I asked Dean and Margot to find a local eating challenge. We thought it would make a fun piece. And it did…if your idea of fun is hanging around a vomitorium. Yes, that is a warning.

—Ragnar Carlson

Dean

We’ve all heard about barbecue joints and steak houses that offer a horse-sized slab of beef with a challenge—a dare, even—that if the patron can finish it all off, the meal is on the house. One memorable Simpsons episode started with that scenario, culminating in one customer finishing his meal—and then expiring immediately afterward. I set Margot to the task of finding some such place.

Margot

When we decided to look for eating challenges in Honolulu, I was looking for beef. Trips to Brazilian steakhouses around the world have earned me many an informal title of meat-eating champ. My secret? No veggies, no potatoes, not much water. Just meat.

Calls to both Morton’s and Ruth’s Chris left the hostesses confused and perhaps sickened. “Eating? Challenge? I don’t understand what you mean,” one of them the replied. I explained how some places give a patron a 72-ounce steak with a limited amount of time to finish it for the chance to be on a wall of fame. “Oh…We don’t do that here. I don’t think any place in Honolulu does that,” the other said, with a combination of condescension and laughter.

We labored on. Internet searches lead me to a golden Web site called [www.eatfeats.com], where one can search for eating challenges and contests by state. I found the Mac Daddy Pancake Challenge at MAC 24-7 and the 12-egg omelet challenge at Moose McGillycuddy’s. “Dean, pancakes or eggs?” I asked. “I don’t really like pancakes,” he replied. “But I’m not going to eat 12 eggs! Are you crazy?” Well, we agreed to do this, so I guess we are crazy. Or just gluttons. Probably both. After all, Dean eats a pound of mussel poke for breakfast on a regular basis. I eat various fried and cheesy foods in large quantities three or four times during just the work day.

I start suffering anxiety attacks about the contest even weeks before it’s going to happen. How can one perform under this kind of pressure? I consider getting drunk before the challenge, hoping it will help me eat more. But the rational part of my brain tells me that getting sloshed then trying to eat 12 eggs before noon on a Sunday will end up with terrible, messy results. When our server informs us that the restaurant is out of link sausage and that Portuguese sausage will have to be used instead, we say it’s fine. But we have no idea how bad this will be until it is too late.

Dean

Eggs it is. Not the most appetizing idea, especially since the plan was steak. But hell—if Paul Newman can eat 50 eggs, 12 should be no problem.

Now that it’s over, it’s a good thing ol’ Hud is dead. As it stands, I want to visit his grave, exhume the body, and punch him in the mouth. But I’m getting ahead of myself.

When one thinks of omelets, one usually thinks of a hodgepodge of ingredients, but when the “food” comes out, we’re staring at a huge sea of yellow and orange, eggs and cheese. Hidden underneath this duvet of cholesterol are a pile of potatoes, Portuguese sausage, peppers, bacon, mushrooms and onions.

The biggest problem is where to start—length and height both are daunting. I start on a corner, working a quarter section until my dish resembles a bakery display for a wedding cake with a huge slice removed.

Since word got out about our eating challenge, Margot has been overwhelmingly favored. It makes sense, as she fits the characteristics of people who usually win those hot dog contests you see on television. If the stereotypes are to be believed, Margot’s a triple threat. Like six-time hot dog eating champion Takeru Kobayashi; she’s thin, she’s short and she’s Asian. She even smells vaguely of hot dogs. I take a break after finishing a quarter, to see how she’s progressing.

Margot

I start eating quickly, knowing that the human brain signals the body that it is full after 20 minutes of eating. After seven minutes, I start to sweat. I ask Dean if he is, too, and he answers with a quizzical look. A few minutes later, my nose starts to run. What’s happening to me? I’m not even one-quarter done yet. The omelet components swimming in the orange grease from the Portuguese sausage are horrifying, inside and out. Dean admits that he is starting to sweat, too.

Dean takes a bathroom break, promising he won’t purge. I stare at my plate. He comes back and admits that he farted. I get up to go to the bathroom after he returns and also promise not to purge. “Let me know if you fart!” Dean yells after me. I don’t pass any gas, which is too bad because it’d probably make more space. I do, however, start to keep a tally of my burps. After I return, I think I can start eating again. But the glistening grease all over every inch of the omelet deters me.

Dean

My plate is now half-empty, which presents a new problem—the bottom layer of food sees its chance for escape and begins to spill out. It’s then that we notice the onions. Probably upset about having to make not one, but two of these monstrosities, the cook gave up on the idea of dicing onions—or even chopping them. A massive clump of onion tumbles out, still connected by the core, layers of the onion dangling freely, the same size and shape of a large piece of calamari. Worse, it’s the same color from the coating of grease.

“How many people actually finish these things?” I ask. “And where are those people buried?” I don’t really need an answer from our server, but she says that’s it’s about one in 10. I ask if there’s a winning type.

“Not really,” she tells us. “In fact there was this girl who finished in 45 minutes. Tiny little thing. She tore through it like it was a salad.” When she leaves, I return my gaze to the plate and notice that the fork I was absentmindedly pushing around has collected the coagulated grease in small roads, and the section of plate that was once empty now has snowbanks, like in Massachusetts after the snowplows have come through. Later, I excuse myself, and look at the winner’s plaque. The majority of winners weigh over 200 pounds. I’m not at the right training weight, but I just might be when we finish this.

Margot

The two pieces of toast that accompany the omelet challenge are like a slap in the egg-filled face. Don’t they know that stuff expands in your stomach? But then my mind wanders to an image of large chunks of unchewed omelet in my stomach, drowning in grease. I reach over and nibble on the toast, hoping it will absorb some of the poisonous oil. Oh my god, there’s butter on this thing?

I haven’t taken a bite of the omelet since 18 minutes in. I tip my plate to one side to see how big a pool of grease I can make. “Don’t torture yourself like that,” says our server as she walks by. I keep picking up a bite and putting it back down. I have to make it at least halfway. I might regret the failure for the rest of my life. But the thought of cold, oily omelet keeps stopping me from the victory I was so sure would be mine.

Kelly, Dean’s girlfriend and official omelet challenge heckler, can’t even eat half of her appetizer-sized breakfast because of the grotesquery of our food and faces. Not to mention our groaning. “You guys don’t have to finish, you know. You’ll still be good people,” she counsels. “I think I have sympathy fullness for you.” I sadly estimate that I’ve only eaten three-and-a-half eggs. “Aw, give yourself more credit than that,” Kelly encourages. “OK, four eggs ,”I estimate, hoping someone will say it’s actually probably five, almost six eggs. The table is silent. Thanks, Kelly.

Dean

There are 10 minutes left, and we know neither of us are going to win. The smart move is to admit defeat and walk away, while I can still walk. But I’m a guy, and guys are dumb. I get what feels like a second wind and start digging in—it lasts three bites before the fork involuntarily drops to the plate, covering the handle in grease. I reach over the empty table next to us and pluck a new fork, which also slips out of my fingers, also now covered in an orange sheen. I take a third fork and manage to shove a silver dollar sized chunk of onions under the rug just before the fork slips and joins the other cutlery, swimming in grease. A quarter of my omelet remains.

I’m done.

Our official time passes, but we’re not told of our failure, as if the staff wanted to give us one last college try on what remained, or at least try and cheat. We don’t. Hell, we can barely form sentences. Finally, the manager appears to inform us that our time is up. They’re the sweetest words I’ve ever heard in my life, which are then spoiled by her asking if I want her to wrap up the remains.

I should probably take this opportunity to apologize for the stink eye.

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