How the United States is a lock to win the World Cup (of Food)

I selected one of the most popular edible dishes, drinks, or ingredients from each World Cup nation and simulated a World Cup (of Food).


Group A


South Africa-Potjiekos- a meat and vegetable stew
Mexico-tacos (corn tortillas)
Uruguay-dulce de leche- thick fruit paste
France-wine


Results: France advances with bourgeois booze. Mexico shells through bottom half of bracket with traditional taco.


Group B


South Korea-Rice (cakes)
Argentina-red meat
Nigeria-Suya (meat kabob)
Greece-gyros


Results: 'Greece'y gyros guide Greeks to the top. Nigeria rides carnival wave into the round of 16 with beef on a stick.


Group C


Slovenia-dandelion
United States-everything
England-tea
Algeria- pita bread


Results: Doing what it does best, the U.S. eats through the early competition. England and Algeria finish in a tie, but England politely insists Algeria move on.


Group D


Germany-beer
Ghana-fried plantains
Serbia-baklava (sweet pastry)
Australia- meat pie


Results: Beer may be the biggest moneymaker in collegiate competition. Germany bongs Group D. Serbia squeaks through with Backlava.


Group E


Netherlands-cheese
Japan-sushi
Cameroon-ndole (nut, goat meat, and leaf stew)
Denmark-danishes


Results: 'Aged' Netherlands squad takes the group with cheese. Japan plays the trendy card to advance with sushi.


Group F


Paraguay-coffee
Italy-pizza
New Zealand-pavlova (meringue cake)
Slovakia-kielbasa


Results: Everyone likes pizza, and there is nothing like watching Slovak's eat their kielbasa. Italy and Slovakia move on.


Group G


Brazil-exotic fruits
Ivory Coast-aloko (banana in palm oil)
Portugal-rice pudding
North Korea-we aren't really allowed to know, and we may not want to.


Results: The group of death upholds its name with questionable dishes. Brazil and Ivory Coast advance. Kim Jong Il tells his people they beat everyone.


Group H


Spain-potato omelette
Switzerland-chocolate
Honduras- carne asada (roasted beef)
Chile-sea bass


Results: Chocolate drowns Chilean sea bass while Spain's 'patatas' surprise the field and advance.




Group of 16:


France (wine) vs. Nigeria (beef on stick): Carnival style beef stick no match for Classy Wine. France wins.


US (name a food) vs. Serbia (baklava): Om nom nom. United States goes through.


Netherlands (cheese) vs. Slovakia (kielbasa): Have you ever been to a Slovakian festival? Just add kraut, and it's an instant win. Slovaks move on.


Brazil (exotic fruit) vs. Spain (potatoe omelettes): This would be a great soccer match. It's an iffy food match. Spain lives on.


Greece (gyros) vs. Mexico (tacos): $2 meal deal? Charles Barkley? Yea, Taco Bell gets Mexico a win.


Germany (beer) vs. Algeria (pita bread): Is this a joke? Chug on Germans.


Italy (pizza) vs. Japan (sushi): Pizza is too good. Closer than you think, but Italy prevails.


Switzerland (Chocolate) vs. Ivory Coast (banana in palm oil): Remember when I said pizza was too good? Try chocolate. Swiss aren't neutral on this one.


Round of Eight


France (wine) vs. United States (insert edible entity): U.S. does what it does best--eat. France does what it does best--lose.


Slovakia (kielbasa) vs. Spain (patatas): Cinderella story of the tournament. There is something about those Slovaks!


Mexico (tacos) vs. Germany (beer): Both can serve as poor life decisions. Tacos take the fall. Germany to the Final Four.


Italy (pizza) vs. Switzerland (Chocolate): Pizza adapts better from region to region. Barely, Italy wins.


Final Four


United States (Jillian Michaels can't save us all) vs. Slovakia (Kielbasa): Americans eat all the kielbasa before judgement is made. Land of Liberty to the finals.


Italy (pizzza) vs. Germany (beer): Ahhh. Isn't this a fitting pair? Pizza can't get you drunk. Germany takes it.


FINALS


GERMANY (Beer) vs. United States (the belt busters): The United States simply takes Germany's beer. U.S. wins the World Cup (of Food)!

Taste of the Town N-Ville York

I took my ingestive itinerary to Nelsonville Friday night to enjoy the Buckeye’s Senior Night festivities. I ambled up to the concession stand a full hour before kickoff and was astonished at its surroundings. The stand was cramped between the souvenir t-shirt shop and the Dippin’ Dots stand. I casually inspected the premises to see if the Garmin had accidentally steered me to Cedar Point or if I had simply ended up at the amusement park that Southeast Ohio doesn’t have. It was then that I realized that Nelsonville York was selling Dippin’ Dots and souvenirs at a division five high school football game, and no one was laughing about it.

