All You Can Eat

by John O'Connor

Eat! Eat! Eat! Eat! Eat!                                                                                     -- Crowd chant at the First Annual Burrito Snackdown

     Through much of human history a hearty appetite has signified prowess. Egyptian caliphs once had to be obese, for instance, to rule with any fortitude. It is said, also, that Guido of Spoleto was denied the French throne on account of being a frugal eater. Times have changed. Our president recently admonished us to stop eating so much, exercise and, for God's sake, lose some weight. Yet, in at least one realm gluttony still equals greatness. Abstemiousness, in fact, is the last thing on display in the world's newest professional sport-competitive eating. No longer restricted to county-fair sideshows, speed-eating contests have been formalized by a worldwide regulatory body, the International Federation Of Competitive Eating, complete with rules, judges, and an intricate rankings system for "professional gurgitators." Harkening back to Dionysian days of ritualized indulgence, these contests showcase a unique blend of abdominal athleticism and good old fashion Roman spectacle. They are theatres of excess in perhaps the most excessive of times, yet, most importantly, according to the IFOCE, they are fun for the whole family.

     Professional speed-eating was on display recently in lower Manhattan at the First Annual Burrito Snackdown (to be shown October 5 @ 5 p.m. on the Food Network), a burrito-eating contest hosted by the IFOCE and quasi fast-food chain Burritoville. Six heavyweight gurgitators, most in their late 30s and weighing between 300 to 400 pounds, gathered on a rainy Saturday night for a shot at the Gold Burritoville Championship Belt and, by extension, a place in the IFOCE record books. The contest was to begin at 10, preceded by the amateur "Under Card" event at 9:30. I arrived at 8. My friend Isaac accompanied me, agreeing to take the photos for the story I was writing. Only later did we discover the battery in his digital camera was nearly empty, costing us some potentially choice photos. A sign on the door announced "Free Food and Drink Provided by Burritoville," and upon entering we were besieged by the smell of reheated tortilla.

     Crammed into the space the size of my apartment were at least two hundred people; young twenty-somethings in vintage t-shirts and trucker hats, New Balanced yuppies toting baby carriages, all yapping away into cell-phones. Precocious adolescents ran amok. A few gurgitators mingled with the crowd. One, 360-pound Ed "Cookie" Jarvis, was dressed as Uncle Sam, complete with blue and white striped top hat and giant red suspenders. Another, called "Gasseous Maximus," resembled a Roman centurion, albeit with sweatpants sticking out under his armor. On a low stage set to one side of the room an emcee, dressed in navy suit and porkpie hat, advised the crowd to eat and drink as much of the Burritoville fare as they wanted. Behind him a middle-aged rock band, whose members were all smoking cigarettes in between sips of beer, appeared to be getting ready to play.

     Plopped on a table along the back wall were several foil containers filled with what appeared to be burritos. The competitive eating spirit had obviously infected the crowd. People indulged voraciously, like a pack of ravenous wolves, practically shoving one another out of the way for the food. I was feeling a bit peckish myself but found it difficult to get anywhere near the table. Isaac diverted to the bar while I pressed on, and eventually I managed to elbow my way in for a closer look. Once there, however, all desire to eat vanished. It was a terrifying scene: soggy tortillas dripping with oily meat and cheese and sour cream, several bowls of way-too-green guacamole, and little cups spilling-over brown salsa. I went to find Isaac at the bar where, fortunately, there was Budweiser on-tap, and gin-mixers, too.

     The Burritoville interior is faux-southwestern schmaltz with a splash of deco pizzazz. Exposed brick walls merged with red vinyl booths and splotchy-black Formica tabletops. A circular Aztec calendar, made of foam and painted the color of adobe, hung above the cash register. Kitschy, 1920s-era movie posters, all in Spanish, adorned every wall. During regular business hours patrons can fill water cups from a 20-gallon plastic container, like in a campsite. Tortilla chips and salsa are complimentary, but for dining-in only; "Sorry, Not For Take-Out," says a laminated sign affixed to the chip basket. Isaac and I watched as Burritoville employees, practically the only thing Mexican about the whole place, rushed to and from the kitchen refilling food containers. Behind the counter, atop a "Snapple Iced-Tea" refrigerator, was a gigantic chocolate cake fringed with strawberries. Several small children were eyeing it pensively, and one wondered aloud, "Is it real?"

