February 1–8, 1996
food
Champion overeaters soar to the top of their, er, sport.
By Holly Moore
It is the gastronomical event of the year — WIP Radio's Wing Bowl IV —"a chance to watch a bunch of big fat guys eat chicken wings."
Happened last Friday morning at the Electric Factory. Four thousand knowledgeable chicken wing aficionados filled the place. For the past two weeks WIP's morning team — Angelo Cataldi, Al Morganti, Joe Conklin and Chris Gamble — had been conducting preliminary contests, searching the Delaware Valley for world-class gluttons. Big Foot qualified by chomping a hoagie crawling with live worms. Slushy Shelly, one strange dude even when compared to Big Foot, downed a picnic cooler filled with slush, topped with a soupcon of spit from Joe Conklin. The Fluff Master gulped a 32-ounce jar of marshmallow fluff.
The Golden Buddha — South Philly's squatter, wider Mr. Clean — painted himself metallic gold, added sequined red eyeliner, donned a gold lame outfit and strings of golden beads and brought along his own entourage — a couple of exotic harem girls and the Italian American String Band. Mountain Mike, a bouncer at Dave and Buster's, only had to be himself — all 6'5", 527 lbs. of himself."
The object of Wing Bowl is to eat the most chicken wings in a half hour, two 14-minute periods followed by a final two-minute sprint. Two-time champion Heavy Kevy set a record last year — 132 wings. He was so far ahead that he didn't eat any wings the last four minutes and still beat second place DOMinator by 12 wings. Heavy Kevy declined to three—peat this year: "I wanted to go out at my peak, a champion."
Rules are straightforward. Most important, and added after a rather unfortunate but memorable hot dog eating contest a few years back, "If you heave, you leave."
The folks at Quickie Chickie, 9th and Federal, had been cooking wings since 3 in the morning — 3,000 wings and 8 gallons of hot sauce. The Golden Buddha cornered Quickie Chickie's owner: "You only get hot sauce if you want it, right?"
Backstage, most of the contestants were standing around talking, joking, or trying to hit on one of the "Wingettes" — shapely damsels selected for their knowledge of chicken anatomy. One contestant, the Fluff Master, was pacing nervously, away from everyone else, focusing, psyching himself up for the contest.
A doctor clad in a white lab coat and attached to a large black dog walked by. Showed a glass jar to anyone who would look. People asked, "What's in there?" Turned out to be raw mountain oysters — the "tie breaker." Slushy Shelly licks his chops. Another doctor who will be standing by in case of an emergency phones in. He's on his way. Was delayed while practicing the Heimlich maneuver on a giant sequoia.
The contestants are introduced. Arson "big mouth not a big gut" Arnie climbs a chair and yells, "Every one of you fat slobs is going down." Slushy Shelly, face twitching like a rabid dog, pulls off his sweatshirt and flexes. Mountain Mike raises his T—Shirt, flashing a hairy Mattahorn of a stomach. The crowd oohs in awe. The Golden Buddha, played on by the Mummers, obliges with a quivering belly dance. The Dallas Cow, dressed in Cowboys silver and blue, is booed by the drunks in the 700 deck — the balcony over the main floor.
A scrawny, human—sized chicken takes center stage, turns its back to the crowd, squats, and signifying the start of Wing Bowl IV, drops the ceremonial egg. Hot sauce flies, the contestants dig in. Two minutes and five seconds into the first period, a shocking announcement. The DOMinator, a crowd favorite, drops out after eating a mere two wings. Toweling the sweat off his face, he apologizes, "I just can't do it. I've got a 102-degree fever." The crowd sympathetically boos the DOMinator off the stage. Joe Conklin sums it up: "The Dominator went in sick, came up lame."
Big Foot, dressed in a charcoal gray business suit, white shirt and conservative tie, has yet to eat a wing. He opens his attache case and takes out a wine glass and a bottle of aged chianti, then a setting of fine china and silverware. Everyone watches, knowing, fearing what will come next. Big Foot opens a container. Dumps a pile of live night crawlers into a soup bowl. Opens up another container — marinara sauce. Pours it on top of the worms. Digs in, slurping the night crawlers like linguini, washing them down with gulps of chianti.
Half time, 14 minutes into Wing Bowl. Again the crowd is stunned. Fifty-to-one long shot the Fluff Master has a solid lead — a record-breaking 92 wings. The Dallas Cow at 80 wings, his face smeared with hot sauce, can't believe it. "That guy eat all the meat off the bones?" he challenges.
The second period starts. The Dallas Cow digs in, but not as confidently. Now as he eats, mentally beaten, he keeps a wary eye on the Fluff Master. Morganti labels the Fluff Master an eating machine. Turns out the guy has even brought a stopwatch so he could pace himself. The second period is over. The Dallas Cow has narrowed the lead, but still lags behind — 135-125.
Two more minutes. The final sprint. Angelo Cataldi looks over at the Fluff Master. "He doesn't look good. Are you OK? Are you going to heave?" The Fluff Master calmly asks for another plate of wings. The crowd gets behind the Fluff Master. "Dallas Sucks. Dallas Sucks." Conklin, flustered by the intensity, counts down the final minute a minute too early. The Fluff Master has maintained his lead — 143 to 133. Fifteen seconds to go and Morganti provides bite by bite commentary: "148 wings, 149 wings, three seconds left. Yes, he did it — 150 wings. One—five—oh. A new Wing Bowl record."
Retiring champion Heavy Kevy, who recreationally worked his way through 40 wings during the contest, awards the trophy. "Don't get too attached to it. I'll be back next year." The Fluff Master calmly looks at Al Morganti, who had set his odds at 50 to 1. "Just wanted to prove you wrong."
His advice to aspiring wing eaters: "Pop 'em in, grab 'em with your teeth, pull the meat off."
Enjoy,
Holly Moore