He also observed one of the great mysteries of competitive eating. "The American competitors were largest -- I'd say averaging 300 to 400 pounds," he says. "But it was the Japanese who seemed to be doing all the winning. It's just amazing how these little guys pack it away." Imagine a Tokyo football team flying to Denver and knocking off the Broncos, and you can grasp the magnitude of the puzzle.
Why isn't bigger better? Some theorists have credited the Asians' technique. The Japanese have found great success using the water-dipping method, in which the hot dog is dunked into a glass of water. This compresses the bun and makes the whole package slide down the gullet more easily. Others have won with the "dogs first, buns later" gambit, in which the dog and bun are disjoined. The meat portion usually is consumed first, with the bread then mashed into a dense ball, masticated and swallowed. This year, Kobayashi pioneered the so-called "Solomon method," breaking each frankfurter in half and jamming both pieces into his mouth at once.
Mike Gorman
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Still, most observers agree that technique alone does not offer a satisfactory explanation. A former American champ has also proposed the "belt of fat" theory. It suggests that Americans can't win because of their size -- that the adipose layer which looks so capacious actually prohibits the stomach from expanding.
One point on which everyone does agree is that top-level eating is absolutely a sport. "You keep score. So it's more of a sport than gymnastics or figure skating," Larry points out. "It's definitely competitive. And there's a point of pain that you have to work through." He notes that he typically puts on several pounds during a tournament, and his body temperature rises three or four degrees while meat processing.
Larry and I agree to meet at Coney Island Hot Dog in Aspen Park -- the giant wiener-shaped wiener stand in the foothills southwest of Denver. Larry orders a foot-long and garnishes it generously. The forty-year-old's technique remains elegant and effortless. The meat cylinder and its bread housing disappear from the paper boat almost as an afterthought. He doesn't break a sweat.
"The reason I haven't competed recently," he says between bites, "is that Colorado doesn't have anyplace sponsoring a contest." Properly appalled, I decided to take action. With a line snaking around the front of the giant stucco sausage, we walk around back and pound on the employee entrance and ask for the manager. A fiftyish woman with Texas hair and an exasperated expression pushes the door halfway open.
"What do you want?" she says.
"Do you know who this is?" I ask, nodding at Larry.
She looks his six-foot, 260-pound frame up and down. "No."
"He's the Arizona state hot dog-eating champ," I say proudly. "You really don't recognize him?"
She stares at us. I press on. "Well, anyway, there's no sanctioned hot-dog-eating contest in Colorado. So how about you take that on?"
She doesn't hesitate. "No."
"Never?" I persist.
She shakes her head. "I can't do that," she says, then adds, "I've got to go." The door slams behind her as she disappears back into the big dog.
"Oh, well," says Larry. "Maybe next year."
