I’m staring down at my second 12-egg omelet of the day, a behemoth the size of a small child. It’s August 2008, and I’m at Beth’s Cafe in Seattle, a glorious dive that constitutes one of the final stops on a south-to-north cross-country drive that began in San Diego. My stomach was empty and the first omelet had gone down rapidly and with ease, a delicious, belly-lining blend of eggs, cheese, and various fillings, laid atop a mound of buttery hash browns and a fluffy biscuit. It was so satisfying and went down so easily that I couldn’t resist ordering another. You only live once, right?
The waitress, sporting a Betty Page haircut and arm sleeves of colorful tattoos that were ubiquitous in late-aughts Seattle, eyes me skeptically as I dig in. She’s probably seen her share of people trying to impress their friends by downing just one of these big boys, but I’m not here for that. I’m by myself and overwhelmed by a fierce hunger, not having eaten since hiking around the Mount St. Helens National Volcanic Monument in Oregon earlier that day.
This scene—one of hundreds, to be sure—captures the essence of my relationship with food before the age of viral challenges and Instagram-worthy meals. I’ve always been drawn to massive portions, not for fame or likes, but for the pure joy of eating. Growing up, my sizable siblings and I shared an immense appetite that bordered on legendary. Together, we blasted through boxes of pizza and epic stacks of double cheeseburgers; we were just always hungry.
In college, this hunger led me to a job at Golden Corral. There, surrounded by endless amounts of cheap buffet fare, I learned the art of strategic eating. I’d sign up for early shifts on weekends, allowing me to graze through breakfast, lunch, and dinner rotations. Omelets and imitation “krab” salad became my staples. I’d take big swigs from liquid egg quarts and eat hunks of krab salad straight from the bowl. I learned to sneak dinner rolls into my mouth, grab chicken fingers and fries on the sly, and drink sweetened iced milk straight from the ice cream machine lines.
As I left college and hit the road, my appetite came with me. In 2005, I found myself at a Culver’s in Valparaiso, Indiana, on a sweltering Midwest summer day. I had just spent the afternoon at Indiana Dunes State Park. It was a surprise oasis, with towering sand dunes that seemed out of place in a landscape that also included a full view of a nuclear power plant and a U.S. Steel production facility. I’d climbed the dunes, feeling the burn in my legs and the sun on my face, before wading into the surprisingly clear waters of Lake Michigan.
To cap off the day, I casually downed Culver’s signature custard in quantities that would later stump Adam Richman on Man v. Food’s Crown Candy challenge. The creamy, cold custard was a perfect antidote to the day’s heat, and I lost count of how many I consumed. Meanwhile, further south, in Fort Worth, Texas, I discovered Esperanza’s, where I’d happily devour pounds of fresh-baked flour tortillas. The tortillas came out piping hot, slightly charred in spots, with a perfect chewiness that kept me coming back for more.
Again, these weren’t flashy meals designed for social media; they were simple, delicious, and deeply satisfying.
As food challenges gained popularity, though, I found myself drawn into the competitive eating world. In 2012, I attempted a 6-pound “four cheese” burger challenge at a now-closed steakhouse on Pittsburgh’s South Side. There, amidst one of the longest stretches of bars in the United States, I met disaster. The burger was overdone, the time limit oppressive. For the first time, eating felt like a chore rather than a pleasure. When the well-meaning owner asked me if I wanted the leftovers boxed up, I shook my head no. I never wanted to see that meal again.
Despite this setback, I couldn’t resist the allure of trying such a challenge again. In 2015, I tackled the 72-ounce steak at the Big Texan Steak Ranch in Amarillo. Unlike the Pittsburgh disaster, this steak was cooked somewhere between medium rare and rare. I finished it in 90 pleasurable minutes, well over the mandated hour needed to get it for free, and gladly paid full price. It wasn’t about beating the clock; it was about savoring every bite of that perfectly cooked beef. I had experienced my vision of the Lone Star State. I would remember that particular flavor—and the place it called home—forever.
Honestly, such was the case with every destination I ate my way through. Take that day at Beth’s Cafe in Seattle. I wasn’t just devouring those enormous omelets—I was absorbing what remained of the grungy essence of the city, which I never got to visit during the 1990s. The tattoo-covered hipster waitress, the grimy charm of the 24-hour diner, the smell of coffee and grease hanging in the air—it all combined to create a visceral memory of Seattle that no mere visit to the Space Needle could match. Perhaps I was imbibing something of the alternative era’s remaining stereotypes, the way Jack Kerouac saw what he wanted to see when he first set foot in Mexico. But it was still the realization of a trip I longed to make back when I was a beefy kid with a middle part who listened to bands like the Melvins and Mudhoney.
Similarly, the physical exertion of climbing those unexpected Midwest sand mountains in Indiana—doing something that Walter Payton, a childhood idol of mine, had done, admittedly with far more grace and explosiveness—set the stage for my subsequent feast at Culver’s. As I downed custard after custard, I wasn’t just cooling off—I was processing the day’s experiences, letting the flavors of Wisconsin custard mingle with the memories of gazing at a nuclear reactor while feeling Indiana sand between my toes.
Even the sweltering drive I took from Lubbock to get to the Big Texan Steak Ranch in Amarillo became an integral part of my meaty experience there. The endless Texas landscape, the stifling heat in my AC-less Honda Accord, the sheer emptiness of the panhandle—all of it made that 72-ounce steak taste like more than just beef. It was a distillation of Texas itself, big and bold and unapologetic.
This connection between food and place is what I find lacking in today’s viral food challenges. When someone attempts the “Three-Headed Monster” at M’Jays House of Smoke, are they really tasting the suburban disasterpiece that is Arlington, Texas—home of so many parking lots and arenas, right in the dead center of the Dallas Metroplex? Or are they just tasting the pressure to perform for their audience?
Don’t get me wrong, I understand the appeal of these challenges. They’re entertaining, they bring people together, and they can be great marketing for restaurants that deserve the love (M’Jays, my friends assure me, is very good and deserves whatever attention it receives, including its plug here). But they seem to miss what I’ve always cherished in my travels: the satisfaction of a meal well-eaten in an unfamiliar place well-traveled, not a challenge conquered. I can’t shake the feeling that something is lost in this new world of performative eating. The quiet satisfaction of a big meal enjoyed purely for its own sake, the meditative quality of focusing entirely on the giant flavors and textures in front of you, in a place you might never visit again—these strike me as casualties in the race for likes and views.
