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

by Ryan Nerz

  As quickly as Chowhound’s competitive-eating career started, it stalled. Disappointed at the small number of tournaments on the then fledgling eating circuit, Arnie decided to turn his obsession with justice into a job. Over the years, all of his caretakers had relayed the same message. “They all said I was a good advocate of people, that I was concerned about the underdog, and that I would make a good social worker.” Inspired by this message, he got a bachelor’s in social work, and then a graduate degree in vocational rehab counseling.

  His competitive-eating career catapulted him toward righteousness as well. After narrowly losing a Long Island pickle-eating contest to a man named, appropriately enough, Marv Biteman, Chowhound decided to get hungry and focused. “At some point in 2003, I got this crazy idea, like, I’m gonna give it all I can. I had a mortgage, I had a kid, I had a wife…. I gotta have some kind of life outside all these responsibilities.” He signed up for the Nathan’s Famous Civil Service qualifier and didn’t win, but showed some promise.

  At the 2003 Cannoli Eating Competition in Little Italy, Arnie says he learned the hard way about the cutthroat nature of the IFOCE circuit. Just minutes before the contest started, the other eaters’ wives and friends started handing them paper bags. From them they pulled a secret ingredient known to circuit veterans: coffee, for dunking. Arnie called out to his wife, desperate, but she was stuck in the crowd. “I learned from that experience. I’m, like, these are nice guys. But they weren’t nice enough to tell me about that little trick.”

  Still, Chowhound remembers how his “heart swelled with pride to be a part of the IFOCE.” He took a respectable fourth in a star-studded field in cheesecake. On the basis of such solid finishes, George Shea sent him out to Las Vegas for the Stagg Chili Eating Contest. Even then, though, he sensed the IFOCE’s treachery. Of the chili-eating contest, for example, Chowhound says, “When I look back, I was one of the most least-deserving people to go.” He also claims that, though his travel and lodging were covered, the IFOCE reneged on a promise of $100 in expense money.

  The stage was set for the Ben’s Deli Matzo Ball meltdown. Once that occurred, there was no going back. Chowhound came to a stark realization. “Shea wasn’t gonna let me into any of his contests unless I signed a contract. So at one point, I said to myself, ‘The only way I’m gonna compete against really good eaters is if I make my own contests.’ ” Destiny, it seemed, was in Chowhound’s hands.

  He launched a Web site, www.competitiveeaters.com. It started out as a spite site that, like speedeat.com, served mainly as an open forum to vent at the Fed. “At first, it looked like doctrine. And then some of the people around me told me there was too much anger.” With the help of people like Coondog O’Karma, another renegade IFOCE outcast from Ohio, Chowhound began envisioning a potential revolution. They formed the Association of Independent Competitive Eaters (AICE), a loose affiliation of gurgitators that more closely resembles a union than a league.

  Unlike the IFOCE, which Arnie sees as a dictatorship run by the Shea brothers, Chowhound and Coondog would run AICE by socialistic principles. Established by eaters, the league’s core principle was the recognition of “eater sacrifice.” AICE would acknowledge that eaters show up for contests, sometimes at their own expense, sacrificing time that could be spent with family. They prepare, train, and adjust their eating schedules for contests. Pencil pushers like George Shea don’t understand this principle, he says, because he’s not a gurgitator. “He talks about ‘I do all the work.’ But do you know what it’s like getting behind a table of hamburgers or hot dogs and going twelve minutes? I mean, I’ve run marathons before. I’ve been an infantry soldier. But that’s one of the toughest fuckin’ things you can do…So to say that an eater’s contribution to the whole thing is insignificant is totally devaluing what the eater does.”

  As the Web site’s mission statement details, AICE stresses the importance of “Eaters’ Rights.” The most fundamental right is that eaters possess artistic control over their presentation. This means that all professional eaters shall be introduced based on their “professional identities.” “So if I’m the knockwurst champion,” Chowhound explains, “and I hold the record for that, I don’t want you to forget about it. It’s something I did. It’s something I accomplished.”

