Mark’s stomach and say, “Come now, Mark’s stomach. Eat, Mark’s stomach, eeeeat much asparagus.” When I finally snap out of it, I notice Mark has pulled away, red-faced, and the camera has already turned away. I imagine hundreds of bewildered viewers reaching at once for their remote controls.

  Later that day, I meet up with Cookie Jarvis at the Asparagus Festival. He has arrived a day early to scope the scene and present what I like to call the Cookie Show. When I arrive, Cookie is talking up some young thing working the tent of a local radio station. He is—astoundingly—wearing-the Coat. I say astoundingly because it’s a cloudless ninety-six degrees, the world highlighted bright yellow by the inescapable California sun. If social conventions permitted, I would be shirtless and in Skivvies. So it strikes me as odd that, despite having his fair share of insulation, Cookie has on a black trench coat and a black baseball cap. But such are the sacrifices required for the Cookie Show.

  The Cookie Show is a fairly simple ritual. It basically involves sauntering around in the Coat and seeing what happens—and something always happens. Interactions. The magnetism of the Coat is not to be underestimated. Judging from the reactions of the Stockton festivalgoers, the Coat’s effect is equivalent to the allure those glowing blue bug-zappers have on flying insects.

  Which explains why, within moments of meeting up with Cookie, we are surrounded by onlookers. They gather behind the Coat, where they squint and point at the titles, waving family and friends over for a look. Then come questions, photographs, and autographs. To his credit, Cookie is kind and forthcoming with fans. Some folks recognize him from the local newspaper ads that featured him with hands raised, his right hand clutching the trademark Jarvis spoon.

  Even without the Coat, I think Cookie attracts attention by dint of his sheer magnitude, which makes me oddly aware of my relative smallness (five feet nine inches, 165 pounds). The crowd seems to perceive me either as Cookie’s stunted sidekick, the Teller to his Penn, or as some utterly anonymous runt. In fact, I feel almost physically deformed and begin to see how embracing your weaknesses in bold ways can turn them into strengths. In other circumstances, what may well be overtly negative attention—Check out the fat dude!—has been channeled by the Cookie persona into mild adoration.

  Once the crowd dies down, Cookie says he wants to sample the asparagus. As part of his general commitment to preparedness, he takes a hands-on approach to precompetition negotiations. He has already raised several concerns to me in phone conversations. Would the asparagus’s deep-fried batter shell become a cheating problem? Would it fall to the ground, or into the water during dunking? Will the $1,000 prize money be given as a lump sum to the victor, or will it be split up? And how will the plates be weighed? Cookie says he prefers five-pound plates to one-pound plates.

  To facilitate his prep work, I call up Cathy Schieberl, the assistant to Kate Post, the executive director of the Stockton Asparagus Festival. Cathy, a cute Filipina-American college student, picks us up on her golf cart. She weaves through the crowd on “Spear-It Lane” and drops us off at “Asparagus Alley.”

  In the Asparagus Alley inventory tent, the Cookie Show starts up anew. The festival workers all seem to know about Cookie and act downright starstruck in his presence. More pictures are taken, and two heaping batches of deep-fried asparagus are delivered. They are like no species of asparagus I’ve ever seen. Each spear is at least eight inches long, with tips as thick as Sharpie markers and bases the circumference of quarters. They are dipped in golden brown batter and deep-fried, then topped with a healthy dose of Parmesan cheese. The tips are moist and chewy, highly bitable and quite tasty. But as you move toward the base, they become increasingly stubborn and stringy, a bit of a chore to chew. No less than four spears down, and I’m completely full, surveying the area for a trashcan inconspicuous enough not to draw contempt from the workers. I look at Cookie, who’s chewing with a focus rarely associated with such a mindless act. The asparagus tips meet with his approval, but his expert assessment of the other end is far more critical. “These bottoms are brutal,” he says, bobbing his head a little as he chews. “They’re like an inch thick…and so dense!”

