Soups up for Eli Golebowicz as he steps up to the plate, embarking on the ultimate culinary challenge.
I have been working up this hunger all afternoon. Thinking about it for a week, as a matter of fact, since my dismal failure in front of my partner Kacey and her father Dave…
We had gone out for dinner at XEÔM, a Vietnamese restaurant in Melbourne’s inner north. I had eaten a big lunch, so I was just going to have a banh mi. But I noticed a laminated poster on the wall above our table. I could not resist: The Big “Pho-King” Challenge. A mega bowl of 1.1 kilos of beef, a kilo of noodles and 1.5 litres of broth. Sound possible? Didn’t think so. But the soup is free, plus they give you 50 bucks if you can finish in 25 minutes.
“Go on mate,” Dave said. “You know you want to.”
It came out more like a tsunami than a bowl of food. It spanned half the table. The whole ocean was in there. Archipelagos of spring onion, spiralling jagged noodle reefs and volcanoes of rare beef spewing chilli into the pungent sea. You’d be right in thinking I was daunted. Still, I unrolled the napkin and grabbed the spoon like I was putting up the main sail for this brave, if misguided, voyage. It was going to be a long way to shore at the bottom of the bowl.
I hadn’t even made it through a third of it before the buzzer went off. Dave and Kacey had long since finished their meals and were watching me sweat while they sipped their drinks. At least the owner was kind enough to let me take the rest home – in six separate takeaway containers. When Dave shook my hand as we parted ways, he couldn’t quite meet my eye. There seemed to be a touch of sympathy as he hugged his daughter goodbye.
That was a week ago. Tonight is going to be different. We have plans to go to the climbing gym in Collingwood, right near The Big Bowl. As I lie on the couch in the pit of my hunger, I mention dinner to Kacey, and she says she feels like vermicelli. Perfect. The scene is set for my redemption. I don’t say anything about XEÔM yet – I don’t want Kacey to freak out – but it’s just up the road from the gym and will be the natural option.
We meet our friends and climb around for a bit; I try and keep things casual. Kacey asks them if they want to come to dinner, but they’re busy. I secretly rejoice. Better there aren’t any bystanders. I break away from the group and head to the weights area. I’m starving and I grimace in pain, but I know that it’s nothing compared to how my innards will feel later: engorged and writhing like those sea snakes that get caught in the engines of cruise ships.
A friend arrives at the gym, and he spurs me on. He once ate 30 of my mum’s rum balls in one sitting. I mention The Big Bowl to him, but he can’t make it. He offers me some water, but I refuse. The broth, I fear, is worse than the noodles.
“Still feel like vermicelli?” I ask Kacey as we walk arm-in-arm along the street. “What about XEÔM? It’s just up the road.”
She tenses up. “How about ramen?” she says. I consider this life raft she’s offering me.
“I’m not sure about the lighting there.”
Maybe she reads something in the stricken look on my face. Maybe she’s been thinking about it too. “You want to try the challenge again, don’t you?”
This is my last chance to back out. I look down, keep walking. We could just have a nice relaxing meal, a little conversation-—
“I want to see you do it,” she says.
We find a table out the front. This is good; the air feels cool on my skin. Kacey traces her finger along the menu. I inform the kitchen I want to do the challenge.
“I’m sorry,” says the waitress, “but the challenge must be done inside. So we can see you.”
My new seat is right in the walkway. Someone keeps stomping back and forth behind me. I take a halting sip of Kacey’s drink.
The tidal wave surges in front of me but this time I’m ready. I jettison the plate of condiments; these would only slow me down. I pour water into the boiling broth to cool it off and start on the mountain of food. It surrounds my entire field of vision. To my disbelief the broth recedes, leaving behind saucy debris along the sides of the bowl. I’m getting to the rich, spicy bottom layer…
And it’s over. The buzzer has gone off. One mouthful of meat is left and I couldn’t get it down. A dark well of broth remains: in the reflection on its oily surface I see my face. I see the walls of the restaurant, and on them photos of that small fraternity who have supposedly conquered The Big Bowl. What do they have that I don’t?
Kacey holds my hand and the owner pours me a drink for my trouble. “See you again next week,” she says.
By Eli Golebowicz
Eli Golebowicz is a tour guide from Tasmania, taking a BA in writing at RMIT.
Published in ed#740