On Getting Sauced By Enrico's: A Tale Not For The Faint Of Heart

FRANKFORT, IL — I was somewhere in Mokena when I got the email, not too unlike the scores of them I get on a daily basis. "Enrico's Spaghetti Contest: You're in!" read the subject line. Dare I believe this is true? Would I finally get my shot at the title for greatest spaghetti-eater in the Lincoln-Way area, or was this some cruel hoax? My heart was aflutter.

I had previously covered the first round of Enrico's Italian Dining's Get Sauced Spaghetti Eating Contest July 22 at CD&ME in Frankfort, so I knew the competition would be stiff. I watched co-winners Vince "Vinny the Vacuum" Ambrose, of Tinley Park, and Jeremy "Jaws" Smith, of Plainfield, demolish their rivals that round in spectacular fashion. It would be a safe bet that I would face equally hungry foes when it came time to belly-up to the competitor's table.

I said a tiny prayer to the spaghetti gods and made an oath on my non-Italian blood to fight the good fight. It would turn out that I would need more than idle prayers to an idle idol and blood oaths to my Irish, German and English ancestors. Much more. I needed a strategy, and fast, with only 69 hours and 46 minutes until showtime.

The rules for the contest were simple enough, perhaps deceptively so: Each contestant would be given a plate of spaghetti (1 pound, they said) with sauce and 3 minutes on the clock to finish it. If no one finished the entire plate, then the winner would be decided by weighing the contestants' pasta remains. The one who finished the most would be declared the champion of the round, the Sultan of Spaghetti, the Prince or Princess of Pasta, with all the esteem that title would hold.

But here's the rub: A fork would be provided; however, the fork would be optional. Hmm... what to do? I had seen firsthand how Vinny the Vacuum and Jaws both initially used the tiny trident at the beginning of their round, but quickly discarded the steel utensil in favor of their own hands. And, since they both claimed the title for that round, the mano-a-spaghetti strategy clearly had merit. If I was to become the best, then I would need to emulate the best, only better.

And so it seemed I had a winning strategy in place. But it only seemed that way. A mysterious and legendary icon would soon show me a different way. I know not where he came from, nor to where he returned, but he made his presence known to me in a most direct way.

Listen: It was the night before the contest, and I lay in bed in a stress-induced half-sleep, drifting in and out of feverish dreams and premonitions. That's when he came to me. Jedi Chef Obi-Boyardee.

"Use the fork, TJ," he urged me, his thinly mustachioed face echoing in the infinity of the ethereal void, his chef's hat like a blazing crown upon his head. "Trust me, TJ."

Gasp! Was the vision real? Do I dare question the divine wisdom of Obi-Boyardee? Certainly there could be consequences for disregarding such a mandate as this from the master himself.

No, the decision was no longer my own. I would do what the Jedi chef directed me to do. I would use my 40-plus years of fork training to my advantage and to the demise of all who would stand in my way. Or, so I thought.

I arrived at CD&ME just before 6 p.m. to stake my spot at the table and scope out the competition. I sauntered to the registration table, confident that the fork would be my guide on my quest to fulfill my destiny. Then, the first of several terrible omens revealed itself: The largest shirt they had to offer was an X-Large. Dastardly! Clearly the intention was to constrict my belly, so as not to allow too much pasta to pass down my gullet. I admit, my faith in the fork was now beginning to wane, but I would find a way to overcome this obstacle, as all mythical heroes do. Somehow.

I adorned the Enrico's attire, stretched it out a bit to give myself some intestinal breathing room. The tables would not so easily be turned on me. I sat and waited for the time to shine. Someone was watching me. Some force of evil. I could feel his gaze on my back. He appeared seemingly from a haze, scruffy and full of ill intent.

"You look like you could use a pick-me-up," he said in a whisper. "I've got what you want, what you need to take the title home. Just a little something to clear your body and make you the ultimate vessel for pasta in the universe."

And with that he extended his hand and revealed two tiny water pills, innocuous in their appearance, but dubious in their nature.

"Be gone, foul pusher of pills!" I exclaimed. "I will not be tempted by your wares. Leave now, and never return to this place again."

And with that, the evil spirit let out a shriek and sank back into the shadows. Who did he think he was dealing with here?!

It was no sooner than the pusher had passed into the dark when I saw him: Justin "Mr. Oblivion" Ozinga. The man, the legend, the destroyer of meals, in the flesh and at this competition. I was dismayed.

His feats of feasting were widely know throughout the local competitive eating circuit. It was rumored that he once ate a 96-ounce steak somewhere in the wilds of Wisconsin, gristle and all. He was a true belt-buster, and spelled serious trouble for me. But, there was no backing out now. I was in far too deep.

As fate would have it, "Mr. Oblivion" Ozinga was lined up directly on my left as we were introduced to a hefty and thunderous applause from the crowd. They knew they were in for a special treat with Mr. Oblivion in attendance.

"I ate concrete for lunch," he sneered at me. "So eating a plate of spaghetti is nothing to me. NOTHING!"

Oh, boy. This was it. Gut check time, for real. I kept my focus on the plate of spaghetti in front of me, calling out to me with its robust marinara and flakes of Parmesan like so many tasty crystals on a bed of pasta.

"Eat me," the plate spoke to me. "Eat me all... If you dare."

Three, two, one: It was go time.

I trusted in the fork. It would not, could not, let me down. I plunged my utensil deep into the dish, piercing the squishy tomatoes and tree limb-sized noodles. One bite, then another, then another. I dared not glance over at Mr. Oblivion. I tuned out the material world and submitted to the calling of my heavenly purpose. I ate. I ate like the fate of the world pressed down on my stomach.

As the countdown approached the final 15 seconds, I looked over at Mr. Oblivion. He had nearly consumed the entire plate. The. Entire. Plate. How could a human complete such a task? What wizardry was on display here? I looked down at my own plate. I was embarrassed by how much remained. All was lost.

In those final seconds, I cursed the Jedi Chef Obi-Boyardee. "You have forsaken me!" I cried out. And with that I tossed aside my worthless fork. What a fool I was to pin all my hopes and dreams to three pathetic prongs. "Whoa is me," I thought. "There is nothing left." So I gave myself completely and utterly to the spaghetti, diving in face first. Perhaps I could save some semblance of dignity through this act of self-sacrifice.

The buzzer sounded. My heart sank. Mr. Oblivion had clearly bested us all. It was over. My journey had ended in total failure. So it goes.

My career as a competitive eater was brief, like a shooting star going nowhere and becoming nothing.

Now that it's all said and done, I look back on my quest and I have no regrets. I will always have the fond memories to carry me through the end of my days. I am the fork and the fork is with me, always.

*This article has been updated to correct Justin "Mr. Oblivion" Ozinga's name.

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