     We gravitated down the bar to the side of the stage, near the restrooms. In front of the stage was a long table where the competition was to take place. Dozens of people were packed in the corridor between the bar and stage. With scare room to maneuver, I started getting two and three cups of beer each trip to the bar to cut down on travel time. "What are all these people doing here?" I queried Isaac, amazed by the turnout. "Saturday night, Manhattan, free food and drink," he responded, one hand stuffed in the pocket of his tan windbreaker. I caught sight of a young couple, embracing in the middle of the floor, making out in between bites of their sopping-wet tortillas. "Let's get the story and get out of here," I said.

     I kept my eyes peeled for "Hungry" Charles Hardy, the two-time American hotdog eating champion and marquee gurgitator at the Snackdown. Hardy, according to a large IFOCE poster on the wall, was the world Matzo Ball eating champion and had recently consumed 12 feet of sushi at an eating contest in Japan. This, I knew, was the man I needed to interview. The problem was finding him in this sea of people.

     Back on stage the band, after nearly an hour, was still tuning-up. The lead singer, who appeared to have been drinking steadily since age twelve, wore tight black jeans, white t-shirt and a dark green sport-coat with stains down the front. A cigarette dangling from his lips, he leaned on the microphone stand, mumbled something to the crowd, then bellowed, and sat down on an amplifier, sulking. Though his words were inscrutable, his intent of was clear enough, and some quick thinking person fetched him a beer before things turned ugly. "Jesus," I muttered to Isaac, "this band is definitely on their way." "Oh yeah," he replied, "they're a little bit older, a median age of 47. But they're on the verge." Finally, after a change of guitars, the band started playing a screeching, revved-up Irish ballad. The crowd, as one, turned quickly back to their conversations. I accidentally spilled my beer on a pile of wires connected to the speakers and microphones on stage. Fortunately, the sound-check guy didn't notice, and I went back to the bar for more drinks.

     Around 9 o'clock I spotted an enormous, sweaty man milling around the front of the stage. Though not in costume, he was wearing a black t-shirt emblazoned with the IFOCE motto "Nothing In Moderation" in gold and red, and I immediately took him to be "Hungry" Hardy. I walked over and asked, but after a polite rebuff the man introduced himself as Eric "Badlands" Booker, another Snackdown competitor and the current Long Island hotdog-eating champion. Standing about 6'3" at 400-pounds, "Badlands" struck an imposing figure. He was swirling a cherry-colored cocktail, one hand resting casually on his substantial belly. He's a conductor on the #7 subway train, he said, and has been eating 'professionally,' on his days off, for five years. "My first contest was in 1997," said "Badlands," "it was Nathan's Regional hotdog contest in Coney Island. I take my kids to the arcade there, and I saw a sign in the window, it said, 'Eat all you can eat--Nathan's Regional Hotdog Contest,' and I said, 'I'm a big eater, let me give it a shot.' That year, I ate 17 hotdogs. I set a Long Island record. It was a great day. And ever since then I was hooked."

     I asked "Badlands" why he partook in eating contests. "I enjoy doing it," he said, "I just love the exposure. I love the camaraderie among the guys. A lot of us are from the East Coast. And we all talk and gossip on the phone, and you know, it's just a great thing to do, a nice thing to pass the time." I asked him if there were other incentives to contests. "There are some contests where it can be lucrative," he said, "like 'The Glutton Bowl.' We got paid for that. Ben's Kosher Deli Matzo Ball Contest, they have a grand prize." I mentioned the 30-pound Gold Burritoville Snackdown Belt that was up for grabs. "That would be nice," he said, "but, whether you win or lose, it's just for the fun of the sport."

     "Do all gurgitators feel that way?" I asked. "A few people were upset last year," said "Badlands," referring to the controversial victory by the 131-pound Takeru "The Prince" Kobayashi at the 2001 Nathan's Famous Coney Island Hotdog Contest, the world's premiere competitive eating event. Kobayashi, a young Japanese speed-eating phenom, trounced the competition at Nathan's by downing 50 hotdogs and buns in the regulation 12 minutes, twice as many as the closest American competitor. His victory added to an already tense rivalry between Japanese and American gurgitators. A few even accused Kobayashi of taking muscle relaxants to loosen his stomach before contests, which he vehemently denied. "The Japanese have been at Nathan's since, I believe, '96-97," said "Badlands." "Kobayashi, he's a phenomenal eating champion in Japan. He won several contests over there in order to qualify for Nathan's. What he did was incredible. For 86 years the contest has been going on, and people been eating like 20, 22, 24 1/2 hotdogs, tops, and then this guy comes over and eats 50! I never saw anything like that before in my life. He has the perfect blend of stamina and capacity and technique. He just keeps going." "Badlands" disavowed any bad feelings between himself and Japanese gurgitators, and he is particularly fond of Kobayashi. "Kobayashi is a great guy," he reiterated several times throughout our conversation.

