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

Nerz, Ryan

Softcover

ISBN 10: 0312339682 ISBN 13: 9780312339685

Publisher: St. Martin's Griffin, 2006

Synopsis

Journalist Ryan Nerz spent a year penetrating the highest echelons of international competitive eating and Eat This Book is the fascinating and gut-bustingly hilarious account of his journey.
Nerz gives us all the facts about the history of the IFOCE (Independent Federation of Competitive Eating)--from the story of a clever Nathan's promotion that began in 1916 on the corner of Surf and Stillwell in Coney Island to the intricacies of individual international competitions, the controversial Belt of Fat Theory and the corporate wars to control this exploding sport. He keeps the reader turning the pages as we are swept up in the lives of Sonya "The Black Widow" Thomas, "Cookie" Jarvis, "Hungry" Charles Hardy, and many other top gurgitators whose egos and secret agendas, hopes and dreams are revealed in dramatic detail. As Nerz goes on his own quest to become a top gurgitator, we become obsessed with him as he lies awake at night in physical pain from downing dozens of burgers and learning to chug gallons of water to expand his increasingly abused stomach.
Sparing no one's appetite, Nerz reveals the training, game-day strategies and after-effects of competition in this delectably shocking banquet of gluttony and glory on the competitive eating circuit.

About this title

About the Author:

Ryan Nerz is a freelance journalist who has written for Esquire, The Village Voice, Time Out New York, ym, and The History Channel. Ryan has emceed IFOCE-sanctioned competitions involving meat pies, pulled pork barbecue sandwiches, jambalaya, jalapeno pepper, corned beef & cabbage and more. He currently works at the IFOCE as a part-time announcer.

Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.:

EAT THIS BOOK (Chapter 1)A Carnival Barker in Training

Observe the Shea brothers, press agents by trade, carnival barkers in spirit, as they do, in tandem, the most exquisite deadpan in both businesses.

--Joyce Wadler, The New York Times

George Shea (right) chuckles at a comment made by his brother, Rich Shea, during the introduction of the September 2003 Cannoli Eating Contest, part of the Feast of San Gennaro in New York's Little Italy. (Courtesy of Matt Roberts/IFOCE)

Ever since I was a young boy, I've wanted to be a competitive-eating emcee. Okay, that's a lie, but it's not as far-fetched as it sounds. When I moved to New York after graduating from an Ivy League college in 1997, I wanted to become a writer. My first job was as an editor of children's books, but I grew tired of editing other people's material and quit. I began writing whatever the world would pay me to write--pseudonymous contributions to the Sweet Valley High series, unauthorized biographies of teen stars, restaurant and music reviews. I used my friends' names for characters in steamy teen-romance novels, which amused them greatly. As the author of a character guide to Digimon, a popular Japanimation TV show on the Fox Kids network, I found myself almost disturbingly excited to sit around watching cartoons each afternoon. The pay wasn't overwhelming, but I was having a blast in New York and my job provided priceless conversation at parties and on dates.

To pay the bills, I took odd jobs. I waited tables, conducted exit polls, edited personal essays for college applicants, and even modeled for the covers of young-adult novels. On the side, I wrote short stories and screenplays, all the while filling notebooks with ideas for my big breakthrough in the glamorous world of media--but it never came. In the fall of 2001, I fled New York for Berlin to improve my German and write a "real" novel.

Upon my return to the Big Apple in 2002, I decided that "entertainer" was a more apt description of what I wanted to be. I took acting classes and got headshots made. While acting in a dreadful off-off-Broadway play, I found myself reading a novel backstage instead of focusing on my lines. For reasons that eluded everyone but me, I charged a $700 wolf mascot costume to my credit card. It arrived in a giant box, and I immediately began planning my debut as a performance artist.

After e-mailing dozens of friends, I showed up in the costume on the corner of Prince and Broadway, in Manhattan's chic SoHo district. I placed my cassette player on the ground and pushed play. The idea was to do a sort of live music video that would turn heads and shake up all those dead-serious downtown fashionistas. Despite a particularly moving flute solo, the Wolf garnered a total of $5 for his efforts. Sadly, this performance felt more on-point than anything else I'd done to date. It was at the very least original and felt like a step toward one of my major life goals--getting paid to play.

In June of 2003, I met for drinks with an old buddy, Dave Baer, who shares my interest in all things absurd. He was working for a company called the International Federation of Competitive Eating. I was aware of his offbeat job, having accompanied him back in 1997 to a hot-dog-eating contest in the food court of a mall in upstate New York. My only memory was that Dave, in an attempt to recruit competitors, had played a song from the Boogie Nights sound track. The song was "You Sexy Thing," by Hot Chocolate, and the chorus began as follows: "I believe in miracles / Where you from? / You sexy thing." When it came around to the chorus, Dave crooned his own falsetto version into the microphone: "I believe in...hot dogs!" The mallgoers stared up from their food trays, confused, while I doubled over with laughter.

