|
 |
 |
 |
 |
 |
|
# 27: Coney Island Baby (pic)
|
 |
 |
 |
|
|
|
|
|
By Maura Madden
The Fourth of July has come and gone. The streets are strewn with the detritus of celebration - shot-off bottlerockets, beer cans and ears of gnawed-on corn. There are grills to clean, sunburns to soothe, and leftovers to be eaten. And on my desk, there is a Polaroid of me and a man dressed up like a big bottle of mustard standing on Surf Avenue. These little things serve as tangible memories of this year's celebration of the birth of our nation.
The hot dog eating contest at Coney Island is an annual festivity celebrating its 88th year in 2003. It takes place at noon on the fourth of July, every year, in front of the original Nathan's Famous Hot Dog Stand in Brooklyn. I think it is actually called "Nathan's Famous Franks", but who's ever heard of a Frank Stand? Because of a chance crossing of stars and a timely conversation with my father earlier this week, I was reminded of the existence of the contest, and made it my mission to begin my weekend observing this legendary example of competitive eating.
To get out to Coney, I took the W train to the end of the line. Rather than pack a book or a Walkman for entertainment on the journey, I made the bad choice of throwing in my knitting for the ride instead. I hadn't been thinking clearly. Knitting can only be done on a nearly empty subway car, and as the train pulled into the station at Pacific Avenue, I saw that the conditions were adverse. As it turns out, on the Fourth of July, everybody goes to Coney Island.
It was like rush hour in midtown, but everyone was wearing flip-flops and shorts. The crowd was mixed -- foreign hipsters with Technicolor guidebooks rubbed elbows with huge, thuggish-looking young men pushing shopping carts full of food, boom boxes, and beer. A frat boy repeatedly kissed his girlfriend on the neck while their third-wheel friend looked on in discomfort, and I, dressed in red-white-and-blue to blend in with the crowd, ended up getting wedged between a woman in her 20s reading Glamour magazine and a woman in her 60s reading East of Eden. But it was all right; the mood was high, but marked with a general sense of restlessness. When you're on your way to the beach, you just can't get there soon enough, especially if you have to take the subway.
At Stillwell Avenue, the crowd disembarked in a riotous flood. Hoping I might run into the friend I was meeting right there on the platform, I waited for the crowds to pass to see if I could find her. She was nowhere to be found, but instead, there in the crowd were three surprise friends, also out to see the dogs get eaten. It was good timing. I needed help. I had no idea how to get to Nathan's.
But as it turned out, I didn't need help. Apparently, we were not alone in our quest to view sporty eating. We had thousands of comrades, most of who were already lined up in front of Nathan's. In addition, there was a man dressed up like a big yellow bottle of mustard, prancing around with another man dressed like a large hot dog. Using the power of cellular technology and the condiment mascots as our guides, I was able to find my photographer friend without too much difficulty. Finding a good spot to see the contest was what turned out to be impossible.
No matter where you stood, there were tall people blocking the view from every angle. And though the contest is an 88 year-old tradition, no one seems to have figured out the fact that by raising the eating platform a few more feet, the whole crowd would be able to see it. Instead, the throngs were craning their necks in a sporadic group head dance, trying to find the best spot to gain visibility. It was impossible. My photographer friend and I tried to make our way into the crowd, but whereas it had been 90 degrees on the outskirts of the crowd, the inner circle seemed to be well above 100. I decided that even the hot dog eating contest wasnÕt worth dying for, unless I was one of the contestants. We chose to pull out of the real crowd and continue looking for a spot on the edge, while the announcers apprised us of the fact that one of the contestants was both the matzo-ball eating champion of the world AND the egg-eating champion. A good spot was unattainable. Hot and frustrated, we looked for something to give us solace in our time of sadness. And then there it was, like a yellow beacon of hope - the man dressed like a squeeze-able bottle of mustard. I made my way towards him, and my friend tapped his handler on the back to get their attention. The large mustard was happy to have his picture taken. We took a few shots, my arm wrapped around my new friend. When we were done, I thanked him, and happily accepted the Polaroid taken by the official Nathan's rep.
The mustard turned to face me. "Do you want my autograph?" he asked, leering through his big yellow mustard costume.
"Sure," I replied, deciding it was only polite to humor him since he was dressed up like a giant bottle of mustard in the 90something degree heat. And instead of putting pen to paper, he proceeded to drag his yellow-gloved hand down my bare arm, the sweat seeping through the glove and glazing my limb like a streak of mustard. He then formed his hand into the shape of a gun and pointed it at me, making the universally accepted "Gotcha" symbol. I admit, I was gotten.
So we didn't get to see much of the contest, and what we saw was by taking turns standing on a wooden horse. And so like Takeru Kobayashi, who won the contest but failed to break his own record, we were a little disappointed (this year, he ate 44.5 hot dogs in 12 minutes, while last year he broke world records by eating 50.5 hot dogs in 12 minutes). But it was nothing that a dip in the Atlantic Ocean couldn't set right. So we headed for the beach and jumped in the water, swimming our way to happiness off the shore of Coney Island. |
|
|
 |
 |
 |
 |
|
|
