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| Left: Ste's; Right: Allen's |
Somebody not named Allen thought it would be a
brilliant idea to make a meal really made for six people and split it between just
two people. Stipulations like these require a bromance level beyond the casual. There
is nothing more uglier than seeing your brotha crying over, not a plate, but a
saucepan sized portion of mom’s spaghetti. No hating on Eminem, but there was
no vomit on our sweater, already. There were spaghetti stains around our mouths
though… trying scenes. Still. We owned the moment and will never let it go-oh.
Set the scene: 500 grams beef mince, 500 grams
spaghetti, 500 grams passata mixed with 3 cups water, and additional puree for good
measure. In total, Ste’s portion weighed in at 2 lbs solid. It was up against my
own overweight-at-weigh-in meal coming in stout at 2¼ lbs. Needless to say, it was two prized
fighters entering the ring, with an inevitable ending of both contenders unconscious on the mat. To be fair, I should’ve been well prepared for the task with the
amount I eat each evening, which is basically the same size. It was the pasta.
It got me. It made me weak. I know what Manny Pacquiao felt like getting K.O.ed by Marquez.
Words to live by: professional eating should be left
to the professionals. The likes of Adam Rickman, Takeru Kobayashi, Joey
Chesnut, and The Black Widow (Sonya Thomas). Them cats can eat next level. Here at No. 41 there was no cheering crowd, no kiss on the cheek from some stranger, and no little kid screaming, “do you have the huevos?” in your
ear. In fact, I have never heard such little encouragement for two poor individuals trying
to prove a point. What that point is? I have no idea. But we both proved it.
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| Ste succumbed to his wounds. |
I went with the "slow and steady wins the race" approach whilst Ste went for the "scarf it down and get it over with" technique. Scientifically, I think both would be rendered "stupid" with the amount of food sat in front of us for a BroDate -- you can't forget the half loaf of French bread we each had as well. It would've been a sinch for The Black Widow. Today, I have gained much respect for the competitive eating field.
Honestly, I haven’t felt this grim after eating since ordering all-you-can-eat
crab legs at Outrigger when I was like 11. Credit Ste's smarts. He played it safe and just had the
meal. I stupidly had a doughnut on the way back from food shopping. So I wholeheartedly blame my late arrival at the finish line on that. And I look at it this way. It's all preparation for the portions I'll get back in America on my mini holiday.
At the end, I did feel like “Money” Mayweather, without the backpack crammed with a million bucks (soon though, eh?). Such a promising night that started with glowing sentiments from Ste like, "I don't know what I'm going to do with myself when you're away", quickly turned sour and tasteless -- like the spaghetti. The sauce was just too heavy. Sorry mama, but please don't say we are having spaghetti for dinner on Wednesday night.
Two words: never again.
