The Hungover Gourmet | Silicone and Hot Sauce: Tales from Philadelphia's Wing Bowl

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Silicone and Hot Sauce: Tales of Wing Bowl 2000
by Dan Taylor

[Editor's Note: The following piece was written back in January of 2000 when I was working for a company that helped sponsor The Wing Bowl, an annual tradition for attention-starved Philadelphia. Some things have changed since that day, in particular the First Union Center is now the Wachovia Center and Wing Bowl, and competitive eating in general, have become more and more popular. In the wake of a recent article about studies being done on competitive eaters and an episode of CSI centered around the "sport," I decided to dig this out of the archives and give it a proper home.]

It's 5 am on a blisteringly cold January morning as I guide the beaten, battered Probe into the parking lot of Philadelphia's First Union Center, home to the Flyers, Sixers, Phantoms and on this day, wings.

Yes, there is a Wings professional lacrosse team that calls the arena home, but today I'm talking about chicken wings. Or buffalo wings. You can call 'em whatever you want, but they're those sometimes hot, sometimes mild bits of bird that can be found in any bar worth its liquor license. (Legend has it that the "Buffalo" distinction comes from their "creation" at a Buffalo, NY drinking establishment. Additionally, experts at the National Snack Institute confirmed that more wings are eaten the day of the Super Bowl than any other day of the year. Okay, so the statistic's true but I made up the NSI for dramatic purposes.)

The wind whips across the parking lot, sending remnants of the mid-week snowstorm into my face with remarkable velocity, causing my eyes to water and nose to run almost simultaneously. As I near the fully lit arena in the chilly darkness, the scene becomes even more surreal. A line of people extends from the locked doors past the ticket office and VIP entries all the way to the parking lot. TV news vans from the local affiliates as well as some national news programs dot the press parking area. The early morning air, used to carrying the delightful aromas of coffee and freshly-inked newsprint, instead has the fetid beer, whiskey and dope stench of an all-night fraternity kegger.

Thanks to my position with a participating sponsor, I'm guided past the drunken riff-raff and into the warming confines of the center's spacious atrium. (We won't even go into the event's poor planning, surly staff and the shouting match that I became embroiled in at the early, ungodly hour of 5:30 AM.) As I set up my little display area – where I'll be hawking my company's wares to people that are willing to endure a wind chill of fifteen degrees below zero to watch grown men shovel wings into their mouth at a time when most folks are eating breakfast – a certain serenity washes over me. I reflect back on my college days and realize (probably mistakenly) that despite all the insanity I'd seen and participated in I'd never done anything like this.

The doors open promptly at a quarter-to-six and the howling masses pour through the doors of the FU Center (only in Philly), nearly crushing a nearby radio station rep, a petite woman ill-equipped to deal with a half-frozen mass of boozehounds who toss aside the Wing Bowl Guides she hands them like the words are on fire! I gaze at the scene and wonder if this is what the Who concert in Cincinnati was like.

My inner peace is broken when one of the drunken rabble wanders to my table and politely asks, "Hey buddy, do you know where I can get some beer?" Judging from the shakiness of his stance and the aroma of day old Stroh's that's screaming out of every pore, the "more" in that sentence is understood. He's crushed like a kid whose puppy has just died when I tell him that the stands don't start serving for another hour. In retrospect, I almost hated to do it.

After the initial rush of frenzied spectators, the next hour is spent watching wave after wave come through the doors. And it's an odd mix. Lipstick lesbians in their tightest jeans wade through the crowd holding hands and grabbing each other's ass cheeks. Professionals in suits and cashmere overcoats skulk toward the luxury box escalators looking like they've just been spotted coming out of the city's sleaziest porn shop.

Packs of students who look like they could be in college... but are probably cutting their first few classes of the high school day. Even a couple dads who apparently feel no twinge of remorse at bringing their pre-teen sons into an event whose history is marked by the bevy of strippers that escort and encourage the contestants, grown men that spew vinegary vomit, and infrequent bursts of nudity that have supposedly been outlawed for the event's first trip to the complex's "big house."