  When discussing issues and planning contests, Chowhound and Coondog “seek input from all Stake Holders for AICE standards, values, and principles.” This means that if AICE is contracted to produce, say, a steak-eating contest, all those who hold a stake in the contest will be consulted beforehand about how best to consume steak competitively. Stake Holders in AICE include, but are not limited to “the eaters, the family members of the eaters, the eaters’ organizations, any of the sponsors doing the event, all the people that are connected to the contest, and the billions of eating fans out there.” That’s a lot of voices to reconcile, and at times Chowhound admits that he, being the CEO, has to step up and make a game-time decision.

  AICE’s most socialistic policy involves the sharing of revenue. At the 2004 World Chili Eating Competition, all of the eaters, representatives, and family members pitched in on the contest’s production. Afterward, the eaters who placed in the top three “took the winnings, threw it all in the pot, and split it up,” Chowhound says. “And the money we had to pay for lodging and all that was split up. And we got a fraction of the money that the Sheas would normally get for a contest.”

  This idealistic business model, which takes profit sharing to new extremes, seems to work for AICE. But if the core Stake Holders in the company exceed the present base of a half dozen or so, management difficulties are bound to follow. Already Chowhound has noted the difficulty of juggling roles such as CEO/gurgitator. At the chili-eating competition, for example, he set up the contest, did some emceeing, then took his place at the table and won the contest. Arnie admits that this setup detracted somewhat from the event’s professionalism. “My own people told me that it just kind of looked weird.”

  But such are the growing pains of starting up a competitive-eating league/union based loosely on Marxist principles. And there has been growth. There was the chili gig, a hoagie-eating championship in Pennsylvania, a Coney Island hamburger-eating competition on the Fourth of July, and their biggest breakthrough yet, a New Year’s 2005 gig at the Fiesta Bowl.

  Though some contend that AICE’s innovations have been minimal, the institution of “picnic style” eating rules is regarded by some as a breathtaking advancement. On September 12, 2004, at the Corn Beef Sandwich Eating Competition in Coney Island, Brooklyn, eaters were “required to adhere to picnic style eating rules which prohibits dunking, separating and/or desecrating the food item.” This advancement, Chowhound says, is both a publicity gimmick and a reaction to the fact that most Americans associate competitive eating with footage from the Nathan’s Famous contest. “And when they watch Nathan’s, they see the guys dunking the hot dogs, and the buns, and separating them, and the various tricks connected to that.” Because the victors are Japanese, American viewers inevitably think of them as “foreign invaders, with their tricky ways of eating food.” Picnic-style rules maintain the integrity of the competitive foodstuff. It’s an appeal to tradition, to eating the foodstuff “the way God intended.”

  Considering AICE’s advancements and growing calendar of events, some members of the competitive-eating community are surprised that IFOCE eaters don’t defect. One can’t help but think of leagues like the ABA and the AFL, which changed their respective sports and were ultimately absorbed by the dominant leagues, the NBA and the NFL, respectively. But as of yet, no eaters have made the switch. Why is this? Some might say that eaters are held back by the inertia of breaking with tradition. Others cite the Shea brothers’ skills as emcees, their public relations acumen, and the rising profile of the IFOCE. But more than anything, it’s likely a by-product of loyalty. “How can you do it better than George Shea?” asks Badlands Booker. “He’s competitive eating personified.” Chowhoun
d believes the reason no one defects is, in a word, convenience. “The other option is you have to be crazy like myself or Joe Menchetti or Coondog and be willing to travel to other places and compete in other events.”

  But the battle rages on. Allegations shoot back and forth. IFOCE members accuse AICE of sabotaging its events, of calling up their sponsors and lowballing IFOCE fees to pick up their scraps. AICE accuses the IFOCE of instituting a lifetime ban on all AICE eaters, of threatening lawsuits for breach of contract, and of freezing non-IFOCE eaters out of middle-ground events such as Wing Bowl. George Shea sees both sides of the argument, but opts for the middle ground. “There are those who have accused Coondog and Chowhound and Joe Menchetti of being mediocre imitators with no vision and a lot of bitterness. And while I disagree with all those words, I respect as an American people’s right to say them. Because the First Amendment is the best amendment.”

