It is still hard for me to talk about seven years later. Few events in a young man's life could be as devastating. Nobody
is ever proud of failure, especially a champion.
It happened during a spring break trip to Myrtle Beach, South Carolina, in March of 1999 with ten of my closest college friends.
I was champ.
The decision to vacation at Myrtle Beach was no coincidence. Sure, it offered a cheap way to spend a week at the beach, but
the real attraction was at 1310 Sunset Drive, a shady establishment with an anchor in the front parking lot and neon signs
at every window. Out front, an enormous sign read, "The Big Texan: Home of the 80-ouncer."
Exactly the kind of place that can draw a self-renowned competitive eating star.
I had been preparing for a few days prior,training my stomach like a finely tuned machine, and indulging in all the perks
that come with the willingness to attempt such a feat. Surely I needn't explain. At seven p.m. my posse escorted me to the
restaurant. Photos of the few victors hung on one wall and a wall of shame with lesser competitors opposite it. We sat at
a large rectangular table, myself at the head. Jackie, our waitress for the evening, came to take our orders.
"Just water for me tonight," I thanked her. "Oh, and I'd like to order the eighty-ounce steak medium-rare please."
Perhaps you've seen it in movies or heard about it in legend. A restaurant offers an enormous steak and if one person can
eat it, it is free.
"Really?!" she remarked.
"Yes is that ok?"
"I've just never had a customer order one is all."
It takes a fair amount of time to cook a five-pound steak, and I had to make it a point not to munch on the peanuts that were
offered. Obviously a ploy. Before Jackie served my plate she had to explain the rules: "You will have one hour to finish a
salad, fries, bread, and the entire steak. No one is allowed to help you cut the steak. Good luck."
With that, she laid what was simultaneously the most beautiful thing to me, and the most disgusting thing to everybody else
in the restaurant, on the table. It hung off on every side of the largest platter the restaurant owned with my fries, salad,
and bread on top of the slab. I was sure such a large piece of meat couldn';t come from a single cow. Perhaps a brontosaurus.
Thirty minutes later my hands started to cramp from all the cutting and my jaw started weighing heavily. I was still going
strong with only less than half of the steak remaining. At forty-five minutes, the other diners in the restaurant started
cheering me on. As I let out an appreciative belch loud enough to shake the anchor in the parking lot, the place let out
a roar of cheers.
"Good luck son!" an old-timer said as he patted me on the back and made his way for the door.
Things started getting tough after that. I started to break down mentally. The steak was winning. I couldn't give up though.
I kept going and had less than ten ounces left.
And then it happened. With just four ounces left, a waiter from the back came out and snatched my plate from in front of me
declaring "Time's up! Would you like a box?"
If I could have moved, I would have punched him. My photo went up on the
losers' wall with a big "76" under it for the number of ounces I had eaten. I left that restaurant a beaten and devastated
man.
I've not spoken of the event since. People who know me well know it was a difficult time in my life. Sometimes I see other
restaurants offering similar deals, usually a 72- or 74-ounce steak. Those days are behind me now. While traveling through
Amarillo, Texas, with my brother a few years back, we stopped at a similar steakhouse; he wanted to see what a steak of that
magnitude would look like. I ordered a salad.