Over drinks, Dave explained that the IFOCE, or the "circuit," as he called it, was growing at an improbably fast rate. He described one of his favorite "gurgitators," Eric "Badlands" Booker, an affable subway conductor on New York's 7 line, who trained by meditating and eating huge portions of cabbage. I was intrigued. The next day, I pitched the idea of chronicling a "training meal" for the Nathan's Famous Fourth of July hot-dog-eating contest to an editor at the Village Voice. Within a few hours, they offered to pay me fifty cents a word for the piece.

A few months later, I received an e-mail from Dave that changed my life. Would I be interested in hosting a Meat Pie Eating Competition in Natchitoches, Louisiana? They would pick up my travel expenses and pay me fairly handsomely for a few hours of work. It was a no-brainer. Frankly, I would have considered such an undertaking pro bono. My only questions were, What in the Sam Hill is a meat pie? And how do you pronounce Natchitoches?

Of course, I had no conception that this strange gig would turn into hundreds of gigs. I had no clue that "competitive eating emcee" would become my job title, that I would befriend dozens of pro eaters and write a book on the subject. I couldn't have imagined announcing an onion-eating contest in Maui, or witnessing the circuit's first-ever Heimlich maneuver at a jambalaya-eating contest. I couldn't have known that I would emcee the Nathan's Famous contest on the Fourth of July after appearing on the Today show, and later compete against the great Kobayashi in a burger-eating contest. At the time, it just seemed like an amusing adventure, some quick cash, and a funny story to tell my friends.

I was told to report to IFOCE headquarters for a brief tutorial. The office is in Chelsea, a trendy section of Manhattan, on the fourth floor. I naïvely expected the International Federation of Competitive Eating's office space to have an odd carnival feel to it. I imagined a training room in the back where one watched through observation windows huge men shove food down their gullets. There would be rows of cubicles with employees' feet kicked up on their desks, laughing hysterically into their phones. Perhaps a few eaters would be in cages, fed on occasion and released only before big contests.

In reality the vibe at IFOCE HQ is serious and diligent. (This is not to say it's normal. On one visit, I found the office filled with giant metal boxes that held corporate mascots like Charlie Tuna, the Michelin Man, Crash Test Dummy, and the California Raisin.) The office looks like your standard Manhattan corporate loft space, with five partially enclosed offices around the perimeter, four desks in an airy middle section, and a conference room with an oval table and a television.

I met with Dave Baer, along with George and Rich Shea, the brother duo who founded the IFOCE, in the conference room. My instructions were straightforward. All eaters had to be over the age of eighteen, the reasoning being that if you're old enough to vote, you're old enough to gorge responsibly. Each contestant had to sign a waiver that I would later return to the office. Under no circumstances would I allow eaters to compete who were underaged, under the influence of alcohol or drugs, or otherwise mentally or emotionally incapacitated.

I was given a checklist for hosting the contest. It included such details as food prep, quantity, and delivery, table space, sponsor signage, sufficient water for eaters, contest judges, eater relations, and sound system prep. There would be an emergency medical technician (EMT) at the event in case of, well, an emergency. I was not to start the competition until I had confirmed that an EMT was present.

As for the presentation, I was told to "provide maximum pageantry." I would start the show with a broad introduction to the sport of competitive eating. Such background info as speed-eating records and the history of the Nathan's Famous contest would help distinguish the event as a sport, as opposed to a local pie-eating contest. Then I would narrow the scope of my monologue to the event of the day, which in this case would be meat pies.

As a host, my job was to let a story unravel before the spectators' eyes. I had to strike a delicate balance between the facts--that we were witnessing history in the form of a first-ever meat-pie-eating record on the professional speed-eating circuit--and the inherent absurdity of the affair. George and Rich stressed that I should capture the depth of the sport, explaining that some eaters were rookies with natural capacity but mediocre jaw strength, while others were sprinters who might not have the endurance to go the distance. I would bring a stopwatch and keep track of the time for the audience and eaters.

To establish drama, I would announce eaters in order of their experience or perceived abilities. Local eaters hungry for victory were introduced first, and then any IFOCE-ranked eaters, whose eating exploits should be memorized and duly embellished. To help get the crowd emotionally invested in the contest, I would stress that the local eaters were going up against professionals--"ringers" brought in from out of town. Using melodramatic background music and straight-faced commentary, I would capture at once a humorous spectacle and a dramatic sporting event.

My uniform would be that of a turn-of-the-century carnival barker. Regardless of weather or inclination, I would wear a blue blazer and a tie. George Shea handed me an Italian-made straw boater laced with a blue-and-red ribbon. I must confess that I experienced a visceral surge of pride upon receiving the hat. It was circular with a stiff brim, a style rarely seen since the 1930s. I got the sense that it could transform me into an almost fictional character, allowing me to say things I normally wouldn't. As I was leaving the office, hat in hand, it occurred to me that this whole IFOCE thing treaded a fine line between fiction and reality, and I was deeply curious to find out how it all--this hat, this sport, and this league--came to be.

JULY 4, 1988.
CONEY ISLAND.

