Throwing up, with relish

Our Toronto intern Katie keeps blabbing on about competitive eating and how stoked she would be to try it and get recognized by the IFOCE. This week we decided to get her started by holding an impromptu time trial in the office, partially because we wanted to help her realise her dream but mostly because we were bored and wanted to see someone throw up.

Competitive eating has to be the easiest gig in the world. You get fame, fortune, a million free meals, and you never get fat because your body adapts to having ten thousand calories shoved into it three times a day. It worked for Kobayashi, it worked for The Black Widow, it worked for Joey Whatshisface, and it was going to work for me.
Given that I sweat profusely when I eat sour things, it was decided that the most sensible thing to do would be to break the world pickle-eating record: thirty pickles in five minutes. Not those little Snack ‘Ems, not baby dills, not the mysterious gherkin, but the big, fat, Mickey Rourkes of the pickle world: Polish fucking dills.
The night before I did it, I was told, I had to eat a giant, stomach-stretching meal and wash it down with a cow’s worth of stomach-swelling dairy. I ate a huge bowl of pho and ordered a strawberry milkshake, which turned out to be dairy-free, but whatever–did Patrick Bertoletti let anything set him back before eating 29.5 date-nut bread and cream cheese sandwiches in eight minutes? Probably not. Also, I got wasted, figuring that a hungover, beer-and-nachos bloated stomach would be my secret weapon–or so a mini pitcher of Long Island iced tea ended up convincing me.
It turns out that some hangovers don’t make you hungry. Some staple your stomach shut and tell your brain to ignore it until tomorrow. Granted, it killed any jitters I might have had, but the previous night’s drunken boasting was replaced with the hungover realisation that I had to eat a pickle every ten seconds to even tie a record. Good thing people had cameras.

As I teetered on the brink of this briny abyss, wondering why the hell I was even doing this, I got the signal to start filling my face with pickles. It was harder than I thought because chewing those suckers takes time. I can’t even imagine the fabled two-at-a-time “wood chopper” method without choking. The “wolverine” method was too disorganised, and the “corn-on-the-cob” just slowed me down. One of the other interns pointed out that I was spending too much time chewing. My heart sank a little, I knew at this point my rhythm was non existent. I just started chomping as fast as I could, and got it down to three bites per pickle.

Around 13 I hit a wall. Somebody cued up “Eye of the Tiger” and that actually got me through a few more, but I was slowing. The chance to break the record was gone, so all that was left was to go the distance and eat a shit ton of pickles. Swigging brine helped some, but each squeaky chew hurt more than the last. My brain began to ask questions about what was going on down there, and I could only distract it so long.

According to onlookers, this is where I “went dark.” First really hugging the bowl, taking a few walks back and fourth, leaning on the counter, then hanging on it, and finally sprawled out on the concrete floor, occasionally knocking around my barf bucket like a gorilla with heatstroke. I had brine all over me, my arms, face, legs, I felt like I was heating from the inside. Apparently there was a rage in my eyes and when anyone offered me anything I yelled, “I don’t want anything from you!” while spitting bits of pickle everywhere. Retrospectively I felt like I was on drugs, certainly drunk, asking questions and talking gibberish while the room around me blurred and went fuzzy.

At 19 I had some heavy retches and grabbed for the bucket, which brought the camera-wielding vultures in close. I held off and resumed eating. I couldn’t taste, and I couldn’t control what sounds I emitted. I hit 20 and felt a rushing sense of relief until the pickle bowl was refilled and I felt an intense hatred for every living thing.

I made it to 22 before I crawled to the couch. Everyone taunted me, sipping the brine and loudly enjoying the remaining pickles before heading upstairs to laugh. Ten minutes of the heaviest breathing of my life and I ran for the bathroom. It started small, but as soon as my stomach realised what was happening it was like opening all the floodgates on an unsuspecting desert town. Raining down droves of relish, Sodom and Gomorrah style.