  The moment of truth. It’s just after 11:00 A.M. and already hot as Hades out here at the main stage of the Weber Points Event Center. Waivers are signed, the EMTs accounted for, and my girl Cathy is weighing the last of the sixty-odd one-pound plates of asparagus. (Despite Cookie’s insistence on larger plates, I have overruled him on the grounds of less complicated judging.)

  A calming Marvin Gaye tune oozes from the speakers, but the tension in the air is palpable. West Coast eating fans are newcomers to the sport and don’t seem to grasp the significance of the matchup they’re about to witness. Sonya and Cookie certainly do. They are avoiding each other self-consciously, over by the registration tent. Cookie’s blinking and doing neck rolls; Sonya is smiling with her arms crossed. Head-to-head, they are 3-2 at this point, in Cookie’s favor. Sonya’s got Thanksgiving Turducken and Wing Bowl, while Cookie’s got the two wing wins and Nathan’s. Whoever takes asparagus will gain the upper psychological hand, and if Sonya prevails, she’ll be one step closer to overtaking Cookie’s precarious number one American ranking.

  I’m sweating my nuts off, and it’s not just the unfortunate combination of my wool suit with this tropical weather. I’ve got stage fright. This is basically my first big gig alone. I look out with trepidation onto an endless circular lawn that’s starting to fill with people. Cathy has just informed me that I will be up on the stage, high above the eaters, whose tables are near the crowd on the lawn. This sermon-on-the-mount positioning psychs me out. Furthermore, I have just discovered that a couple of the eaters are noticeably absent. Suddenly, the Marvin Gaye chorus coming from the speakers seems to be mocking me. “What’s goin’ on?” it keeps asking. “What’s goin’ on?”

  It’s go time. I grab the mic, introduce myself, and welcome the crowd. I give shout-outs to the mayor, the sponsors, and my Uncle Mike Nerz, a local doctor. “And a special shout-out to my friend Luke Barton,” I say, “a former mushroom-eating champion at Yale University.”

  This, of course, is not true, but it’s a harmless lie. The unknowing crowd cheers, which loosens me up a tad. I’m wearing a suit, so they assume that I’m legit. Just as the momentum is going my way, I fall into some meandering digression about today’s competitive foodstuff, asparagus. It goes on and on.

  I say we know asparagus has been cultivated for about two thousand years. We know that King Louis XIV adored it so much he built special greenhouses so he could enjoy it year-round, which is why it’s called the food of kings. We know it’s nutritious, that it’s high in folic acid, vitamins A, C, B6, and thiamine. We know it’s high in the cancer-fighter glutathione, and in rutin, which strengthens the blood vessels. (What am I talking about?) We know it comes in several colors, from white to purple. We know that California is the Asparagus State…(finally, some cheers)…that this state grows 80 percent of the U.S. domesti
c supply, around fifty metric tons every spring.

  “So we know a lot about asparagus. But what we don’t know, and what we are gathered here today to find out is”—I do my best dramatic pause—“how much asparagus can one human eat in ten minutes?” My excruciatingly long setup is finally rewarded with a relief-sigh of cheers. “And I say human because, unlike other sports, which are overtly sexist, in competitive eating women compete alongside men.” I explain that the IFOCE’s egalitarian spirit will prove particularly interesting today, because the two top-ranked gurgitators in America will be competing against each other. One is a four-hundred-pound man, and the other is a hundred-pound woman.

  My attempt to explain the Belt of Fat Theory is met with confused silence. I’m not sure why I’m taking this didactic approach, lecturing like a professor, when clearly a WWF-barker style would be more effective. Luckily, it’s time to bring out the eaters, so I can revert to the old standards.

  “Our first contestant, weighing in at 175 pounds, five foot ten. He is presently unemployed and considering competitive eating as a career choice…. His name is Jonathan ‘the Qrusher’ Quok!” The crowd cheers. The Qrusher—a patently normal Asian twentysomething with a buzz cut—has taken my suggestion to make a strong entrance. He pulls his T-shirt up, showing off a prize-winning belly.

