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

by Ryan Nerz

  Crazy Legs Conti, submerged in the popcorn-filled sarcophagus, keeps munching while the cameras keep snapping. (Courtesy of Reuters/Chip East CME/JDP)

  GEORGE: I was watching the Weather Channel last night. You know, it’s horrendous what earthquakes can do…the damage.

  RICH: You know that Matt LeBlanc, from Friends? He sure is a cutie.

  GEORGE: Speaking of that, you know, Friends is ending. Frasier is ending. It’s all ending.

  RICH: Did I mention that Patrón is sponsoring tonight’s after-party?

  Finally, the reporters take a stand. At their insistence, Crazy Legs reluctantly emerges from the Popcorn Sarcophagus, “like a turtle emerging on the beach,” as George describes it. Crazy Legs has eaten down to his waist, which, to the observers who’ve been watching his efforts, qualifies as an escape. Crazy Legs, who’s noticeably annoyed that he’s been cajoled into quitting, seems physically fine if a little wobbly. “It’s not the corn that gets you,” he says in summation. “Or the pop. It’s definitely the butter.”

  Little does he know that this stunt will gain him almost as much media attention as the documentary itself. Within hours of his escape, he receives interview requests from Australia, England, and Israel. A segment on Crazy Legs’s escape appears on CNN’s Anderson Cooper 360°, and pictures by a Reuters photojournalist are posted on Web sites across the world. But most significantly for a former college high jumper and basketball player, the footage of Crazy Legs’s escape is ranked number six on ESPN SportsCenter’s Plays of the Day.

  14

  The Secessionists

  Gentleman Joe is clearly a victim, almost a Christ figure.

  —George Shea

  The TriBeCa Film Festival premier of Crazy Legs’s documentary was not merely a gathering of his New York posse, but an opportunity for several prominent gurgitators to walk the red carpet. Because the IFOCE eaters are a tight-knit bunch, it was touching to hear Crazy Legs, clad in a dashing lavender tux (with matching shorts), give shout-outs to the likes of Cookie Jarvis, Badlands, Beautiful Brian, and Hungry Charles Hardy. Many insiders, however, were shocked to hear him mention another eater in attendance, one seated dangerously close to the IFOCE crew—Gentleman Joe Menchetti.

  Several months before, Gentleman Joe had boldly seceded from the IFOCE to strike out on his own in the hardscrabble field of independent eating competitions. The focus of Menchetti’s rift with the IFOCE was not new to professional sports—a contract dispute. Having been a featured gurgitator for a couple years, Menchetti, like most eaters in the top twenty-five, had signed the IFOCE contract. The contract establishes an eighteen-month relationship wherein the eater agrees to compete only in IFOCE-sanctioned events unless consent is given by the IFOCE brass. Though most gurgitators are happy to sign the contract, some second-tier eaters feel that it restricts their ability to earn prize money in unsanctioned contests.

  In late 2003, Gentleman Joe opted out of the IFOCE contract, establishing himself as the circuit’s prodigal son. He cooked up an ad hoc Web log, www.speedeat.com, a low-budget affair without graphics or photos that billed itself as “THE source, for up to date, speed eating news!” The log lists the results of eating competitions, both IFOCE and otherwise, while laying out an ongoing critique of all things IFOCE.

  Perhaps taking its cues from the civil rights movement, speedeat.com rejects the language of its oppressors. Gentleman Joe, who narrates his blog in the first-person plural (as in the royal we, or “We here at speedeat”), calls the Shea brothers “the $hea $i$ter$” and their eating organization “the Fed.” Instead of using the traditional terms for vomiting—“reversal of fortune” or “urges contrary to swallowing”—Menchetti has coined the term “bulemic behavior” (brazenly rejecting accepted notions of spelling). He has even created a few nicknames, such as Carlene “Madam of Etiquette” LeFevre and Dave “Unworthy of a Nickname” Baer.

  In keeping with the maverick journalistic style associated with blogs, speedeat.com is unabashedly subjective. It lists Menchetti’s opinions on the issues that concern Americans most, such as how the Fed is “as corrupt as Louie the Prefect in Casablanca,” and how Beautiful Brian is the “BIGGEST LOSER!” On occasion, it is even delightfully mean-spirited, with conclusions like “ ‘El Wingador’ loses to some Hick!” He has been particularly harsh on Crazy Legs at times, whom he calls “a game show host masquerading as a competitive eater.” When Conti failed to win a stew-eating contest in New Mexico where cash and pottery were offered as prizes the blog said, “We guess Crazylegs’ mom doesn’t get any indian [sic] pottery for Christmas.”