Perplexed to find out that the elaborate vending setting was indeed not a joke, I turned my attention to the concession stand. What I walked in on would in some circles be considered sheer pandemonium. Band parents were hustling around fervently with an underlying diligence in preparing the night’s entrees. As I stood dumbfounded in the middle, I realized I was interrupting the flow of preparation. I proceeded to attempt to find a place where I would be out of the line of fire. I tried the front window and almost got leveled by a plate of nachos. I tried the back door by the grill and almost joined the hot dogs on the grill. I tried the corner of the storage room next to the reserve microwave and almost got jolted by a wayward elbow. It was impossible. I was like a middle-aged man at Macy’s on Black Friday. I was like an Enron executive at the New York Stock Exchange. I was like Kanye West at the VMAs. I was just in the way.

I managed to find the head of the stand, Angie Thompson, and she informed me that it would be a while until my food would be ready. So, I was at a stand still until I noticed that I didn’t fit in. I was the only person in the entire room not wearing tremendously practical and dreadfully unattractive plastic gloves. Obviously, I reached into the box and put on a pair. I was like a chameleon. I was finally fitting in. Four hours before October 31^st, I had discovered the most realistic Halloween costume. Just as I was championing my disguise, I was abruptly informed that my concealment had failed. I may have fit in physically, but I stuck out more than I had before. It was because I wasn’t working. Of course, Thompson put me to work. I was legitimately excited to lend a hand.

Apparently in the concession world you start at the bottom and work your way to the top because my task was unforgiving. I was given an onion. I was given a knife. What started as enticing took a turn toward dicing and it was not a pretty scene. I was bawling. The onion was Dr. Phil, and I was a broken relationship between two weathered workaholics. The onion was an Oscar, and I was Halle Berry. The onion was Katherine Heigl in 27 Dresses, and I was, well, myself.

By some miracle I got through it. There was a collective puddle below me. I was half an onion away from having to install a sump pump in the concession stand. I was a few slices away from taking in every animal two by two. It got so wet at one point that I took precautionary measures and called FEMA. They should be in Nelsonville in about four months.

After extensive recovery procedures, I was rewarded with an opportunity to eat:

Buckeyes- Their mascot is a buckeye so this was a fitting treat. They were provided in milk and white chocolate. Got to love diversity.

Hamburger- I ate this American classic like it was my job. In fact, this Friday night it was my job.

Bratwurst- I cremated the bratwurst. I was sitting in the back corner of the storage room hanging out with my friend from earlier (the reserve microwave) and ate this in about 30 seconds. The microwave congratulated me by doing absolutely nothing.

Sloppy Joe- A local favorite. It came in a frozen hunk and took forever to cook in the crock-pot. After I was done weeping from the onion, I actually did a considerable amount of work to prepare the sloppy joe. I also did a considerable amount of work to eat it.

After my marathon of eating, the fabulous people of Nelsonville were gracious enough to provide me with a bottle of water. And I was clumsy enough to spill it all over my shorts. That’s right. Whether I was mentally affected by everything I had eaten or simply still suffering from the onion slicing, I made a fool of myself. I looked like an untrained toddler who forgot to put on his pull-ups. I was Nelsonville’s unofficial Huggies representative. It looked like I had defied the depths of domestication. As I scurried out of Nelsonville, I drew an array of inquisitive looks. I am now likely known around town as the resident twenty-year-old who still isn’t housebroken.

It is tough to match the excitement that surrounded Senior Night in Nelsonville. It is even tougher to match the excitement of Senior Night in the concession stand. I ate an insane amount of food, got put to work, and even got choked up a little bit. So, from souvenirs to onion tears Nelsonville gave me a good taste of the spirit of Friday night.

Taste of the Town Sheridan and a little bit more Fed Hock

With another grueling week of high school football on tap, I departed on a rigorous ruminative rendezvous to Sheridan. It was there that I found myself standing mundanely and glaring at the concession stand’s menu. I have shaken a few eight balls, read my fair share of horoscopes, and even peaked at the lines on my palm before. But when I was posted up in front of the stand, I realized I have never been able to simply read an accurate account of my fate. Of course it just laid out the available foods accompanied with their respective prices, but I, in all my delirium, saw it a little differently. At first glance, this is honestly what I read (or what I thought I did):

Dear Robert Guliano,

You will try our three best dishes and love them. They will linger on your tongue and leave you in a temporary and unrivaled state of bliss. Later, you’re stomach will begin releasing bizarre noises that are complemented by an assortment of irregular bodily dysfunctions including but not limited to: irregular heartbeat, irregular body temperature, and irregular behavior in standard social settings. Also, your next three meals will consist of a generous helping of Pepcid Complete with a side of Tums washed down with a refreshing Alka Seltzer littered glass of water. Just thought I’d run that by you, big guy.