  I knock down the list of local eaters. Bennett “the Bellybomb” Ouchi is a former amateur Cap’n Crunch eating champ from Davis. James “Big Ox” Martin is a 350-pound man-mountain whose life is a continual training session. (Big Ox also lifts his shirt on his jog to the table, and it must be said that he looks to have more natural talent than the Qrusher.)

  Then it’s time to pull out the big guns. I rattle off Sonya’s records and claim that she is the fulfillment of an age-old prophecy about the arrival of the One Eater. She walks out, waving her hands and smiling. The crowd eats it up, all the more so because of how impossibly skinny Sonya is. Her jeans, which appear to be somewhere between a women’s size one and a children’s XL, are quite literally falling off her.

  Our next eater, the number-one ranked American gurgitator, needs no introduction. I mention each of Cookie’s many titles, but draw particular attention to his mayonnaise-eating feat, sixty-four ounces in five minutes. The crowd gasps. Cookie jogs out to the table, his drooping teardrop of a belly bobbing rhythmically.

  “Ed-die! Ed-die! Ed-die!” someone chants.

  “All right, Stockton,” I say, “are you ready?”

  Stockton yells out yeah, and I’m starting to feel the love. I explain the rules and advise the crowd to watch the flip numbers of our celebrity judges. The eaters are all seated, a rare sight for a pro competition. Once the competition starts, I sense as an emcee both the awkwardness of silence and the tragic mistake of cloaking that silence with drivel.

  “This is the healthiest competition on the circuit,” I say. “These people are gonna add a month to their lives, at least, with all the nutrients in asparagus.”

  Sonya’s quick out of the gate, knocking down her first plate in a minute flat. I point out that she is a phenomenon, superhuman, and claim that skeptics have inaccurately theorized that she swallowed a tapeworm.

  “Don’t worry, folks,” I announce. “We have advised all the eaters not to use the Porta Potties afterwards. There’s been a lot of talk about the potentially pungent aftereffects.”

  It’s a cheap joke, but it pays big laughter dividends. There are intermittent yelps of “Go, Sonya!” The guitarist of some rock band—apparently the next act—is behind me on the stage, tuning his guitar. This strikes me as disrespectful but adds a strangely appropriate sound track to the steady, furious munching.

  “Folks, ten minutes might not seem like a long time to you, but it’s like ten years to them. Help ’em out!” The crowd claps and woohoos. It’s funny. You work hard to think up one-liners, but ultimately the straight-up rah-rah stuff is most effective. “How ’bout a little chant,” I suggest. “Eat! Eat! Eat! Eat!”

  Approaching the four-minute mark, Sonya and Cookie are both working on their third plates. Ron “the Drain” Davis and James “Big Ox” Martin are the local front-runners with one and a half plates apiece. I remind the crowd that there’s never been a world record with asparagus, and therefore we’re witnessing history. Whoever wins today will not only set a new world record, but take home a $1,000 check and the coveted Asparagus Trophy. I have developed verbal tics while emceeing. Today’s front-runners for Words of the Day are “man-mountain” and “Stockton’s finest.” A little over six minutes into the contest, Sonya reaches for her fifth plate and appears to be pulling away. A group of fans are now ceaselessly chanting, “Let’s go, Sonya!” Clap clap, clap clap clap clap. “Let’s go, Son-ya!”

  At the seven and a half minute mark, there is a much needed dramatic development: Cookie stands up. I immediately pounce. “He’s up! That’s important. It helps to stand. Standing stretches out the alimentary canal, making peristalsis a little easier.” The general policy of the IFOCE is to disdain chairs during competition, and this is for good reason. When gurgitators sit, there is an odd rushing-through-dinner undercurrent that dilutes the athleticism of the event.

  “Unloosen your belt, Cookie!” someone yells out. Less than two minutes left, and the crowd’s getting involved. Rival factions lob dueling Cookie and Sonya cheers. When Sonya finishes her fifth plate, the crowd goes insane, and I do my best to capitalize. “Five pounds of deep-fried asparagus, my Lord! It’s divinely inspired…. Oslorf, the Norse god of consumption, is shining down upon this spot! Look at Sonya Thomas go!”