  For outsiders looking in, the whole conflict probably seems ludicrous. A competitive eaters’ union? A Web site whose primary goal is to malign the International Federation of Competitive Eating? The argument is so esoteric that most outsiders wouldn’t even understand the cyber-barbs tossed back and forth on fringe competitive-eating Web sites such as those of Gentleman Joe Menchetti and Beautiful Brian Seiken. When Menchetti, who is loosely attached to AICE, writes that “the suicide/homicide watch is firmly on Beautiful Brian” because he wasn’t picked for a select televised IFOCE event, it’s an inside joke understood by fifty people, tops. When Beautiful Brian threatens on his Web site to stuff cheesecake up the ass of an AICE eater named Eddie “the Geek” Vidmar, many IFOCE members don’t even know whom he’s talking about. Only in this media-saturated age of blogs and vanity Web sites could such an obscure argument get so involved, and so heated.

  Some claim the competition has been good for the sport, that IFOCE prize money has shot up considerably since AICE hit the scene, and some appeal, Rodney King-like, with that clichéd sentiment “Can’t we all just get along?” Many IFOCE eaters claim that, were he given the opportunity, Gentleman Joe Menchetti would get back in the league in a heartbeat.

  But one thing is clear: Chowhound will stand his ground. He believes America is filled with undiscovered gurgitators who never see the light of day because the IFOCE klieg lights never shine down upon them. There’s “Big Dan,” who beat Chowhound in a wing-eating contest in Dewey Beach. There’s Tony “Hustler” Harrison, who edged Chowhound out for a Baltimore pasta-eating championship. These guys may be unknown, but he believes that they possess some of the greatest American appetites of the twenty-first century. If Chowhound has his way, if the quixotic dream that is the Association of Independent Competitive Eaters is realized, the future will belong not to the IFOCE, that Hollywood tyrant of competitive eating, but to the common man with his uncommon, oversized stomach.

  15

  Noodles and the Roman Incident

  Slowly, a sound started to build in Lardass’s stomach. A strange and scary sound like a log truck coming at you at a hundred miles per hour. And suddenly, Lardass opened his mouth. And before Bill Travis knew it, he was covered with five pies’ worth of used blueberries.

  Gordie, from the movie Stand by Me

  Three days before the Zyng Asian Grill World Noodle Eating Championship, I become concerned that the client won’t get its money’s worth in publicity. Though I am scheduled to do some on-air radio gigs from my Brooklyn apartment, I sense that Columbus, Ohio, is too small of a media market to drum up much coverage. Fairly ignorant of how the publicity machine works, I come up with an idea. The Atkins diet has reached its zenith of popularity, so maybe we should use this to our advantage in publicizing the event. After a brief consultation with the Shea brothers, I invent a fictional group known as the Atkins Liberation Front, a.k.a. ALF.

  The Atkins Liberation Front, I decide, flourishes on college campuses like that of Ohio State University in Columbus. Its radical members are sick of feeling guilty for eating carbs and have chosen the Zyng Noodle Eating Championship as a site for a major, potentially violent protest. The Shea brothers don’t think my plan is workable and decide instead to pursue media outlets more aggressively, but I’m not so easily deterred. I make a few phone calls to friends in the Midwest to see if they will dress up in all-black outfits and make up some placards. They all think I’m nuts. When I explain my idea to Jay Sunderland, the owner of the restaurant where the contest will be held, there is silence on his end of the line. Frustrated at the failure of my one big PR stunt idea, I crumple up the press release I’ve written and toss it in the trashcan.

  In my conversations with Jay Sunderland, I soon realize that he assumes the IFOCE is like a traveling circus. He tells me he’s looking forward to having Kobayashi in town, as well as that Crazy Legs guy he recently watched escape from a box of popcorn on CNN. It’s not the first time that a client presumes that our eaters travel in a pack, fed raw meat daily and let out only before showtime. Because of the low prize money ($250 for first, $100 for second), the competition is less a showcase of big-named talent than a celebration of Midwestern gurgitory prowess.

  On the day of the event, May 21, 2004, it’s a blazing eighty-five degrees and skin-sticky humid out. Fifteen eaters are lined up at a row of tables in the parking lot next to the restaurant. The turnout is solid—a hundred or so fans, several reporters, and quite a few local TV cameras. But I can’t tell if they understand the significance of the event. This is where competitive-eating dreams begin, I explain, at the mail-room floor, the minor leagues, where individual greatness is discovered and cultivated, over years, into that of tried-and-true professionals.

