Face Full of Pig

Last Saturday was beautiful. I drove from Scranton up 81 to Cortland New York, a quaint town and a beautiful drive. My destination was a roadside bbq restaurant called Smokin’ Joes. I was here to participate in their first annual Pulled Pork Eating Contest.

Contestants paid $25 up front to participate. The kitchen closed as friends and family gather around two tables set up in the middle of the dining room. Trays of pulled pork sandwiches, 11 on each were set down in front of the 15 competitors. All men, the $500 first place prize was a great incentive to stuff our faces. Even if we failed, we could take home the leftovers, so it was a great deal one way or the other. The rules were simple, 10 minutes, as much as you can eat, drink anything you want (non-alcoholic), and you can’t vomit for 15 minutes after the competition ended. Eat!

I sat at the end of the table. Another gentleman who humbly said that he had participated in a “couple bbq eating competitions” was clearly the ringer, as he had traveled four hours to compete. Aside from him and myself, everyone else was a local, just here to have a good time. Some competitors knew from the beginning that they had no chance of winning, but stepped up to the plate just for the fun of it. The sandwiches were simply pulled pork with bbq sauce on a bun not dissimilar from a happy meal. The meat had a wonderful smoky flavor, black, crunchy bark (which I usually adore, but the dry and flavorful ends were slower eating), and was soft and tender.

I immediately went for the meat, skipping the buns for later. Intermingling water and pork, I wolfed down sandwich after sandwich, carefully keeping my eye on the ringer to my left, and a local champ to my right. The local had friends cheering him on, while I had only my grit to continue. As the meat went down, it was difficult to tell who was leading, I had 11 buns to consume, and my opponents had about 2.5 sandwiches, this was dangerous.

With three water cups in front of me, I poured the water over the buns, and dunked them in between shoving them down my gullet. I was catching up, everything was looking good, ten minutes creeping up on all of us. Then, disaster struck. A balloon of air was stuck in my ribs, making another bite seem vomitous. I stood, shook, pounded my chest, try to free the air, unable to continue eating until it was freed. The crowd called for a bucket, thinking I would make a mess of myself, but all they got was a loud belch, and I threw myself back into the fray.

However, with the 15 seconds of pause, the New Yorker to my left was able to call for a second tray, and as the final seconds ticked down, he was able to chipmunk another half sandwich into his maw while I was left with a solemn empty (and wet) tray.

The $500 went to him, but I soon found out he was a former member of Major League Eating, a pro. My performance did not go unrewarded however, I left with a big tray of leftovers, a polo shirt, beer paraphernalia, and a 3.5 foot tall smoker. Though beaten, it was good to know I was bested by a professional, and only by a small degree. My eating adventure continues, with restaurants and challenges waiting to be bested.