Won’t touch the sides … more than two kilograms of meat, plus sides, at The Big Texan Steak Ranch in Amarillo, Texas.By JASON BECK
IN this land of excess, it just might be the most excessive challenge of all.
The 72-ounce steak at the Big Texan Steak Ranch in Amarillo, deep in the heart of Texas, is an inch and a half thick and twice the size of your head.
That’s over two kilograms, or about four and a half pounds, of meat … plus a buttered roll, a baked potato, shrimp cocktail and salad.
For days, this monstrous chunk of cow and I have been circling each other warily, like two evenly matched prize fighters. And now, the time has come
Beat this monster in 60 minutes and it’s yours for free. Fail, and you’ll be relieved of US$72.
Of the 50,000 or so who have tried to beat this meat, it is said that just 8,000 have succeeded – the record holder in less than nine minutes.
I am determined to do it for Australia.
The scene is set by the giant Hereford out the front, the horns on the club limo, and the inner club ambience, which relieves heavily on dead animals and wagon wheel chandeliers.
A musical cowboy trio asks for my request. I want “Rawhide”, which they say they don’t know, and settle for “Yellow Rose of Texas”. Will this music soothe the savage meat?
Steak challengers sit at a raised table at the front of the room, near the car-sized grill.
I take my place at the table, nervously eyeing the slab of meat which looks set to destroy any plate it is placed upon, and subsequently my colon.
A cowboy takes the microphone, and calls the 100-plus people in the room to attention.
“We got a 72-ounce challenger … a feller all the way from Australia!”
Much hootin’ and hollerin’ ensues, as enthusiastic Yanks wish me luck. A thousand flashbulbs light the night.
A pitiless red digital readout on the wall starts a relentless countdown from 60 minutes.
A Pom is the first to approach. “Just tell them you’re a Brit – they’ll expect you to fail,” he says helpfully.
An Italian is next. “Ask for a grappa – you will eat a second steak,” he enthuses.
My plan is to divide the steak into quarters, and eat a quarter each 15 minutes. I have little hope of conquering the sides, but a moral meat victory could leave Australian pride intact.
And for 15 minutes, the scheme works. The first quarter is consumed on time and on target, while a procession of bystanders dubiously eyes my progress.
At the 20-minute mark, toxic meat poisoning kicks in, and all bets are off.
My stomach is a ball of lead, a brick, my mouth dry and unresponsive. My eyes begin to glaze.
The Americans look on, a mix of pity and contempt in their eyes. I’m just playing out the clock now, in a desperate attempt to salvage a little pride.
The countdown reaches its dreaded, inevitable conclusion, and I am a pariah. American triumphalism has no place for losers.
It is hard for a man to waddle and slink at the same time, but that is how I leave this giant room, my souvenir T-shirt and boot-shaped drinking cup in hand.
Ummm … could I get a doggy bag?
