I say MEAT, you say BALLS!:
Standing in the middle of the Tropicana Casino in Atlantic City, outside Carmine’s restaurant, Krista and I are watching fourteen top-ranked competitive eaters devour plates heaped with Carmine’s famous meatballs, and as the eaters enter the sixth minute, something happens we weren’t prepared for: we hit the wall. The smell of the meatballs has permeated the first few rows of screaming fans and the reality of people masticating piles of mushed meat starts to lose some of the romantic sheen. Floppy pieces of basil escape from their mouths, greasy marinara sauce stains shirts and clouds the outside of drinking glasses, and the competitors’ eyes are tearing. We have to look away periodically and breathe through our mouths. But we didn’t come all this way to give up on them now, and they sure aren’t giving up anytime in the next six minutes. So we do what we came here to do and shout encouragement as loud as we can. “Looking good, Chestnut! You can do it, Sonya! Keep it together, Crazy Legs! Do it, Eater X! C’mon Chip! Brian, looking good!”
9:51 AM
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