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PrintFinale: Man vs. burger
Illustration by Mario Noche
We were at German Village’s Thurman Café when my fiancé said, “I’ve never seen that much meat on one plate.” He’d just been served the Thurmanator.
Most hamburgers at Thurman’s are impressive. I was intimidated by the three-quarters of a pound of ground beef placed before me, and my hamburger was considerably smaller than his. The Thurmanator is a 12-ounce burger topped with bacon, cheddar cheese, sautéed onions, mushrooms, ham, American and provolone cheese and another 12-ounce burger. The Thurmanator is so extraordinary it has been featured on “Man v. Food.”
My fiancé isn’t a newcomer to the world of extreme dining. This is a man who went to the Heart Attack Grill in Chandler, Arizona, and was escorted out of the restaurant in a wheelchair after consuming its massive Quadruple Bypass burger (served with fries cooked in lard).
But eating the Thurmanator is different. As I cheerfully munched across the table from my fiancé, I watched him go through stages that I hypothesize are universally shared by those attempting to conquer Meat Mountain.
Denial
This stage begins with contemplating the menu. You stare at all the magnificent options and your eyes are drawn to the Thurmanator. Sure, it sounds massive, but you know you can handle it. And when you order it, you add a fried egg on top. Just because you can. The waiter laughs. You ignore this. He doesn’t know you.
When the waiter plunks the plate down (moments before his wrist looks as if it will give out due to its heft), you blink. “That’s not so bad. I should be able to eat this,” you repeat to yourself as a mantra. You smash down the burger with your hand to try to make it manageable, and as you raise it to your lips you wish that you could unhinge your jaw like a snake.
Anger
At some point early on, realizing that this meal is going to be much more difficult than you had anticipated, you slide into irrational anger. Perhaps the anger arrives after you’ve given up eating the hamburger with your hands and are reduced to sawing at it with a knife and fork. Maybe it happens after you’ve taken no more than 10 bites and have seen little decline in the amount of burger on your plate. You look around the restaurant and any individual who can eat with his hands or who displays a zest for life is subjected to groundless criticism in your inner monologue filled with resentment.
“Do you want me to eat your bacon?” your companion asks.
“Get your own bacon,” you growl.
Bargaining
You assess what you can leave behind and still claim to have eaten the Thurmanator. Lettuce, tomato, pickle and the dressing are pushed to the side of the plate in a pile. When no one is looking, you tuck mushrooms and onions under the lettuce. You fervently wish you had a dog with you, under the table, so you could slip him pieces of the bun. You offer your companion your perfectly prepared onion rings. You begin to negotiate with your stomach. “If you just manage a few more bites, I promise nothing but cereal the rest of the week.”
Your companion suggests bulimia as a possible strategy: “As long as you swallow it, it probably still counts.”
Depression
By now, your companion has long since finished the onion rings and sits happily nursing a drink, watching as you sluggishly chew. “I don’t want to put any more beef in my mouth,” you mumble as you stick in another forkful. Your waistline now abuts the edge of the table and you wonder how much more you can eat before becoming permanently lodged. You wonder why you bother with eating, anyway. Your companion asks if you’re going to finish the drink that’s been sitting in front of you for an hour. You slowly push the glass across the table.
You begin to realize defeat. Conversation falters. Your companion attempts to placate you, saying you’ve done a good job and can probably stop eating. You surreptitiously unbutton your pants and begin to slump over the table nearly unconscious.
Acceptance
The fight is over. You quietly ask your waiter for a box, hoping the other patrons don’t hear you. The waiter nods with a knowing wink.
You’ve just been Thurmanated.
Christie Robb is a freelance writer.
