As a follow up to last week’s spotlight on local competitive eater “Damaging” Doug Canavin, The Spirit continued to follow the ten-time Wing Bowl contestant as he approaches this year’s main event.
As expected, the competition (held at the Wells Fargo Center on February 3) sold out quickly. And so continues Philadelphia’s love affair with this home-grown wing eating extravaganza.
What better way to understand the nature of this celebration of gluttony than to challenge one of its perpetual stars to an eating duel?
While this seemed like a good idea as it was formulated over a number of late night drinks, as we sat down to our respective towers of meat at the Nut Hut (formerly Paddy’s Well, 1873 Frankford Ave.), it began to dawn on me that this may have been a bit of a bad idea…
The Challengers
The first contestant to enter the ring knew the champ well: Damaging Doug’s son, Doug Jr., who recently moved in with his father after growing up in South Carolina.
It was the teenager’s first foray into his father’s realm, and he had never seen his dad attack a plate of wings.
“You’re in for a treat,” I told him.
“He’s fast?” Doug Jr. said, looking at his father.
“He’s a freak.” I explained. “A force of nature. You’ll see.”
The second entry into the contest was Zak Leyden, who managed to commence trash talking within moments of his inclusion.
“How many wings can I eat?” he said to a patron on a nearby barstool. “More than this guy, I’ll tell you that much,” he quipped, gesturing to your faithful scribe.
Well, every great hero needs his villain, and it looked like I had found mine. I would choke on a chicken bone before losing to this chump.
As Leyden and I continued our back-and-forth barking, another patron volunteered himself for a free dinner, er, a spot in the contest.
The looming John Gonnella, who claimed to have once bested the legendary El Wingador in an eating clash, would take the fifth and final spot at the table.
“Finally, a real eater,” Doug boomed, greeting Gonnella. Leyden, Doug Jr., and I looked at each other in dejected sadness.
Not cool, Doug. Not cool at all.
So it begins
The contest began with a countdown from five. I would have preferred a starter pistol, vuvuzela, air horn or something with a bit more drama, but we were underway and there was no time to complain.
The wings were tasty. Spicy, but not overpowering, and definitely meatier than expected.
I hadn’t eaten since breakfast, and I tore into them with a passionate fervor.
Some major challenges quickly became apparent: tiredness in the jaw sets in fast; the mouth tends to dry out quickly and often when being constantly stuffed with spicy food and, you should be remedying this with water, not beer; developing a viable strategy on efficiently/quickly removing the meat from bones should be done prior to the actual competition.
Had it been a longer event one would undoubtedly need to deal with a full stomach, but this was not the case in my experience. A heavy, leaden sensation in the gut grew as the match moved forward, though, and had we gone over five minutes, it likely would have become a factor.
Crowd support helps. Our lovely bartender Anne Marie O’Reilly urged me forward, along with a crowd of mildly interested onlookers, gazing over our table with the same morbid curiosity of rubberneckers passing a roadside wreck.
The fear of losing in front of a crowd is motivational gold.
As my technique took shape I fell into a rhythm. At one with the meat. A Zen master, mind-over-wing calmness taking over. “I can do this,” I thought, filled with a sudden rush of exhilaration and adrenaline.
And then I looked over at Doug, and my optimism trickled away.
The violence with which he was attacking his wings was frightening. Beads of perspiration formed across his brow. Sauce pooled in his beard. Chunks of chicken took flight in the air as he stripped his bones. His eyes had turned wild. It was violence at its purest and basest form.
Oh well, I can still beat that little weasel Leyden, I shrugged, and went back to work.
Picking up the pieces
The final few minutes had passed in a blur.
As the final bell sounded the lot of us looked around at each other’s hot sauce smeared faces, dazed but in sympathy of one another’s pain.
By the final count, Doug was the clear winner with 31 wings.
Gonnella posted a very respectable 26 bones for second place.
Prior to the contest, I postulated that I could take down six wings a minute, bringing me to an even 30 for the event (realism was never my strong suit).
This estimate turned out to be a pipe dream, and my final tally was 16.
A lousy, measly 16 wings. There must be some mistake. Maybe I dropped some bones under the table?
“Nah, they were really meaty,” Doug consoled me. “They’re seriously three or four times the size of the ones they use at Wing Bowl…”.
And so closed the door to any aspirations in my heart of aspiring competitive eating greatness.
But wait, how did our trash-talking rival Zak Leyden fair? I counted his wings with glee: 11. Pathetic! I felt better already.
Doug Jr. is apparently not anticipating a passing of the torch between father and son, as he leisurely snacked on 7 wings while laughing at the rest of us.
As I gingerly moved back to the bar and ordered a drink, I looked back to the table.
Doug was reaching for his leftovers. “Who’s ready for round two?” he yelled, searching for competitors as he snacked on a wing.
