In the refrigerated storage room behind Nathan’s Famous, red-shirted men stacked crates of hot dog buns and tried to conceal their laughter.We did look a bit ridiculous, the five of us, huddled near the doorway beneath an enormous porcelain wiener, waiting for Richard Shea to call our names.
“I think we’ll have to dance,” said Sam, a woman in tall socks and a “Where’s the Beef?” T-shirt. “Definitely,” agreed Katie, producing a pair of high-heeled tap shoes from her bag. The other two contestants practiced gyrating their hips.
We had each come here to Coney Island to compete for the chance to be a bunnette in the 94th annual Nathan’s Famous Fourth of July Hot Dog Eating Contest, held on this ground the following weekend. The four winning bunnettes would go on to tally hot dogs, fire T- shirt cannons and exude cheerleader sexiness—all broadcast on ESPN for millions of viewers. This was the first year that men were allowed to try out, and it appeared that I was the only male hopeful.
Not for long. Into the storage room walked a scraggly-bearded bro in board shorts and a Guns ’N’ Roses muscle T, followed by two confused-looking girls. The bro introduced himself as Billy Crystal Jr., and the girls commenced hip-gyration. The organizers had roped these newcomers into competition at the last minute, plucked them from the crowd to fill out our ranks. “You guys are all so hot,” exclaimed Billy Crystal Jr. to everyone but me. “Is this like the final elimination round or something?”
In fact, the contest was just beginning. Someone outside turned on Michael Jackson’s “P.Y.T.,” and Richard (who in 1997 cofounded the International Federation of Competitive Eating) called for Sam over the microphone. She sprinted from the room, pumping her arms over her head. After about 40 seconds, it was my turn.
“Next we have Will from Los Angeles and Boerum Hill! Will from the Hill! With dreams of being a bunnette—or baguette! Beefcake on the line, ladies and gentlemen, beefcake on the line!”
As I ran, a crowd of about two-dozen curious passersby squinted at me from the road. I took my place behind a table and proceeded to dance. It was a forced, generic dance, but I was like a shark: stop moving and I’d die.
The others came out one by one. Billy Crystal Jr. was last. Instead of dancing, he waddled out slowly, carrying a metal keg, which he hoisted over his head. “What he lacks in beauty he makes up in strength,” Richard shouted. “Billy Crystal—from somewhere! Billy Crystal the baguette! Beefcake on the line, ladies and gentlemen! Billy Crystal!”
“Billy Crystal Junior!” shouted Billy Crystal Jr.
The first round was a counting contest. Laura, the head bunnette and leader of today’s Bunnette Boot Camp, stuffed hot dogs through a mouth-like hole in a foam-core board, while Beautiful Brian, a large man wearing a stars-andstripes bandana on his head, distracted us with party blowers inches from our ears. I counted 13 hot dogs.There had actually been 12.
Next was a game called “Are You Smarter Than Beautiful Brian?” I correctly answered the first trivia question: “Which competitive eater holds six consecutive titles?” I’m not sure how anyone could have gotten this one wrong, because the names of the winners since 1999 were printed in large letters on the wall behind us—with Takeru “Tsunami” Kobayashi listed six times in a row—but three of us did.
For the final challenge, Laura told us to pair up, and Billy Crystal Jr. got stuck as my partner. “Aw, what? No. No way. No!” he said. “I should be with a girl, man.That’s messed up.” He told me he would punch me when all this was over, and I told him I would punch him as well.
Laura placed a hot dog in front of each pair, and we put on blindfolds.The challenge was simple: One partner stands behind the other and feeds him/her a hot dog as quickly as possible.
“You’re gonna have to be the eater, man,” said Billy Crystal Jr.When I protested, saying that I had just eaten a hot dog for lunch— there were plates of them lying around—Billy Crystal Jr. said,“I’ve been drinking since 7 last night, man. I can’t produce saliva.”
My partner planted himself behind me and dressed our dog with squirts of ketchup and mustard. “Are you ready, bunnettes and baguettes?” boomed Richard. “Begin eating!” Billy Crystal Jr. pressed the hot dog into my cheek. I yelled at him and took a large bite, then another, chewing rapidly, trying to avoid my partner’s fingers. The warm beef rubbed against my lips and chin, abundantly lubricated by mustard. “Come on, man, bite it!” said Billy Crystal Jr. I took two final bites while choking down a wad of beef and bun.
But someone else had already finished. Delirious from sun and slime, I removed the blindfold and looked around. The crowd, small to begin with, had thinned. Richard cleared his throat and announced the winning bunnettes: Sam, Katie, one of the hip-gyrators and, to my surprise, me.
I became aware of ketchup and mustard smeared over my cheeks and chin and down the front of my shirt. Beautiful Brian pointed a camcorder at me and the several onlookers cheered. As I searched the table for some sort of napkin, trying not to smile, tonguing hot dog bits from between my teeth, Billy Crystal Jr. offered me his blindfold.
“Here, man, clean yourself up,” he said. “We’re brothers.”
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