     "There's a theory out there that says the less fat you have around the stomach, the more it can expand," said 'Badlands,' trying to account for Kobayashi's success against competitors more than three-times his weight. "That's why the Japanese guys do really well. They're so thin and they have the ability to stretch their stomach to the skin. Whereas, a person like me, I'm 400-pounds, I stretch, like, to the fat. But the kid Kobayashi is good, that's all I can say. Fifty hot-dogs is amazing."

     Contrary to what you might think, many competitive eaters are actually in pretty good health, at least according to "Badlands." "Basically, what I do, personally, is I try to keep myself in shape," he said, munching contentedly on ice from his drink. "I go to the doctor a lot. I get my cholesterol checked, get my blood pressure checked, and make sure everything works out fine. But I just think that I'm very experienced at doing this. I've been doing this for five years, and I haven't been in no type of trauma or anything." "Badlands" paused for a moment and rubbed his eyes. Isaac, who'd been standing a few feet away, stepped in and took a couple of snapshots. "But I guess," continued "Badlands," "I wouldn't advise people to try it without supervision, because these contests are held with EMTs available just in case anything goes wrong."

     Professional gurgitators consider themselves full-fledged athletes, said "Badlands." Most follow a strict training regimen beginning a month or so before a contest. "Badlands" himself drinks a gallon to a gallon and a half of water per day, which stretches the stomach muscles to allow for more capacity stuffing. A few days prior to a contest he goes to a Chinese buffet near his home on Long Island. "They have a good mix of Chinese, Japanese and Mongolian food there," he said, "and I just totally pig-out, you know, I eat at least four full-plates of food. I get the stomach good and stretched."

     By 9:30 the amateur contest was about to begin. On stage an IFOCE representative was reading aloud the names of the amateur competitors, most of whom were last-second sign-ups. "Badlands," polishing off the last bit of ice in his cup, seemed ready for our conversation to end. I asked if he was nervous about the professional contest, and whether he had any predictions about the outcome, but he wouldn't speculate. "Right now, I'm pretty empty, and I'm stretched and ready to go," he said before sauntering off to the bar.

     Isaac and I didn't pay much attention to the amateur event. Instead, seeing that the crowd at the food table had died down, we decided to go back for a second look. "Man, if this place is not fucking rife for salmonella I don't know what is," I said, staring into tins containing remnants of ground beef and cheddar cheese gathering in oily pools. "All these people, just dipping their hands into these containers. I think I'm going to be sick."

     Isaac wound up getting a good photo of the amateur contest winner, a dread-locked guy dressed in a green leotard with angel wings. Finally, around 10:15, the "Main Event" got underway. "Competitors found to be eating unsafely will be automatically disqualified," bellowed the emcee over the loud speakers. "A steady, paced chewing and swallowing is strictly enforced by the IFOCE," he said, "and if it appears that an eater's 'suffering urge is contrary to swallowing,' also known as 'the Roman method,' they will be disqualified." The six gurgitators were lined-up at the table in front of the stage. Before each of them sat several plates of six-ounce burritos, stuffed with black beans and mozzarella cheese, and tall cups of water. They would have eight minutes to eat as many burritos as possible.

     Adding a heightened sense of macabre to the whole scene, Bernard Getz was introduced by the emcee as a "celebrity" judge, having been famous for shooting four unarmed black men on a New York City subway a few years back. Isaac and I were pressed tight against the eating table, with the crowd surging behind us. The kegs had just about run dry, and it was clear that spectators, anxious to see some professional gurgitation, had grown restless.