  The posting of IFOCE contest results are often so prompt that there have been accusations of an intelligence leak among the IFOCE eaters. (The source is difficult to determine, but some fingers point at phone man Cookie Jarvis.) Sometimes speedeat.com’s paragraph-long pieces are objective statements about who won what, but a particular focus is placed on IFOCE mishaps and Gentleman Joe’s victories and prizes. When writing about his own triumphs, Menchetti often refers to himself by the Alex Rodriguez-like nickname Gjoe. Of his cicada-eating victory in Washington, D.C., Gjoe writes, “If you don’t know what a cicada is, its [sic] a flying insect that shows up every 17 years. Many chefs & nutritionists recommend eating these creatures as a free source of tasty protein. ‘Gentleman’ Joe Menchetti won this 1 minute contest by eating 89 seasoned & fried Cicada’s [sic].” Gjoe does provide some compelling personal confessions, such as the incident that occurred after his victory in a paczki-eating contest. “Gentleman Joe admitted to a rare incident of ‘bulemic behavior’ caused by a massive coughing fit, 1.5 hrs after winning the $200 prize.” Menchetti is never bashful about his own gurgitory prowess. In the rankings section of speedeat.com, Gjoe ranks himself above Hungry Charles Hardy, Oleg Zhornitskiy, and Nobuyuki Shirota.

  On January 22, 2004, I got my first taste of corporate espionage. I attended the Frank’s Red Hot Sauce Battle to the Bone, a chicken-wing-eating competition held in a conference room at Madison Square Garden. In 2003, the IFOCE had produced a wing-eating circuit for Frank’s Red Hot Sauce, but negotiations broke down the following year, and the IFOCE didn’t get the contract. In a remarkable (if slightly suspicious) turn of events, Frank’s Red Hot chose Gentleman Joe Menchetti to help out with the refashioned circuit. After the announcement that the kickoff event would be at MSG, the Shea brothers suggested that, as a writer, I might want to go check it out. Before the competition, I bought a microcassette recorder at RadioShack. At the arena’s entrance, I was greeted by a smiling young lass in a Frank’s Red Hot shirt.

  “Hello. What is your name, sir?” she asked.

  “Roscoe Manning.”

  “And what media outlet are you associated with, Mr. Manning?”

  “The Yale School of Journalism. I’m a grad student.”

  This seemed to please her. With this Roscoe Manning routine, I was beginning to enjoy the same liberating character transformation that eaters must feel when they shift into their onstage gurgitating personalities. She handed over a press packet and ushered me into the conference room. It wasn’t your typical competitive-eating scene, but more like a lavish corporate conference. A buffet lunch was set up—salads and hot wings and wraps—and tables were scattered about for dining. The crowd was sparse, consisting mostly of well-dressed corporate types, a handful of journalists, and several dozen eaters. With the exception of Hal Schimel, a quirky eater whose profession is stalking celebrities and pro athletes for autographs, I hadn’t heard of any of the eaters.

  I sat down, turned on my tape recorder, and watched three rounds of qualifiers. For the first time (and with some admitted bias), I began to see just how essential the commentary and pageantry of an eating competition is to its entertainment value. Because the play-by-play was limited to quips like “He’s eating pretty fast,” I found myself feeling bad for the eaters, wishing that they could enjoy the wings at the leisurely pace with which I was eating them. If not infused with dramatic n
arrative and humor, eating competitions can be tedious to all but the most dedicated fans.

  That said, the female British journalist seated beside me found the competition fascinating. She analyzed the competition like a cultural anthropologist, unaware that her opinions could be construed as condescending. “I believe it has something to do with the immigrant experience,” she theorized. “It must be deeply rooted in American culture to gobble up as much food as you can before it disappears.”

