first published August, 2015

We had just pulled into town, starving. The hotel clerk recommended a place, a steak house. It was after 9 and a lighter meal would have been better, but what the heck. When in Texas, and all that.

I thought the name sounded familiar. “Is that the place with all the billboards?” He didn’t think so. Entering the parking lot my suspicions were confirmed. Yep, this was the place: home of the 72-ounce steak.

72 ounces. Seventy-two. Four and a half pounds. Eat it all and you get it for free. Who would do that?

The place was part restaurant, part theme park, complete with arcade and gift shop. The dining room was a massive square. The main level had long wooden tables in the center—please, allow me to introduce you to your new best friends—and small booths along the perimeter. Upstairs was a gallery on three sides, jammed with tables and booths, all of which had a view down below. The fourth wall opened into the kitchen, glimpses of burly men in white hats, occasional bursts of flame, and the sounds and smells of searing meat.

Gratefully, we slid into one of the cozy booths. After so many hours on the road, we were no state to share a lodge table. The space was a visual overload, and I worked to take it all in.

Dozens of faces loomed from above, various horned and antlered beauties that formerly graced the open range. Over the kitchen was spread an impressive dappled cowhide and an enormous set of longhorns. If you were looking for vegan, you were in the wrong place. This was a carnivore’s paradise, these faces a grim reminder.

Just in front of the kitchen there was a table on a raised platform. The VIP table? On the wall behind it, just below the cowhide, were giant digital clocks.

A photo above our table featured two grinning men and a big chart listing the winners of the 72-ounce challenge. I was curious. Who would be crazy enough to eat that much meat? “You know,” I told my husband, “a serving of beef is 4 ounces. That is 18 servings of beef. 18!”

Make no mistake. I eat beef. I like beef. I am a carnivore, albeit a squeamish one–the hides and horns and heads did not exactly whet my appetite. I ordered one of the two smaller steaks on the menu, an 8-ounce sirloin. He got the 12-ounce ribeye. It was late, and we knew we would leave food on the plate, but we decided to try it: we were in a world-famous steak house, after all.

About the time our salads arrived there was a hullabaloo at the VIP table. A man—40-ish, maybe 5’11”, 190-or-so pounds—took a spotlighted chair. One of the digital clocks came to life, displaying a big red “60:00.” The other diners were all a-dither.

When our waitress returned, I started with the questions. What’s the deal?

“He has 60 minutes to eat it all: 72 ounces plus salad plus potato plus roll.” (What, no wafer-thin mint?) “If you eat it all, you get your money back. Get up or get sick, and you’re out.”

How much does it cost if you fail?

 “72 dollars.”

Huh.

“Now, you two could decide to share it. You could order it and eat it here at your table and it would be [200-something] dollars.”

But it’s only 72 if you want to go for it?

“Yes. But you have to eat it on the stage.”

On the stage. So we all could watch.

Pretty soon, another ruckus. A crowd was swarming the stage, cameras flying. His beast had arrived! The countdown began; he was on the clock.

I was fascinated. Again, I assaulted the waitress with questions. They’re taking photos?

“Yep. You’re welcome to do it too. You can stand there, talk to him, take pictures. You just can’t touch him or get on stage with him.”

I looked at my husband. “I’m taking a picture.”

Oh yes I did. I wanted to see what this thing looked like. Visual appeal is a big part of eating: presentation is everything. Would there be anything remotely appealing about this slab of meat? I weaved through the tables and snapped my shot. The man ignored me. I did not linger; I did not engage.

Moments after I took my seat another man mounted the stage. This one was younger, early 30’s, maybe, taller and lankier. His clock was set to 60 and he waited.

Another one?

I was fixated. Our poor waitress.

Do you often get two in one night?

“No, usually about one a month. A couple of Friday nights ago we had 5.”

I didn’t even ask her how many usually finish. But I did ask her if they published nutrition facts for the meal.

“No. I don’t think there’s any nutrition in it anyway.”

We didn’t know if either of these guys finished that night. We ate (but did not finish) our little dinners and left before the show was over. But I could not stop thinking about it. I was obsessed.

What is this? It’s not dining. It has nothing to do with savoring each bite, nothing to do with fellowship and company; this is not a shared communion. Yet this isn’t true competition, either. This is not about carefully matched (or delightfully mis-matched) opponents facing off . This is sitting on a stage. Alone. Freak show. Look at me. Watch me eat.

This is hardly sport: it’s gluttony on a dare. As a culture, we seem conflicted about gluttony. One minute we celebrate the triple-triple and large fries, while the next we shame the overweight woman who dares to eat it. The two average-sized men on the stage that night were cheered for their daring, their guts, their chutzpah. Would we have been cheering had they weighed 600 pounds each? I’m not so sure. Maybe gluttony isn’t as much fun when it feels like assisted suicide.

How does a body feel after consuming this much food? My imagination reels. Dehydration? Gas? Bloating? We’re talking about 4 ½ pounds of gut-busting beef. How long does it take your stomach to go through that mound of flesh? What happens to your brain chemicals? Does all that protein give you gout? Think about those photos of a snake swallowing an antelope—can you actually see the beef bulging out of your belly? Talk about a “food baby.” And what happens when it’s finally digested? Let me just say I’m glad I’m not sharing that bathroom.

Maybe that’s why we applaud, why we take photos and cheer: Good luck, buddy. Better you than me. Let me know how you’re feeling in the morning.

(About those nutrition facts. 72 ounces of beef contains: 5121 calories; 403.2 g fat; 0 carbs; 346.15 g protein—PLUS the potato, PLUS the salad, PLUS the roll. There is not enough Pepto in the world . . . .)

Food is fuel but eating is also a sensual experience. Ooh, that slow first bite, the aromas, the textures, the flavors as they dance in your mouth. Sometimes that bite is too good to swallow. Like Charlie Bucket’s family with their single chocolate bar, reveling in even the tiniest morsel.

Can a person savor a meal like this? Can you even taste it?

What a waste.

Why would anyone attempt this? Yes, yes, the restaurant’s website explains how this all got started. But what motivates a guy to eat 5 pounds of food on a Tuesday night? And why would anyone want to watch?

And yet, watch I did. What a brilliant marketing trick. The food gets people in the door and the spectacle keeps them there. Color me among them. It was a slow-motion highway wreck and I could not look away. I was transfixed.

The restaurant’s website also features a list of all the people who have conquered this monumental challenge. It runs to 40 pages. The most recent “win” was just 11 days ago. There are no entries for the night we were there. Neither of “our” guys finished the meal. I wonder what happened: did they get sick? Just tired? Or did they come to their senses?

This 72-ounce steak challenge has stood for 50 years and I don’t see it ending any time soon. This is America. We like a Challenge. We like More. Everything’s Big in Texas. We like our folk heroes and our free dinners; we like a vicarious thrill. I have to admit it: I certainly got my money’s worth out of that dinner—it’s been a month and I’m still thinking about it. Now that’s a meal with staying power.

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