Ace Weekly

What makes a good contest? Prizes, perhaps? No, pride lasts much longer than a trophy. Competing for a cause? I disagree again, personal victory is much more satisfying. On Monday, November 4th, the ACE staff discovered what actually forms a worthwhile competition. The answer? Meat...

That fateful day, four brave souls from the ACE office marched down to Anthony's Coney Island on the corner of 3rd and Jefferson. Three had to be carried back.

Equipped with empty stomachs and naïvete, the flesh-eating foursome of Chris Webb (Arts and Entertainment Editor), Chandler Patrick (Account Executive), Steve Walton (Account Executive), and myself (intern) attempted the carnivorous impossible.

Anthony's challenges all those hungry (and foolish) enough to finish their triple combo, which consists of a 3 LB. burger and fries. But here's the rub - all food must be consumed in no more than twenty minutes. With eyes (and egos) bigger than our stomachs, we each took the (massive) bait. Victory is rewarded with a return of your money ($7.99 + tax) and personal satisfaction. Failure is greeted with a bruised spirit and distended digestive system.

When the patties arrived we were stunned. It was a Vesuvius of meat. Three pounds layered with cheese (for perspective's sake, that's twelve quarter-pounders). Intimidated by such a mound of burger, Webb was awed at its complete meatness.

"I've never eaten anything bigger than my cranium," he remarked.

With the attention of an assembled cheering section and a camera rolling for liability reasons, we began. Shaking with excitement (and possibly early traces of gout), I crammed burger in my mouth. Despite my vigor, I had hardly made a dent in my meal after the first few minutes. I felt like Andy Dufresne chipping his way out of Shawshank with his tiny rock hammer. The emptiness of my stomach and fullness of my bravado began trading places.

Walton and Webb were also displaying early signs of bloat. Patrick, however, was busier than a one-legged man at an ass-kicking contest. Bite after bite, he was putting away more burger than seemed humanly possible. He came at the triple like a tornado of teeth, hair and fingernails.

The congregation within Anthony's watched in awe (all the while making sure to keep all extremities and wayward newborns at a safe distance).

Halfway through, disillusioned and meat-drunk, I attempted to turn my napkin into a makeshift white flag. I had hit the wall. Webb and Walton also began to slow. As we spiraled toward nausea, Patrick turned for home.

Conceding defeat, the rest of the crew began rooting Patrick onward to victory. Pushing our own meals aside, we attempted to fill his mind with pleasant thoughts, waylaying any references to The Great Outdoors or Mad Cow.

As time wound down, Patrick's determination grew. Pushing all notions of quitting (and common sense) out the window, he was going to tame the triple, even if it killed him.

All greasy fingers and bloodshot eyes, Patrick embraced a deadly sin and proved that gluttony is sometimes rewarded. Scooping the last bits of burger into his mouth, he laid back and looked to the heavens .

Following his win, Patrick was greeted by well-wishers and immediately posed for pictures. Palming his refunded dollars, he grinned with satisfaction. As he left that day, Patrick possessed personal victory, not to mention breath that could knock a buzzard off a chuckwagon. Returning to the office, Patrick was wholly unable to make any comments, curled beneath his desk in the fetal position. At press time, a full recovery was expected.