Cool Hand puke
Paul Newman's famous film character proved his manly mettle by eating 50 hard-boiled eggs in one hour. But when I tried to match him with Cadbury Creme Eggs, all I proved was my bad taste.
By I. Chang
Read more: Paul Newman, Life, Eat and Drink, Food and Travel
April 6, 2007 | Every spring, in the aisles of some local hypermarket, my eyes attend, my nose wrinkles -- my very innards stand up -- at the sight and smell of a certain Easter treat, no doubt beloved by many, a product of the Hershey Co., the New World licensee of the Cadbury-Schweppes carbohydrate conglomerate. Let Proust have his buttery morsel, dipped in Aunt Leonie's lime-blossom tisane. My memory -- and my Weltschmerz -- are inextricably tied to a different scallop-ridged sweet: the Cadbury Creme Egg.
You know the one. You've had a bite perhaps, and taken a moment to admire the ingenuity of Britain's food scientists. (Invented in 1971, the thing is "still unique in the confectionery marketplace as the only product which closely resembles a real egg," crows the Cadbury Web site.) Then you've put the uneaten half down, maybe for later. You're no health nut, but you are a reasonable person -- and let's face it, a full ounce of sugar oozing from a cheap chocolate shell is hard to stomach. Maybe in your reckless youth you might have tried to down the whole thing. And of course, it's precisely there -- to my misspent youth -- that those foul yet seductive little sucrose bombs lead me, too.
As so many tales of humiliation do, this one begins during a college spring break. It was many years ago, in the innocent days before the founding of the International Federation of Competitive Eating and gross-out shows like "Fear Factor" began clogging the airwaves. A friend (I'll call him Satan) and I were killing time in a dormitory, watching a VHS of the old Paul Newman film "Cool Hand Luke." Those familiar with the film will remember the scene in which Newman, in the eponymous role, proves his manly mettle to the prison gang of which he is a member by eating 50 hard-boiled eggs in one hour. After he completes the feat, he lies shirtless and bloated, in an oddly cruciform pose, abandoned by the audience that so enthusiastically bet (mostly against him) during the frenzied ovo-orgy. A beatific smile crosses his face, evidence of some inner ecstasy, the nirvana of a man who has learned something about freedom despite his captivity. I watched his grinning face, and with confidence made of a fast metabolism plus a few beers, I said to my friend, "I could do that."
Satan eyed the heaves of Paul's distended gut, and replied, "I'll take that bet."
"I'm not sure I'd want to eat all that cholesterol, though. I have a family history," I objected, sounding less Newman-esque by the second. "What about an equal volume of egg whites?"
No go. Not as gross, he said. We wracked our brains to find an acceptably revolting, low-cholesterol substitution. I wish I could say that I understand how we reasoned that 30 Cadbury Creme Eggs would be a healthier equivalent to 50 chicken eggs, but I don't. Maybe marketing got us -- it was nearing Easter, and the Creme Eggs would have been in every store display. In any case, the die was cast. We set a date, two weeks into the future, where the scene would be reenacted, with skinny me in the role of buff Paul, and gooey, cloying Cadbury in the role of the incredible, edible egg.
I trained hard over those weeks. I built up my confidence, in a cafeteria montage worthy of the Rocky franchise. I had long prided myself on my eating abilities, associated them in my mind with an unconquerable lust for life (rather than, say, an absurd, gluttonous machismo). In the past, I had won taco contests, buffet throw-downs, refill wars. So I knew I had the will. Now I had to develop the way. I was spending two hours on every meal at the dining hall. I charged up my tray four, five times, totaling what must have been 3,000, 4,000 calories in a sitting. My stomach was enormous.
Word was getting around, too; ours was a small campus. My friend Satan seemed bent on re-creating the scene exactly, down to the jeering, predatory onlookers. On the appointed day, 20 or 30 people showed up to watch, some total strangers. A betting pool was established. Satan insisted I take off my shirt. The eggs were lined up, unwrapped, and placed in egg cartons. Only two and a half cartons -- they looked so small. So easy. I had a huge jug of water handy, the only drink permitted. The plan was to down one egg every two minutes. It hardly seemed like a challenge.
After the first one, they no longer tasted good. After the third, they were unpleasant, and I was worried. After the seventh, they were repulsive, and I feared humiliation. Merely wafting the chocolate within an inch of my nose provoked a bodywide gag reflex. I had to run for the bathroom around the 13th -- but as Satan, who attended to his role as rule monitor with diligence, will attest, I kept the eggs down. I tried not to move. Eventually, I hobbled back to the lounge, where the mood had swung from wild to worried, and I saw my pitiable state reflected in my audience's faces. Nausea became vertigo. I could not stop shaking. Stop, they pleaded. I will not, I said to myself. At that point, I was still on pace. Thirteen Creme Eggs, 26 minutes.