     Somehow we wound up standing next to Bernie Getz. "I am touching Bernie Getz's ass," Isaac said to me, with a troubled look on his face. "I'm rubbing my pelvis against his ass, at this very moment." This apparently couldn't be helped due to the close quarters. Isaac also had to fight-off some over-zealous press photographers: a couple of late-arriving young ladies who tried to muscle us out of our coveted spot. He cajoled and elbowed them very physically, and I thought for a minute it was going to come to blows. I know from experience that Isaac won't hesitate to punch a girl. But instead he started sweet-talking them, saying to the much more feisty assistant, "Listen, sweetheart," and something-or-other, which got them to back off a bit. Despite the truce, he poured a cup of water down one of the chick's pants later on.

     By coincidence we also would up next to two guys who identified themselves as "Badland's" "official trainers." I wondered what this meant and considered asking them some journalistic-type questions, but by then I'd had way too much to drink and couldn't formulate a coherent sentence. But it didn't matter. They were too distracted, or drunk, or both, and hollered over and over again, at the top of their lungs, "Badlands in the house! Badlands in the house!"

     The emcee, after giving his best WWF impersonation--"Ladies and Gentlemen! Let's get ready to RUMBLLLLLLLLE!"--began counting down from ten. The crowd, pressing forward, counted along. Finally the start-whistle blew and the eaters were off, the crowd urging them on with a chorus of "Eat! Eat! Eat! Eat! Eat!"

     I was standing at one end of the table, across from gurgitator "Krazy" Kevin Tracey. His eyes closed, "Krazy" worked his jaws feverishly, smashing burrito into his face faster than he could eat them. Sour cream dribbled down the front of his black t-shirt. At about the two-minute mark he had the white stuff in his hair. "Badlands" was at the opposite end of the table. In stark contrast to the other competitors, who were hunched over their plates of burritos in pained concentration, "Badlands" appeared relaxed and confident. He stood straight and smiled, the small mountain of burritos in front of him rapidly diminishing. At one point he even started showboating, doing a little jiggle-type dance that shook every ounce of his 400-pound frame.

     The crowd again roared as one, "Eat! Eat! Eat! Eat! Eat!" A man behind me barked repeatedly "Eat those burritos!" Gurgitators complied, cramming burritos into their mouths at an astonishing rate. Their bodies betrayed the physical toil involved: chests heaving, shoulders arched and eyes watering. I had asked "Badlands" earlier if he had ever seen a competitor vomit at a contest and he said no, that loss of gurgitational control is a cardinal sin in competitive eating. But at certain moments during the Snackdown several competitors appeared on the verge, particularly "Krazy" Kevin Tracey. In the long run, however, everyone managed to hold it together.

     At the four-minute mark "Badlands" appeared to be comfortably in the lead. Yet it was hard to tell for sure. "Hungry" Charles Hardy, who'd I never managed to interview, was on the far side of "Badlands" and completely obscured from view. The IFOCE judges tired to make periodic counts of burritos eaten, but the roar from the crowd rendered their announcements inaudible. From what I could see, Dominic "The Doginator" Cardo and Ed "Cookie" Jarvis, more than 600-pounds between them, both seemed to be doing well as the clock approached five-minutes, while "Gasseous Maximus" appeared to be having trouble. "Krazy" Kevin visibly slowed around the sixth. It was then, after I reminded Isaac to get some close-up photos, that he admitted the camera battery was nearly dead. For a moment I was livid, but by then it didn't matter, since the contest was nearly over.

     The final whistle blew, and gurgitators finished chewing what was left in their mouths. "Krazy" Kevin, fatigued, leaned against the table on his elbows. "Badlands," his "trainers" still singing his praises next to where I stood, punched the air in victory. After a brief count by the judges "Badlands" was announced the winner, having eaten 15 1/2 burritos. Second place went to "Hungry" Charles Hardy, who ate 12. Just how soundly "Badlands" trounced the rest of the competition was clear from the look on other gurgitator's faces, some of whom looked liable to puke at any moment. "Badlands," on the other hand, had hardly broken a sweat and appeared ready to stuff away even more food. Later, onstage, as he hoisted the Championship Belt above his head, "Badlands" was beaming, black beans and sour cream pasting his teeth. "I'm going to Disneyworld!" he shouted, "I'm going to Disneyworld!"

     At this point, however, the crowd had pretty much lost interest. Most people, including Isaac, seemed more concerned with getting the burritos leftover from the contest, and they quickly pounced on them. Once again the eating display put on by the crowd promised to turn more ugly than the professional contest itself. I grabbed Isaac, his hands full of burritos, and hightailed it for the exit.