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.
The sun beats down in merciless rays on the parking lot of the Berryhill Baja Grill. The pavement radiates heat up into the humid Houston air. People check their watches as the competition time draws near. Music from the live band mingles with the murmur of voices from the crowd, producing an air of festive anticipation. Then, a sudden flurry of movement focuses everyone’s attention: The tamales are coming out.
Tray after tray of masa-encased beef flows from Berryhill’s kitchen, borne on the waitstaff’s shoulders. Plates piled high with tamales liberated from their husks eventually fill four wrought-iron patio tables, six hundred tamales in all, waiting to determine who will be the Berryhill Baja Grill Tamale-Eating Contest Champion.
MC Ryan Nerz, dressed in a blue blazer and straw carnival barker’s hat, introduces the competitors one at a time, each to a theme song, and then states the contest rules. The goal is simple: In twelve minutes contestants must eat as many tamales as they can. They can drink all the water they want, to aid swallowing, but cannot dunk the tamales in the water. Any competitor who suffers from what Nerz smoothly refers to as a “reversal of fortune” or “urges contrary to swallowing” (read: pukes) is automatically disqualified. Whoever eats the most, wins.
Each eater takes a position on the makeshift stage, consisting of a row of tables placed end to end in front of a black background bearing Berryhill’s logo. Nerz leads the crowd in a countdown—“ten, nine, eight …” Someone in the crowd shouts out last-minute encouragement to Austin resident Levi Oliver, the defending champion. The gorging commences.
Eaters stand in front of the plates of tamales, shoveling the food into their mouths. Some bite rapidly, snarfing down the tamales like some sort of fleshy Cuisinart. Others just cram the beef and its cornmeal wrapper down indiscriminately, smearing their faces with residue. Nerz presides over this scene, explaining the visual spectacle and molding the crowd’s interest, like some kind of American Idol version of Jacques Cousteau narrating footage of a shark feeding frenzy. This isn’t your average county fair pie-eating contest.
Welcome to the world of the International Federation of Competitive Eating, or IFOCE. The Berryhill tamale binge is one of the Federation’s sanctioned events, and there’s $2,500 at stake for first prize. “Eating? A sport?” Such is the common reaction of the uninitiated. But oh, yes, eating is a sport, at least in the eyes of IFOCE eaters, aficionados, and their leaders, New Yorkers George and Richard Shea, brothers who happen to own a public relations firm, Shea Communications.
The Shea brothers refer to competitive eating as “one of the oldest and most fundamental of disciplines.” They like to cite the hypothetical example of cavemen fighting over a kill as evidence of the activity’s long, established history. Nerz, who works with the Shea brothers, has even written a book on the subject, Eat This Book, in which he evaluates (mostly defends) competitive eating. Nerz rails against the “culturally reinforced assumption that the main function of eating is nourishment and enjoyment,” and expresses hope for wide acceptance of the “sport.” He writes: “In the future, perhaps the world will look at a hot dog and see it not merely as a delicious snack, but as a piece of sporting equipment no different from a tennis ball or hockey puck.”
Of course, this kind of evaluation has drawn criticism. Ralph Nader cited competitive eating as an indication of American society’s decay. The Atlantic Monthly referred to it as “a hairball coughed up out of the dark recesses of the American id.” Bill Maher remarked, “Competitive eating isn’t a sport. It’s one of the seven deadly sins.”
In light of the rhetorical posturing surrounding the IFOCE, there’s a temptation for the mere mortal to conclude, “My God, what a freak show,” and reach for the TUMS. But the eaters (or “gurgitators” as the IFOCE refers to them) aren’t all the aberrants you might expect. Eccentric, certainly, but the influences that drew them to the IFOCE aren’t particularly foreign to many Texans. After all, Austinite Levi Oliver, the defending tamale champion, got his competitive eating start at an Amarillo institution: the Big Texan Steakhouse. “I’ve always appreciated food and always been hypercompetitive,” says Oliver, a heavy-set senior account manager for ProfitFuel in Austin. His blond hair is cut almost as short as his trim beard. Wearing a black Tamale Contest T-shirt, he comfortably fills his side of the booth at Berryhill Grill. Beside him sits his girlfriend, Diana Harden. A camera crew scurries around in the background. Oliver is to be featured in an upcoming documentary by Austin filmmaker Gregory Kallenberg.
When asked how he got his start as a gurgitator, Oliver explains how, while acting in a show at Palo Duro Canyon, near Amarillo, he was introduced to the Big Texan Challenge. For the uninitiated, the challenge involves consuming steak, a lot of steak—72 ounces, to be exact, plus the trimmings—all in one hour. Those who finish get a free meal and bragging rights. Those who fail, well, they’re out around $70. Oliver completed the challenge in 42.5 minutes.
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