  After the qualifiers, the deejay announced a special guest: Gentleman Joe Menchetti. My ears perked up. A broad-shouldered, dark-haired, goateed man in a tuxedo took the stage. Reading in monotone from note cards, Menchetti reeled off his eating records. “I’m also currently ranked number seven in the world by speedeat dot com,” he said. He dropped training techniques such as chewing gum for jaw strength and demonstrated the “one-pass swoop” and “rotating umbrella” methods of stripping wing meat. Before the competition, the judges, Menchetti included, recited a lengthy oath promising objectivity and fairness.

  Once the final competition started, things picked up. People gathered around the stage. Arnie “Chowhound” Chapman, a bearded guy wearing a baseball cap with dog ears, looked as if he had talent. He was knocking them back pretty quick.

  “Strip and swallow,” Gentleman Joe called out. “Don’t chew it.”

  “Go Chowhound!” I yelled, impressed by this young upstart.

  Chowhound Chapman won, with two point five pounds of chicken meat in eight minutes, no shabby tally. When I interviewed him afterward, he said he was ranked thirty-seventh by the IFOCE, but that he should be ranked higher. He said he used to train with ramen noodles but wasn’t sure how effective it had been. He had really started getting into speed-eating, he claimed, when his son was born. “This is kind of a way for me to carve out some of my identity beyond work and being a father,” he added.

  I walked over to Gentleman Joe and introduced myself. Tape recorder in hand, I did my best impression of a reporter. “So you said you’re ranked number seven with…what is it?” I asked.

  “Speedeat dot com.”

  “So that’s like a Web site or is that like a league?” I asked.

  “It’s hoping to become a league.”

  I asked if he was competing much these days.

  “I did a qualifying stunt for the Wing Bowl in Philly. Completed my stunt—it was ten Big Macs in twenty-five minutes. But the two guys that run that contest perceived—actually, accurately—that comments on speedeat dot com that they thought were negative came from me.”

  “Ah,” I said. “I see…”

  “So you’re from Yale?” he asked, breaking the awkward silence.

  My heart thumped. Is he onto me? “Yeah, I’m a graduate student there, in journalism.”

  “I grew up right down the street in Hamden.”

  “Oh, okay. Yeah? Cool.”

  “I made an attempt at the Yankee Doodle burger challenge.”

  “Oh, right.” I knew about the Doodle challenge. The Yankee Doodle is an old-school hole-in-the-wall diner right near campus. The challenge is, if you can eat more burgers than whatever the standing record is, you get them for free. If not, you pay.

  “The record was twenty-eight,” Joe said. “And I got twenty-seven before I had a little bit of bulimic behavior.”

  “Right,” I said, giggling. “I know how that works. Urges contrary to swallowing, as they say.”

  “Right,” said Gentleman Joe. “But I try not to use that one…because I know who invented it.”

  A week after the Frank’s Red Hot episode, Gentleman Joe gained a lasting ally in his war against the Fed. After the Frank’s Red Hot event, George Shea warned Arnie “Chowhound” Chapman that he would have to sign an IFOCE contract if he wanted to compete in the Ben’s Kosher Deli Matzo Ball Eating Contest finals. George e-mailed the contract, but Chowhound refused to sign it.

  The contract felt fishy, Chowhound explained. “What? You mean I can’t go to some local thing and win two hundred bucks for my family? I mean, who are you to tell me that I got this talent, but I can’t go use it?” At the same time, the thought of not being able to compete in matzo balls was almost too much to bear. After the Frank’s Red Hot win, Chowhound was feeling like “someone who could make noise in competitive eating.”

  He had only competed in a handful of IFOCE events and felt that matzo balls would be his breakout performance. After buying matzo balls in bulk, he had trained for months. “And I don’t even like matzo balls,” he said. “I think they’re disgusting. But I ate so many matzo balls. I ate more matzo balls than anybody should eat in a lifetime in getting ready for this.” Chowhound called the Ben’s Deli PR rep to complain about the contract dispute, but was told that nothing could be done. “Do you realize that you’ve just made a deal with the devil?” Chowhound responded.

  It was a day that would live in competitive-eating infamy: January 27, 2004. Aware that he wouldn’t be allowed to compete, Arnie Chowhound Chapman showed up at Ben’s Deli anyway. “And of course, I was steaming,” he said. “I was extremely angry. And I’m gonna be honest with you, I was angry with the other eaters.” He felt that they should protest to George and stick up for his right to compete. But the other eaters had all signed the contract and were thus short on sympathy.