  Before introducing the eaters, I issue a safety precaution. At IFOCE headquarters, I say, we have received numerous threats from the Atkins Liberation Front, a militant left-wing organization firmly opposed to the strictures of the Atkins diet, to use this contest as a platform for their cause. So if anyone sees suspicious long-haired types skulking about the premises, please inform the authorities immediately. Zyng Asian Grill has beefed up the security detail in preparation for just such a clash. The ALF are a notoriously violent bunch, I explain, as opposed to their mild-mannered counterparts, the Pro-Carb Congress.

  I introduce the eaters, focusing on the locals first. There is Hungry Justin Henderson, an Ohio State med school student with an interest in gastroenterology, who may or may not be using this contest as research. There is Susan Bowlus, a registered nurse whose last name means “a soft mass of unchewed food.” And there is Kevin “the Carburetor” Carr, a local favorite who recently appeared on the reality TV show Are You Hot?

  I pit the locals against a couple of midranked interlopers. Big Brian Subich is an athletic behemoth of a man wearing an IFOCE T-shirt, who at six foot six, three hundred pounds, more than lives up to his nickname. Then the favorite, from the confusingly named city of Boston, New York, is “Buffalo” Jim Reeves. A humble man with an easy gap-toothed grin, Reeves is a chicken-wing specialist. Currently ranked eighteenth in the world, Reeves, who will compete alongside his brother Ed, once ate nine quarter-pound burgers and buns in five minutes.

  We count down, and they’re off. There is something primal about shoveling noodles into one’s mouth. The eaters look like tapeworm-infested farm animals at the trough. The slipperiness and thick consistency of the Shanghai noodles make for a slow eat. Five minutes in, at the halfway mark, the contest is still up for grabs. Kevin Carr is in the lead, with Buffalo Jim Reeves and an unknown rugby player from the University of Michigan named Brett Barna trailing by a few noodles. “I am humbled to take part in an event of this magnitude,” I say. “Never before in the history of this parking lot have the people of Columbus witnessed such greatness.” The eaters are red-faced and looking abnormally stressed, so I caution them to take their time and drink more water, but Kevin Carr, a rotund writer with a goatee and a belly like a basketball, keeps stuffing with a savagery rarely seen on the circuit. It doesn’t look quite right. I put my hand over
the mic and advise him to pace himself.

  As the last minute winds down, it feels as if something will have to give in this pent-up, sweltering feeding frenzy. Be it an orchestrated attack by the Atkins Liberation Front or a sudden thunderstorm, we are on the brink of something. Whatever it may be, Kevin Carr looks as if he might have something to do with it. He is really going for it. Following the gaze of the fans, I turn around. He looks like a human garbage disposal on turbo autopilot, cheeks puffed out in the same shape as his belly. Eyes shut. Hungry and focused. He just keeps cramming those noodles. There’s a term in sports psychology known as flow, which describes the mind state associated with peak performance. Kevin Carr has reached that level, having pulled almost a full bowl ahead of the pack. Yet it still doesn’t look quite right. “Ten, nine…”

  Freeze-frame. Before we get to what happens next, let me just say that I’m reluctant to even go there. Because competitive eating is about more than just puking. Whenever people ask me about competitive eating, the same topics come up. The first thing they ask is How does that Chinese guy eat all those hot dogs?” The second thing people ask is “Do they just go and puke it up afterward?”

  The answer is complex, but in truth most competitive eaters pride themselves in keeping it down. The top three eaters in the world—Kobayashi, Sonya Thomas, and Rich LeFevre—all solemnly swear they don’t upchuck after contests. When I asked one prominent gurgitator how common it is for eaters to pull the trigger, he claimed that less than 20 percent of the top-ranked eaters purge.

  The most common means of elimination, I’m told, is letting the natural digestive process do its thing. Of course, this results in wave after wave of bowel movements that can be both distressing and visually interesting. Some eaters use laxatives. When pressed about his postcontest ritual, Badlands Booker says, “I’m a gurgitator, man! I’m not into regurgitation.” He’s not afraid to use a laxative on occasion, but his more common postcontest ritual is pretty uneventful. He sits in his favorite armchair, watches ESPN, and drinks lots of seltzer water or diet Snapple. Every eater has a different technique for easing the digestive process. Crazy Legs Conti claims that bitters, the herbal ingredient used in mixed alcoholic drinks, is particularly helpful in digesting mass quantities.