The Big Texan
At the Berryhill Baja Grill Tamale-Eating Contest, eaters stand in front of the plates of tamales, shoveling the food into their mouths.
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Then, things got more serious. Oliver got involved with the IFOCE, and he started traveling to sanctioned eating events. His first IFOCE event was a regional qualifier in Tempe, Arizona, for the Nathan’s Famous Hot Dog—eating contest. If competitive eating has a world championship, a Rose Bowl, it is the Nathan’s Famous. Held every Fourth of July since 1916 on New York’s Coney Island, the contest has gained recent notoriety for the accomplishments of Japanese eater Takeru Kobayashi. In 2004 Kobayashi scarfed 53.5 hot dogs, along with their buns, in twelve minutes. To the ordinary American, perhaps, he was the skinny Japanese guy who ate some ridiculous number of hot dogs. To the eaters of the IFOCE, he was a deity.
Oliver’s career hasn’t been quite as meteoric. But nonetheless, he got a reputation and he got ranked (number thirty) as an eater. Oliver won last year’s tamale contest, eating 36 tamales, 33 in regular competition and 3 in overtime. He became a part of the organization’s subculture. His profile on the IFOCE’s Web site says that he “seems poised to assume a larger role in the competitive eating world, though it is not now clear what the role will be.”
That, it appears, is why he’s come to Berryhill on this sunny May afternoon: to defend his tamale championship title. The top competition consists of Tim “Eater X” Janus (so nicknamed for the mask he paints on his face prior to each competition), ranked number six; Richard LeFevre, ranked fifth; and Patrick Bertoletti, who tops out the list at number four in the IFOCE standings. Oliver describes facing such opponents as, “kind of scary, because I’m ranked thirtieth.”
What, might you wonder, does Oliver’s girlfriend think of all this? “It took a long time to get used to it,” she says of Oliver’s gustatory vocation. Of the contests themselves, Harden describes them as difficult—to watch and to be supportive. Eventually she did come around, though. As Harden tells it, her moment of conversion occurred during a grilled-cheese eating contest in which Oliver participated. When Oliver didn’t win, Harden recalls, “I was like, ‘What the hell?’” From then on, she dropped her qualms about dating a gurgitator and supported Oliver in his competitions and training.
Training? Yes, just as with any other sport, gurgitators follow a training regimen. For Oliver, this means abstaining from alcohol for a couple of weeks leading up to the event. He also eats one “training meal” per day for three or four weeks prior to competition. A training meal consists of low-calorie food, such as vegetables, rice, and tofu, although in significant quantities—up to seven and a half pounds at a time. Oliver also does water training, which consists of consuming a gallon of water as quickly as possible. The basic idea behind both types of training is to gradually stretch the stomach’s capacity. The obvious advantage of water is that it contains zero calories.
Out of sheer, perhaps morbid, curiosity, you wonder what the aftereffects of eating 36 tamales are. How does the body feel? Oliver’s answer isn’t exactly surprising. He claims to have gone fourteen hours without eating following last year’s competition. “I felt terrible,” he says.
All the same, he’s optimistic about this year’s competition. “I feel prepared,” he says, “I know I could have done more, but it would have been kind of dangerous.” The moment of truth is approaching. In the heat of the competition Oliver stands at the table, pounding down tamale after tamale. “Come on, Levi!” Harden cheers from the crowd. But he’s slowing down. Something’s not quite right. His face looks worried, slightly contorted. He seems to be experiencing what he described beforehand as an “inner struggle”—the mental debate over whether continuing to eat is really worth it. But on he goes. At around nine minutes into the twelve minute contest, he suddenly whips around, facing away from the table. The crowd is watching. There is a pause, and then he leans over the garbage can. And just like that, Levi Oliver’s hopes of tamale greatness gush down the drain in one terrible reversal of fortune.
There’s still a good three minutes of gorging left. And the out-of-state ranked IFOCE competitor is in the lead. When time is called, the scales have to be brought out to weigh plates of tamale debris to sort out second and third place. Pat Bertoletti, the highest-ranked eater, is still chewing his last mouthful, which, according to IFOCE rules, will count toward his total, as long as he consumes it eventually. With 48 tamales under his belt, he appears to be the clear winner.
But Bertoletti experiences swallowing problems. The crowd begins chanting for him. Beef-tinged victory awaits, just a mouthful away. His face pained, his Mohawk haircut twitching, he tries to keep it down. All at once, his stomach rebels, the gag reflex kicks in, and the spectators are treated to another dramatic reversal of fortune. Bertoletti heaves into a gray rubber trashcan, while a cameraman from the documentary crew sweeps in for the money shot.
The suspense breaks at last. Nerz, in his blue blazer and anachronistic straw hat, turns to the crowd and announces Chip Simpson, of Florida, as the tamale champion, with 41 tamales and a purse of $2,500. Simpson raises his arms above his head in victory. Tim Janus places second, eating 38 tamales and earning $1,000, and Richard LeFevre puts down 36.5, taking third and netting him $500.
In the aftermath, Oliver sits on the sidewalk curb near the entrance to Berryhill, Harden at his side. Asked about his plans, Oliver says he intends to stop eating for a while. “I promised Diana that if I got over 320 pounds, then I’d stop eating competitively until I was below 280 pounds.” He says he’s going to try and lose weight and get in better shape. But, he doesn’t count out a comeback. He is, after all, in his own words, “hypercompetitive.”
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