  Chowhound decided to actively boycott the contest. As the competition began to unfold, with George laying out the precompetition hype, Chowhound’s bark became his bite. He started walking up and down the table, trying to get under the skin of various eaters. He approached Crazy Legs.

  “Cut off your dreadlocks, man!” Chowhound remembers saying. “Because dreadlocks are supposed to be about consciousness. It’s supposed to be about doing something positive. And what you’re doing right now, in going along with this bullshit, watered-down contest, is not positive. Your dreadlocks are doing you no good. Cut ’em off!”

  As Badlands Booker remembers it, the words were even more provocative, such that Crazy Legs, who’s not the brawling type, was ready to fight. But the other eaters calmed him down. When nothing came of the confrontation, Chowhound, incensed, approached Badlands.

  “Hey, Booker!” he yelled out. “I thought slavery was over!”

  Whoa. Though I wasn’t there, I imagine a record scratching and the place going silent. As I understand it, the S-word, like the N-word, is not something you use lightly around African-Americans. Badlands, for his part, was dumbfounded. “I’m up there with the IFOCE shirt on, you know, representin’ the clique,” he explains. “And he says that. I was like, ‘Ohhhhh! You went there.’ ”

  Chowhound defends the comment, saying it wasn’t meant to be racist, that his intentions were misconstrued. He claims that the word “slavery” only came out because, in certain eating circles, the IFOCE contract was commonly referred to as “the slave contract.” He says he grew up in Red Hook, Brooklyn, and knew his share of black folk. “The thing that’s really ironic about this whole thing is that I’m like a reggae fanatic,” Chowhound says. “I love black culture. I know more about black history than most black people do.”

  Badlands maintained perspective, as is his wont. He had met Chowhound before and thought he was “a great guy.” In fact, Chowhound had competed in Badlands’ first Nathan’s contest in Long Island. “If I didn’t know the man, I would think he was probably a racist. But I actually knew what he meant. He thought that because I was with the IFOCE…that I was a slave to them. That’s why I didn’t wig out on him or nothing like that. And you know, that’s not my nature. I’m not gonna stoop to the level to kick his ass, mess around, and get arrested.”

  When the imbroglio boiled over, Badlands performed a few rap tunes for the delighted audience. Then, employing a Zen mind trick that allows him to funnel anger into raw ingestion, he won, swallowing twenty and a quarter baseball-sized matzo balls in five minutes, twenty-five seconds. “I’m not gonna let him steal my joy, competing,” Badlands says. “I trained for this day.
It’s very important to me. So I’m not gonna let his little comments get me off of my focus.”

  The next day, Chowhound Chapman sent Badlands a letter explaining what he meant. He hadn’t meant to offend, and if he had, he apologized. With twenty-twenty hindsight, Chowhound “wouldn’t have put it that way.” In the end, Badlands bears no ill will toward Chowhound, but can’t guarantee that other IFOCE eaters share his compassion: “Sometimes the tongue is like a sword. The damage has been done. It’s the talk around the competitive-eating watercooler. It’s like, ‘You heard what he said to Booker? You heard what he did to Crazy Legs?’ ”

  Arnie Chapman’s fixation with justice may stem from his having been dealt a bad hand early on. Growing up in a foster home, he became the self-appointed “barracks lawyer” for kids who got in trouble. In the army, he spent two years of active duty stationed in the demilitarized zone that separates North and South Korea. He was forced to listen to speakers belting out mind-numbing Communist propaganda, and the outrage he felt toward Kim II Sung and his suffering constituents was seared indelibly into his memory.

  Though his father claims he’d always been able to make food disappear, Arnie credits his impoverished youth for his appetite. He remembers going days without eating as a young boy. Later, as the youngest of three brothers in a foster home with dozens of competing mouths, Arnie saw the dining room as a battle zone. “I like to think that I’ve eaten competitively my whole life,” he says.

  What a pleasant surprise then to discover that he could eat not only for free, but for profit. Indeed, like many gurgitators, Chowhound started out as a mercenary eater. His first contest was back in 1991, when he was unemployed and living in Rockaway Park, Brooklyn. Riding by a Nathan’s Famous hot dog stand, he saw a sign advertising a hot dog contest with a $100 prize. With dollar signs in his eyes, he snarfed down eleven and a half hot dogs and buns in six minutes to take the bounty.