Before I proceed, I should probably give a quick Wing Bowl History lesson for those of you lucky enough to know nothing about the event. Wing Bowl is the brainchild (sure, let's call it that) of Al Morganti, the salt-and-pepper haired, seemingly mild-mannered ESPN hockey analyst who also co-hosts a morning show on Philly's all-sports-talk AM radio station. With the Philadelphia Eagles as close to another Super Bowl appearance as I am to stumbling across a cure for cancer, Morganti and cronies cooked up a contest that would give locals something to get excited about on Super Bowl weekend. Hence, Wing Bowl I, a pale imitation of the spectacle I'm about to witness. That first event featured six guys, 150 spectators and plate after plate of wings in the lobby of the city's Wyndham Franklin Plaza Hotel. Wing Bowl (and the size of its entrants) grew each year... to 800 spectators in 1994, 4000 in 1996 and 1999's trip well into five figures!

Reality check time: we're talking about a pre-dawn chicken wing-eating contest that invariably features grown men vomiting on themselves in public.

Oh, did I forget to mention the Wingettes? How did I possibly forget the Wingettes? (It was probably the ass-grabbing lesbians, now that I think about it.) The Wingettes are scantily-clad lasses – often sporting the skimpiest of outfits or tank tops emblazoned with the name of a bar, strip joint, or beer brand – who engage in uninhibited kissing, and exhort guys with names like "The Package" and "Crazy Shelley" to eat more and more and more wings.

The competition kicks off with a Wing Bowl tradition. No namby-pamby national anthem or tribute to America here. No siree. Instead, a fan in cammo pants named Mize – looking not unlike one of the Bushwackers, the inbred Aussie wrestlers from the days when wrasslin' still had personality – climbs into a boxing ring (don't ask) and proceeds to smash fourteen full 16 oz. beer cans on his head while the crowd screams for more, more, more. As Mize becomes woozier as each beer crushes against his swelling, reddening melon, I wonder what I've gotten myself into. And if there's a doctor in the house.

The scene quickly shifts from insipid to inspired as Pat Croce, exercise guru and president of the NBA's Sixers, is introduced to the frenzied crowd. If you've never seen or heard Croce, you're one of the lucky ones. But the guy's recovering from a freak motorcycle accident in which he almost lost his leg. The place goes nuts as Croce walks across the stage, defying the doctors who thought he might never walk again. I think to myself, "Christ, this guy could run for mayor and walk away with it. [Ed. Note: No pun intended.] This must've been what Germany in the 30s was like."

But now it's time to get down to business. The business of eating wings until you vomit while hot chicks kiss and fondle each other. Only in Philly.

The 23 contestants dig in for the first round while judge (and former Major League umpire) Eric Gregg scans their plates and counts the number of wing bones scattered about. But it's not a round without its controversy. First, Crazy Shelley performs an act that will forever be etched in my mind. Giving every indication that he's gonna blow, Shelley leaves his seat and makes his way down to the arena floor. Suddenly, he thrusts his hands into his pants where he taps into some chocolate pudding. At least I HOPE it was chocolate pudding. Security guards decide that they've had enough and Shelley is hauled off with his pudding-caked pants hanging off his ass cheeks.

More controversy follows as the first round ends and longtime entrant Hank the Tank is left eating dust. Until Pat Croce intercedes on his behalf and pleads Hank's case with Gregg. Admittedly, judging the contest is an imprecise science, so Gregg lets Hank move into the second round against his better judgement. With the Music City Miracle fresh in my mind, I wonder if Hank will ride this emotional lift to an appearance in the finals. Then I realize that there's fresh fruit and coffee and I just don't care.

In the end, it comes down to two men: long-shot competitor Joseph "Toll Man Joe" Paul and, what's this, Hank "Hank the Tank" Goldey. Controversy continues as competitors bitterly complain that Hank is tossing chicken wings under the table to make it look like he's gone through more. After two 14-minute elimination rounds, the combatants compete in a two-minute, head-to-head glutton-off that ends in a 90-87 win for... Toll Man Joe!

The thrill of victory, the agony of having to smell vinegary wing sauce for hours on end.