Man vs. Man vs. Sandwich

The concept of the duel is as old as life itself. From crusty long-horned rams to dirty Spainiards with floppy swords, dudes of one form or another have settled their testosterone driven need for oneupmanship in this honorable tradition for thousands of years. Modern man also seems to have a particular fascination regarding glutony. From hot dog eating championships to unmentionable darkness of the dairy challenge to television accidents such as Man Vs. Food, we Homo Sapiens long to celebrate the prowess of overwhelming ones abdominal cavity. In this vein, Brandon Bassett (manager at Toronto's Marben Restaurant) discovered this poster, promptly slapped me accross the face with a particularly lengthy cut of corned beef, and a new duel was upon us.

For the folks at the Corned Beef House (located at John & Adelaide in Toronto), this was business as usual. This contest of colon-wrenching debauchery is a weekly event. The idea is simple enough. Its a game of man vs. sandwich. One mere mortal against 40 oz.'s (thats 2 and a half pounds for the mathmatically challenged) of delicious corned beef. To the winner goes a free lunch, to the loser a $30 bill to pay, and to both significant issues with your intestinal track. In spirit its not such a bad wager. Anyone privy to the super sandwich magic that goes on inside these hallowed walls knows that there isnt a better smoked meat deli in the city (we are no Montreal).

But I did not become this awesome without a sharp grasp of reality, and this was a contest neither of us were going to win. Unless of course we changed the game. It wasnt man vs sandwich. It was man vs. man vs. sandwich. Five pounds of corned beef to be spread evenly through 2 plates, each accompanied by 4 slices of bread, and a whole pickle cut in half. We would have 60 minutes to wage our battle, and in the end our plates would be weighted. To the winner, free lunch and satisfaction of victory. To the loser, 2 bills and the shame of defeat. To both, toilets that would be punching in some overtime on their timecards.

The Face of Fear

At last it was gametime. Jermaine, the admirable referee ushered in a silence of the room. The PA began to pump out a Michael Buffer introduction, giving way to musical atmosphere courtesy of the battle tested anthem "Eye of The Tiger". In his hands...our undoing.

In the mouth of madness

For the first twenty minutes or so, it was pretty smooth sailing. The energy of the crowd (which had indeed gathered to witness our gastronomic penis measuring contest), the words of encouragement from Jermaine, our most noble of hosts and the sheer deliciousness of the corned beef was enough to buoy us forward. The hardest part early on was indeed figuring out exactly how to eat this monstrosity. Truly it seemed most efficient to twirl the meat round my fork like it was spaghetti. I wish that wasnt true. But it was.

Eye of The Tiger

By the 20 minute mark, some new guests had joined the gallery. "Are you guys from Man Vs. Food or something?". Insulting, but fairplay given the foolish nature of our endeavor. In unison we mumbled yes, and thus began a new series of pictures, and twitter updates. Im sure it made their day. Brandon dropped a piece to the floor, which he grabbed and placed in a corner of his plate, marking it as "not to be eaten". A young lady watching intently noted that "If you had eaten that, you would have gotten laid tonight". Unfortunately for the young lady, that just wasn't meant to be.

Approaching the 30 minute mark, I sensed that Brandon's pace had slowed. I seized the opportunity for some psychological warfare (and some straight up old school showmanship) and began dancing around my stool. As if a man possessed I channeled my inner Ali and begain to chant "I'm gonna dance! I'm gonna dance! George cant hurt me. George cant catch me!" Either I had seen "When We Were Kings" a few too many times, or the pound of corned beef in my belly had began to induce delerium. You can flip a coin on that one.

The last 20 minutes was a sheer testament to spite and willpower. We had both aknowledged that the very taste of corned beef had become vomit inducing. Every swallow was a fight to supress the gag reflex. We had been reduced to eating the tiniest of portions at a time. Brandon noted that he even began choosing only the leanest morsels, in attempt to thwart the hardened battle axe of the fatty cuts. Suddenly the bread and pickle became our greatest ally, as we werent exactly full, but needed something, ANYTHING, to mask the taste senstation of the demonic corned beef. With less than 5 minutes to go, Brandon sealed his fate by noting pickle weighed in alot more than the beef either of us could still eat. It was a moment of cartoonish serendipity for myself, comeplete with the animated lightbulb springing up beside my head. While adverse to even the smallest bite of corned beef, I was however all over marving my entire pickle quota. Brandon on the other hand could stomach neither. The lesson here kids. Shut your mouth.

The Weigh In...and The Winner.

We stumbled haphazardly toward the counter to get the weigh in. Our plates were in virtual symetry, minus of course any remnant of pickle on my entry. Then it came in. A hair under 2 pounds of consumption, and 2 miniscule ounces clear of my opponent....I was victorious! Alas there was little to celebrate. Sure, Brandon was stuck with the bill. And sure, I had all the bragging rights entitled to the winner, the newly ordained champion of the hour. But spite Willy, is the word of your undoing.

I wont bore you with the agony of the hours that followed. You can imagine that well enough for yourself. What shouldnt be lost in all of this however is that this entire dance with debauchery came about and was made plausible by the overwhelming deliciousness of our hosts. I would strongly recommend NOT eating 2 and a half pounds of the stuff but the Corned Beef House puts out one hell of a sandwich. Their rueben is to die for. Or at least to moan in gluton induced sleep deprived agony for. And it means those of us who long for Schwartz's dont have to rely on the mediocrity of Caplansky's while we wait for Celine Dion to butcher Montreal's most iconic deli.  Its part of an overwhelming sandwich revolution sweeping this city. From the folks at Porchetta and Co. whose takeout shop was billed in the top 5 restaurants of the year in Toronto. To the Banh Mi Boys of Spadina. To the burger accolades dripping over top of the Burger's Priest. To the little known but super awesome Garage at Pusateri's in the Village. Toronto is a sandwich town without equal. Get it in ya!