Since that fateful Saturday, I find myself caught up in memories
of the sort which would be categorized somewhere between post-traumatic
stress and acid flashbacks. The scenario is always the same: I am
sitting on a couch in my house at around 10 PM. Dan Epstein has just
walked in and noted that the room, which Bill and I have been sitting
in for quite some time, smells like “curry-sweat and fart.”
I am watching An Evening with
Kevin Smith, though I am having trouble hearing the witty fat
man’s stories over the grumbling of my own swollen belly. This is
the most I have ever related to someone from New Jersey, a fact I could not
appreciate at the time as I was too focused on deciding whether I
should ignore the warning labels on the TUMS Strong Softgels
and down the whole box in one go. I hear Lisa ask me if I’m
feeling OK. And then, right before the curry/hummus/soy sauce-induced
dehydration-headache causes me to black out, I find myself wondering:
how did I get in this position and what will keep me from coming back
here?
If you’ve read any of Bill
Cameron’s articles from previous editions of The Window, you probably aren’t very surprised to see
him participate in the sort of foolishness that is the Bloor Street Challenge. It epitomizes the type of
excess, filth, and offensiveness that he has gained a reputation for.
We had developed the Bloor Street Challenge
together during our 1st and 2nd years, around the
same time I was helping him with his Additive Theory of Deliciousness
(currently under peer-review). I had never thought that this would ever
come to fruition, and when Bill told me that he was going to do it and
invited me to partake as well, I at first declined; after all, what had
my vital organs ever done to me to deserve this type of treatment?
However, I was eventually overcome by hubris and the fame and fortune
which all come with being featured in The Window, and agreed to compete. I told my partner
Andrea, who is a vegetarian, environmental/sustainability activist, and
all-around good person, about the contest. She was at first disappointed
in me for the excess, gluttony and extravagance I was going to partake
in, but after she looked into my eyes and saw that this was something I
had to do, she told me she understood, ending with “and kick
Bill’s ass.”
So on our way to Yummy BBQ I was pretty
pumped up, though a bit nervous. For me Yummy BBQ was going to be my
toughest hurdle; I like the BBQ there so much, yet utterly detest the
macaroni salad and the other sides which come with it, and was
concerned I wasn’t going to be able to eat the entire meal or, if
I did finish, that I would upchuck; either route was automatic
disqualification. Once there I looked at the picture for Dumpling
Noodle Soup and found my mode of attack: there were no sides in the
picture, the bowl looked fairly small, and I remembered the Excess
Fluids Clause of the competition which stated that excess fluids did
not have to be consumed. I was surprised to find that the soup was
incredibly large and came with sides (though not, thankfully, the
macaroni salad). While I maintain that soup broth totally counts as
excess fluids, I finished the entire meal, though felt disheartened by
the amount of effort involved and the ease with which Bill had finished
his.
If I may say so, Mariko was where I shined.
With strategic and effective ordering I finished two rounds with
relative ease, finishing my customary bowl of rice like it was the
first I had eaten of the day. Having finished well ahead of Bill I
decided to go down to the bathroom and open up a bit of space. This was
a mistake, as I had the first of a few ghost-poops, which was seriously
bad for morale. I came back upstairs with a brick in my stomach as Bill
was finishing his miso soup. We tipped
nicely, looked at each other and shared a split-second of fear and
anxiety, then moved on to Sarah’s. As we walked there I realized
that while I wore loose pants, they were not nearly loose enough.
Sarah’s and Futures went by pretty
quickly. I ordered an eggplant/potato sandwich with hummus, tahini, and not a damn thing else (although I
maintain I could have done a falafel combination sans salad just as
easily). I let the grease drip off my sandwich onto the wax-paper
invoking the Excess Fluids Clause. I didn’t feel good about
myself for doing it, but I did what I had to do. At Futures I ordered a
slice of strawberry rhubarb pie which I maintain was one of the best
moves of the competition: fruity, refreshing, and, most importantly,
small.
The rest is history. Bill’s retelling
of what transpired at Mt. Everest is pretty complete. I
ordered the naan and chicken vindaloo, and threw in the towel about halfway
through. In a curry-induced stupor I bumblingly
paid the bill, vowing I would eat nothing but sprouts for the next two
days, and then made a mad dash for Shoppers to find the strongest
stomach relief that didn’t involve liposuction. When I came to I
was in my pajamas, sitting on the couch, watching Kevin Smith, and
cursing the day I ever learned to eat solid foods.
I would like to say that I learned a lot
about myself from this experience, that the self-inflicted pain taught
me something about moderation or the importance of thinking one’s
actions through. The following day, as I finished the leftover chicken vindaloo from the previous evening, I realized the
lesson:
I should have ordered fried
rice at Yummy BBQ.
*Note: Yes you can.
