Conquering The Cow Got A Hankerin’ For A Big Slab Of Beef? Head To Amarillo

This is Steak Country. Cows outnumber trees. Vegetarians are fictional characters in books. And Hamburger Helper is :considered a subversive plot by the United Nations.

It’s also the home of The Big Texan Ranch Restaurant, where brave souls regularly come to beat the meat: a challenge posted by the owners to eat a 72-ounce steak, a baked potato, salad, shrimp cocktail and dinner roll in just one hour. It’s the Iron Man Triathlon of the culinary world and those who finish under the guidelines don’t have to pay the normal $50 fee. Hence, The Big Texan prefers to call it their Free Steak Meal.

The contest dates back to 1960, when a cowboy, or perhaps a sumo wrestler, walked into The Big Texan looking hungry enough to eat a cow. Bob Lee, then the owner, fed him one … 72 ounces worth, anyway.

Roughly 25,000 people have attempted this feat since, and about 5,000 have succeeded, including a 63-year-old woman and an 11-year-old boy. The week before I arrived, a 14-year-old boy licked his plate, although it’s worth noting that the lad weighed 238 pounds.

“If you finish it, you’re going to puke,” one of the women at the gift shop told me. “It’s just a question of, will you puke at the table, or will you make it to the bathroom?”

One of the articles posted on the wall of the eatery came from Mens’ Fitness magazine, wherein two doctors explained the health risks of attempting this feat. One said it was harmful to swallow that much food, and the other agreed, adding it was particularly harmful with red meat. Nonetheless, I signed the waiver relieving The Big Texan of responsibility in case I exploded.

While my steak was cooking (it took 50 minutes) I had a few strategic decisions to make. Did I want to slide the meat down with steak sauce or eat it dry and save the vital space? Did I want the steak cooked “well” so it would be smaller, or leave it “medium” so it would be more tender, but larger? I asked Rhonda, my waitress, for guidance, but she wasn’t much help.

According to the rules, I was seated at my own table in front of the stage.

Rhonda made an announcement to the 40 or so diners: “This is Doug Lansky from Minnesota and he is going to attempt the 72-ounce steak. He has one hour to finish it.” The crowd applauded, which just made me more nervous. Not only would failure involve getting violently sick and having to pay $50, I would now be publicly humiliated.

When the steak arrived, it was the size of an Oxford English Dictionary but twice as heavy. Seventy-two ounces translates to 4-1/2 pounds. Or 22 Big Macs. I didn’t even want to think about the salad, shrimp, bread and potato.

“The Lord may forgive you,” said one passerby, “but your colon never will.”

I took my first bite. The meat was tender and delicious. I started cutting the monster to pieces and chewing, trying to keep up a steady, relaxed pace. Suddenly, I noticed I was the main attraction in the restaurant. People started taking pictures of me, and everyone began taking a route to the restroom that brought them past my table.

Under the rules of the challenge, I couldn’t leave the table or even stand up. I had to cut everything myself. And if I got sick, I lost immediately.

They said I could cut away the fat and gristle, but - God knows I searched - there wasn’t any to cut away. Fortunately, I didn’t have to eat the garnish, the saltine cracker, the potato peel and the two small tomatoes on the salad.

After 30 minutes using my Cut Everything Into Small Pieces Method, my jaw began to cramp. I had to cut the meat into yet smaller pieces. Then my fingers started to cramp from cutting. I had to switch hands continuously before I finally gave up and began shoveling food in with my fingers.

I had eaten half the steak, all the salad, all the shrimp (the shrimp sauce nearly made me toss up the whole shebang) and the bread with 20 minutes to go. I was on pace. But with each bite, the steak tasted less like steak and more like the flesh of a cow.

My digestive tract was clogging faster than the arteries of a chain-smoking mayonnaise tester. I began wondering how much it would cost to have my stomach pumped … and if all the servers had been well trained in the Heimlich maneuver.

With five minutes left, my face was green. Or maybe purple. I had consumed double or triple my biggest Thanksgiving meal and still had 10 ounces of meat left, which, at most restaurants, is the amount of steak you get when you start eating. Rhonda saw I wasn’t going to make it and threw in the towel, or in this case, the doggie bag.

I had made a respectable showing by all accounts, but I couldn’t conquer the cow. I pushed back and noticed that, if my table were a trailer park, I could have applied for tornado disaster relief funds. I moved my personal compost heap aside and put my head down.

“Want some dessert?” asked Rhonda with a perky smile. Under Texas state law (Statute 322A: Poorly Timed Humor), I was permitted to shoot her.