At the corner of Surf and Stillwell Avenues, a crowd has gathered in Schweikerts Alley, on the west side of Nathan's Famous hot dog stand. Center stage behind a couple of hot-dog-covered tables stands publicist Max Rosey on a pedestal, bullhorn in hand, wearing a foam carnival barker's hat and a Nathan's Famous T-shirt. The precontest ceremony is almost nonexistent. Max welcomes the crowd. The eaters shuffle in and take their places at the table. "Get in line," Max yells in a high-pitched voice. "Everybody ready? Get set. Go!" And they're off.

A plucky young employee at Max Rosey's PR firm, George Shea, is a judge at the contest. His memories are fragmented and a bit haunted, almost as if the contest had caused him lasting posttraumatic stress: "There was a gentleman at the area of the table I was given who had a wen, a big wen on his forehead, a genetic disfigurement. I was brutally hungover, and it was 103 degrees, and I almost passed out looking at this guy with a wen on his head. It was not an attractive growth."

When the twelve minutes are up, Max announces the winner, Jay Green, who has consumed thirteen hot dogs and buns at a just over a dog-a-minute clip. George's memory of the winner, while limited, is consistent with Coney Island's tradition of carnival sideshows. "Jay's eyes were a little askew," he says. "And he was an out-of-work taxi driver, which is interesting because taxi drivers can always find work. But he had a bad back, I think."

Three years later, in January of 1991, Max Rosey lay in a hospital bed at St. Luke's Hospital on the Upper West Side of Manhattan, suffering from the latter stages of metastasized bone cancer. George Shea went to visit him. To distract his mentor from the unbearable pain, George began to speak in hushed tones about the history of the Nathan's Famous contest. Out of nowhere, Max started talking about a yellow belt that lay somewhere in Japan, but whose rightful place was here in America. "He said the belt was created by the descendants of Fabergé, such was its workmanship," George remembers. "But I didn't give much thought to it, because he was on an extraordinary dose of codeine."

When Max passed, Nathan's Famous decided it was only appropriate to relinquish their contract with Rosey's former firm. But George Shea, who had taken over for his mentor, made a suggestion: Instead of maintaining a monthly contract, how about they pay a publicity retainer for the month of July, just for the hot dog contest? Nathan's agreed.

Fast-forward to the summer of 1997, six years later. A Japanese man with a thirty-inch waist named Nakajima had recently supplanted a crew of Americans the size of NFL linebackers as the hot dog champ, and Nathan's was suddenly awash in a deluge of media exposure. "That was the spark when God's finger touched Adam and it created, in my mind, the whole future of competitive eating," says George Shea. The company he had recently formed with his brother Rich, Shea Communications Group, suggested that Nathan's Famous sponsor a circuit of qualifying contests leading up to the grand finale on the Fourth. Nathan's agreed, and the forerunner of the modern American competitive-eating circuit was born.

While conducting a dozen or so Nathan's qualifiers per year, George and Rich Shea were forced to learn the old-school carnival barker's trick of "filling the tent." Because many of the events were held in food courts of anonymous suburban malls, and because competitors had rarely signed up beforehand, the Shea brothers had to recruit them. "In 1997 and '98, you used to go to a mall with no competitors," says George. "None. And you'd get up there on the mic and just start talking. 'You, sir! Don't turn your back on America!' "

Though the exact date of the IFOCE's conception remains a mystery, certain facts are indisputable. There was, for example, a historic meeting in the fall of 1997 at a downtown Manhattan restaurant that included George and Rich Shea, former hot dog champs Mike DeVito and Ed Krachie, and New York Post scribe Gersh Kuntzman. The first official minutes were taken, and several rules and regulations were decided upon. Perhaps more notably, the meal itself had elements of competitive consumption. "That was the first time George and I realized who we were dealing with, because we invited two competitive eaters," remembers Rich Shea. "They ate shrimp with reckless abandon, and Ed Krachie drank a lot of wine."

The name International Federation of Competitive Eating was derived from an inscription they'd noticed on the fabled Mustard Yellow Belt. The inscription read: IHF, for the International Hot Dog Federation. According to George Shea, the story of how the Mustard Yellow International Belt returned to America's shores was the founding myth in modern American competitive-eating history. It should be noted, however, that George possesses a rich imagination, so his "oral history" of American competitive eating exists somewhere between reality and make-believe.

In 1993, Mike "the Scholar" DeVito, known for his erudite approach to the sport (he was the first to realize that a two-dog-a-minute pace would result in a then record-breaking total of twenty-four dogs), competed against a diminutive Japanese woman named Orio Ito. It was a thirty-minute, one-on-one hot-dog-eating contest held under the Brooklyn Bridge and filmed by TV Tokyo. Mike won the contest, eighteen dogs to sixteen, and the upset cast a pallor of shame upon the dethroned Japanese champ. Afterward, TV Tokyo filmed Ms. Ito leaning over the railing, donating her half-digested tube steaks to the fish in the East River.

Mike "the Scholar" DeVito towers over the diminutive Orio Ito Before their 1993 hot dog challenge beneath the Brooklyn Bridge. (Courtesy of Bill Mitchell)

Less than two weeks later, an unmarked package arrived at ...

About this edition

• Publisher: St. Martin's Griffin
• Publication date: 2006
• ISBN 10: 0312339682
• ISBN 13: 9780312339685
• Binding: Paperback
• Number of pages: 320