Regards,

Life

Naturally, I started reevaluating my basic outlook on life and genuinely revising my purpose in the world. Just as I was finalizing my elaborate escape plan, I was summoned by a jovial group of volunteer concession workers. I was introduced to the head of concessions, Nancy Fox. She gave me a generic synopsis of the operations and had three fabulous foods in front of me within five minutes. I could tell already that we were going to get along well.

Shredded Chicken Sandwich- I’m in college. I don’t just get homemade food. I have been living off Apple Jacks and Spaghettios for two months. Real food doesn’t exist to me. My stomach has a periodic table of preservatives in it. So, this was outstanding. It lasted all of 20 seconds.

Ribeye Sandwich- If there is one thing I see less than homemade food it’s steak. It was so tender it melted in my mouth. If only it could melt in my stomach.

Nachos and Meat- I’ve become somewhat of an authority on concession stand nachos over the past few weeks.

FUN FACT #1: 3 out of my last 4 Taste of the Town trips have served me nachos.

FUN FACT #2: 3 out of those 3 times I have experienced inchestinal discomfort (a word I recently developed to explain the anguish and uneasiness I experience from my heart down to my stomach before, during, and after eating and/or being associated with someone eating nachos).

These ones had sloppy Joe meat on them. This combated the spicy nature of nachos and created a sweet variation of this marvelous treat.

I learned two valuable lessons from my trip to Sheridan.

1.     1. Eighteen inches. That is approximately what separates my brain from my stomach. However, when it comes to their functional rationale they are miles away. My brain thinks my stomach is a black hole. My stomach thinks my brain is an idiot.

2.     2.  The people I met were tremendous. When I go to these games I am a nobody. I’m as popular as Tom Cruise at the Vatican. My best friend is a microphone. I’m a sycamore fig tree away from being a modern day Zacchaeus the tax collector. So, the fact that these people take me in and feed me says a lot. Fox and I legitimately developed a friendship. She even introduced me to her daughter, who actually engaged in nonchalant banter about concession food with me. I felt at home.

As I meandered around the stand aimlessly reflecting on my consumption, a few ladies offered me some popcorn. I accepted with minimal hesitation. The popcorn was good, but the way they gave it to me was hilarious. They had me hold out two hands and dumped a meager portion into them. I felt like Oliver Twist. Not only did this show a general disregard for my dignity, it showed a disregard for my safety as well. The popcorn was scalding hot. Instantly, I suffered minor lacerations in my hand. The ladies were good about it though. We shared several laughs over the incident, and they apologized and gave me a whole box of popcorn. My hands hurt so bad that I couldn’t hold it.

I packed up and left, but the adventure wasn’t done yet. When I visited Federal Hocking in week 8, they invited me back for a special dish in week 9. I had a full stomach, but I still decided to go because I’m insane. The special dish was chili. Nothing solidifies the notion that my stomach hates my brain like chili. It was homemade and excellent. It had pinto beans, black beans, navy beans, kidney beans, and everything short of Mr. Beans.

Whether it was through laughing with the ladies of Sheridan’s concession stand, meeting Nancy Fox’s family, or being invited back to Fed Hock for more homemade food, I would have to be blind not to have seen the spirit of Friday night.

 

 

Taste of the Town: Jackson, Ohio

My digestive digression continued Friday night as I traveled to Alumni Stadium in Jackson in pursuit of further fantastic football foods. I was instantly besieged with a sense of vast discouragement. It had been raining all day and was still persistently precipitating as I pulled up to the stadium. How would I be able to enjoy the food if I was stranded in the pouring down rain? I would be wetter than Michael Phelps in Beijing. I would be wetter than an earthworm in Seattle. I would be wetter than a bootlegger in the 1920’s. I would be wetter than R. Kelly’s sheets.

 I finally had to decide to dig deep. After all if I wanted to emerge as one of the premier eaters in Southeast Ohio, I would have to learn to overcome adversity. In a wave of good fortune, I discovered a tent located outside the stadium that appeared to contain some variation of a cooking device. I keenly approached the tent and was greeted by three diligent gentlemen and four intimidating deep fryers. