Here's a story about a lad who decided to bow to peer pressure, and take the "King of Spain's" 100oz steak challenge in front of his workmates. The story is long, but a funny read about the challenges of eating such a mammoth slab of meat.... read on!
From: http://www.cjlines.aviators.net/STEAK.HTM
How I Turned Vegan
It all started some time back in June 2003. A bunch of us from work went on a team building camping trip to the Forest of Dean for a weekend. It was a good laugh but we made the mistake of eating, on the Saturday night, at a little pub near Symonds Yat Rock called The King of Spain. This pub is reknowned for it's steaks and the menu has a wide variety to choose from. They also have a little board on the wall that tells you a special 100oz steak can be ordered in advance, for those with a bigger appetite. Also attached to the board is a photograph of the last guy who ate it. It's a nice shot of this doe-eyed, medium-build forty-something in a tracksuit poised over the biggest lump of charred meat you've ever seen. For me, seeing this photo was like the greyhound spotting the hare. I knew there and then, I had to have it.
[CONTINUED]
Throughout our first meal at the King of Spain, where I settled for a 20oz Porterhouse steak, I boasted that I'd like to try the 100oz beast next time. Mike Tuffy, one of the directors from work, offered to bet me the cost of the steak (£45) that I couldn't do it. Never one to turn away from a bet, especially not one from Tuffy (this guy NEVER loses at anything), we shook on it and set the date for the 16th August.
Rumours of this lunatic gambling endeavour spread like wildfire throughout the office and by Thusday 14th August, there were posters up on the walls and notice boards of me and Mike shaking hands with "THE 100oz CHALLENGE!!" in big letters over the top. The table was booked for a mammoth TWENTY FOUR people, far more than would usually be tempted into coming on a works night out. I was feeling the pressure.
We all went down to the Forest on Friday night and camped out at Christchurch. Spirits were high and alcohol flowed free. Saturday went fairly smoothly apart from some early morning constipation that had me panicking as to whether or not I'd even be able to go through with the challenge. Luckily, after some fruit, a fibre drink and a hike up the top of the rock, I managed to clear the pathways and was raring to go. I took a nap at 4:30pm or so for about an hour and was awoken by a remarkably loud fanfare at around twenty to six. A bunch of the guys were singing "oneee hundreeed ounnnces! Oneee hundrreed ouncccess!" and came to pull me out of my tent, throw a towel round me, and raise my hand in the air like you would a prize fighter. Some "boxing pose" photos were taken. I felt like a Heavyweight champion, about to defend my belt against Mike Tyson. Grr! The testosterone was flowing. The man was ready. I had every hope in the world - the steak was GOING DOWN.
We arrived at the King of Spain at 7pm and the owner, an affable Spaniard, shook my hand mournfully while informing me that only five of these things had ever been served up and that of these, just ONE GUY, the tracksuited fellow on the photograph, had ever finished. Apparently his tactic was to drink lots of red wine between bites. I didn't think that sounded too smart so I opted for a glass of water, just as the chef came out to show me the raw slab of beef I was about to engage combat with. There it lay... THE CENTURION! It was big and it was red but it looked appetising. There wasn't much fat on the topside of it and it wasn't, as I was expecting, a rib-eye, which was a relief. It looked like a pushover, to be honest. I usually have my steak rare but for this one figured medium rare might be a bit smarter, so I told the chef my preference and went into the kitchen with her to watch my opponent get cooked. About fifteen minutes later, I was escorted into the dining room. In my mind I heard a bell ring and a diminutive, balding referee shout "heads down! come out fighting!" in a New York accent. The battle had begun. As I lifted my knife at 7:30pm exactly, the stopwatch was started - the rules stated that I had only two hours to devour my enemy.
As I started plowing my way through The Centurion, the others chose their meals off the menu and prepared to eat more sensibly. We were spread across four tables in total but all eyes were on me - no pressure, eh? I sat opposite my friend Joel and Nial from work who offered support (ie: "if your hand gets tired, one of us can cut for you!") and next to Tuffy's young lad, who was there to ensure I didn't cheat. The first 10oz or so of the Centurion were lovely - the steak was a quality cut and cooked to perfection. There's no doubt that the chef at the King of Spain knows what she's doing when it comes to handling meat (ooer - libel!). I wasn't going to get cocky though, just because it started off well - I knew there was a long way to go.
My tactic was to cut big lumps of steak off of the main plate and put it onto another smaller plate, so that it wasn't quite so psychologically challenging. I took about a fifth of it off first and aced it in about 15 minutes, just taking off lots of small chunks and trying not to chew too much. Things were going according to plan and I was a little ahead of schedule. The second fifth of it was harder as there was a ton of fat on the underside. I ate a bit of the gristle but left some of it on my plate for later, not wanting to make myself too sick too soon. About half an hour passed and people started coming over to see how I was doing. With the third big slice now cut off and on my small plate, the main plate was looking impressively clear. Everyone offered words of encouragement (even Tuffy) and the mood was quite positive. But it was, a little later, as I hit about the 32oz level that things started to look a bit more challenging. I was sweating like a rapist and beginning to get that feeling you have in your stomach when you know you've eaten a bit too much. I was expecting I'd feel nauseous but this wasn't the case. I was just bloated and starting to get weak. My hands were sore and I was developing a nice blister on my right hand from clutching the fork so tightly.
My friend Graeme's 6 year old son, Adam, came over to the table and, in his inimitable hyperactive way, offered moral support. He took a few photos of me struggling with increasingly tiny chunks of beef on the end of my fork and told me that he thought I was going to win the bet. I asked why and he said "Because Mike's not cool and you are!". I was flattered, but told him "I don't feel too cool right now actually.." whilst wearily gnawing on yet another chunk of leathery meat. Newly motivated by the thought that a 6 year old thinks I'm "cool" for attempting such a ridiculous feat, I continued bravely but the steak had long stopped being enjoyable. Each cut seemed dryer, colder and more flavourless than the last and my mouth was having trouble getting rid of it. I would chew and chew and chew but still there were these unappetisingly stringy, bland bits of steak left that my throat refused to swallow. It was becoming a chore. I called over one of the waitresses and asked if I could have the remainder of The Centurion reheated. I thought that might help.
I stood up to take a breather, while the reheating occured and realised just how weak I was. Holding onto a bannister for support, I had a chat with a couple of the other tables, who by now were enjoying their scampi and chips or their omelettes. Oh how I wished I'd had an omelette. I put on a brave face and told everyone I was just waiting for the next round, but inside I was screaming "No more! No more!".
The reheated demon came out on a new plate and I realised it was a bad idea. In reheating it, it'd become even less rare than before and I find medium-well steak to be unappetising at the best of times, let alone here. I tried cutting off some of the warm meat and eating it but it was doing me no good. It was like eating one of my old boots. The motion had become mechanical now. I'd chew for about a minute and then force myself to swallow. My hands were no longer tired, as I was doing so little cutting compared to how I was at the start. Mike Tuffy's son was looking on with an inquisitive curiousness that just said "I know I'm just a child, but I really can't understand why on Earth somebody would do this". I would not have been able to explain it. At this point, I could think of no good reason on Earth why I'd even ATTEMPTED such a dumb, pointless endeavour. I just smiled at him and wiped another gallon of sweat from my forehead. The word "JACKASS" sprang to mind.
Liz, who I share an office with, came over and suggested I put some kind of sauce on it, to help it go down. I was feeling so bloated and pained by now, the thought of sauces just made me shake my head and mumble "nooo". She looked disappointed that I was clearly having a lapse of confidence and I felt bad for letting her down. I think someone had started up a book behind my back and Liz had put money on me winning. D'oh. By now, it was just so hard though. I realised that the whole five minutes in which Liz had been talking to me, I'd still been chewing the same tiny chunk of beef.
I found another part of the steak which was a bit rarer than the army issue boot I'd been eating and had a crack at that. It was easier but still far from a pushover. Chew. Chew. Chew........ swa... no... Chew... Chew... Chew... swallow. Urgh. It was, by now, just after 8:30pm. Almost everyone had finished their meals and I was at Death's Door. My chest was really hurting and I heard my Mum's warnings of heartattacks echoing in my head. Words like "acute renal failure", "paralysis of the jaw" and "protein poisoning" suddenly didn't seem so alien. My stomach felt like it had hundreds of little hands punching to get out of it, my mouth was dryer than a Pharoah's tomb (water had no effect) and I was so weak I could barely hold my fork. I looked up at Joel and Nial, my pit crew, and they were looking worried. More alarmingly, they seemed to be slowly spinning round... or was it the whole room that was spinning? Something, somewhere was spinning... and getting faster! I felt momentarily faint and closed my eyes a bit. Tuffy came over and voiced concern. He was getting a bit worried that I might be pushing myself too far and I think he wanted to make sure I'd still be in work on Monday (I had no cover arranged!), so he asked me if I wanted to concede defeat.
I stopped and looked at how much steak was left. Everyone around the table estimated I must've done about 60oz - 70oz or so. The remainder of the meat glared mockingly up at me and I felt suddenly the reality of the situation kicking in. The Heavyweight in me was long gone. I felt like a young Featherweight upstart who'd taken on Mike Tyson for a laugh, got lucky in the first round and then predictably KO'd. Using all the energy I could muster up, I shook Tuffy's hand and admitted I could go on no longer. I got a round of applause, which was nice, but felt utterly defeated. Even moreso after the Spaniard landlord had weighed the remnants of The Centurion and told me just how little I'd managed. I had eaten a mere 46oz (cooked weight) of meat. That's only half the monster. I was so disappointed.
After a bit of fresh air and some jelly-legged walking around (during which the little hands still kept pounding against the inside of my stomach) I came back in and offered the £45 to Tuffy, as a sportsman. Being a fine gent, he refused to take it and said he'd cover all costs anyway for providing the entertainment. I think he saw it as a good team building exercise. It was a relief not to have to pay anything out but I still felt deflated. Needless to say I had a rough night too, sweating buckets, feeling constantly dehydrated and too weak to move half the time. Even as I write this, the day after, my chest still aches, my mouth is dry and I'm drained of energy. But I suppose on the bright side, at least I didn't throw up. Overall, the challenge ended dishearteningly but, in fairness, there wasn't anything that actually went wrong. I have no regrets and I think I played the game as well as I could've and tried my best. The simple fact was that I was no match for The Centurion. The owner, as I left the pub, said "keep practicing, we'll see you again soon!" but I doubt I'm ever going to be able to eat another ounce of red meat as long as I live!
Let this be a warning to all you wannabe competetive eaters. Know your limits.