  Sonya’s still sitting, steadily stuffing. Endowed with extremely capacious cheeks, she is employing a technique known as chipmunking. (Though Coondog O’Karma lays claim to the term, its etymology is unknown.) Chipmunking is a way of using the cheeks to temporarily store the foodstuff while the esophagus is busy swallowing.

  “We’re at eight and a half minutes, with two and a half minutes to go,” I announce, so absorbed by the action that I’ve lost rudimentary subtraction skills. “Our local eaters seem to have hit a wall.” This gets a big laugh, because the locals are slumped over, looking ready for a nap. Ron the Drain has stopped entirely and is leaning forward in his chair to get a better glimpse of Sonya. Cookie’s on his fifth plate. It’s not looking good, but I try to bolster the audience’s hopes. “Don’t count him out, folks. Cookie always surges late in the game.”

  Thirty seconds left, and the crowd keeps getting louder. “We are getting there! Do you feel it?” The cheers drown out the cacophonous tuning of that damn guitarist behind me. When they start to drown out my voice, I’m forced to scream myself hoarse. “Do they have the willpower, the stomach capacity, the hand-eye-mouth coordination?” We do the countdown, and, just like that, it’s over. I command the eaters to put down their asparagus, let out a deep sigh, and lean against the railing. “Dear Lord,” I announce. “This is an emotional moment.”

  The thrill of victory is more viewer-friendly than the despair of defeat. Sonya waving at the crowd, me comparing her intestinal fortitude to that of Joan of Arc, an asparagus trophy that looks roughly the size of its new owner…these are the images the world wants to see. The Stockton crowd confirms this sentiment, howling wildly at the announcement of her new world record: 5.75 pounds of deep-fried asparagus in ten minutes.

  But it’s the other eaters that intrigue me most. What’s in it for them? And what about Cookie Jarvis, an extremely competitive human being, who has flown across the country with the expectation of confirming his status as America’s best eater? In this sport, not only does the loser suffer the letdown of having tried and failed, he is also extremely—even unpleasantly—full. He is physically exhausted, but without that sense of dull-muscled fatigue that adds some consolation to having just lost, say, a soccer match. Although this is changing as the circuit gains clout, it’s often winner takes all, money-wise, so the consolation prize is a free lunch, a stomachache, and a pat on the back.
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br />   Sonya Thomas lifts the fabled Asparagus Trophy while discussing her victory with an aspiring gurgitator. (Courtesy of Loukas Barton)

  But let’s not break out the Kleenex just yet. The local eaters are all smiling, getting hugs and high fives from family and friends. Cookie is signing plenty of autographs and doing multiple interviews. As tempting as it is for an eater to feel self-pity, to blame the coldness of the foodstuff or the weather, the pro eaters generally congratulate the winner and move on. In this case, Cookie moves on…to the airport. Within hours of the end of the competition, he has boarded a flight to Florida, where he’ll participate in the Sweet Corn Eating Competition in West Palm Beach the next day.

  It just goes to show, you can never count out Cookie. Fifteen hours after his asparagus loss, with four hours of sleep and a full belly, he pulls off one of his greatest strategic coups ever. Ten ears of corn into the contest, with Jammin’ Joe LaRue and Ray “the Bison” Meduna nipping at his heels, Cookie gets lockjaw. Unable to open his mouth, he starts doing smaller rows. Soon enough, this isn’t working and he starts ripping the kernels off with his hands and throwing them into his mouth. This messy technique leaves his plate piled high with a mound of kernels. With one minute left, Cookie shovels the mound into his mouth. He ends up taking first place, breaking Gentleman Joe Menchetti’s old sweet-corn record by more than a dozen ears. So when all is truly said and done, less than a day after his loss to Sonya, Cookie is three thousand miles away, smiling a big, yellow-flecked smile.

  12

  The Nader Dispute: For and Against Competitive Eating as Sport

  To the haters, the people who write derogatory comments about competitive eating, I just say, ‘Hey, don’t knock it till you’ve tried it.’ And hopefully, you’ll change your mind and find the good things about the sport to stay with it.”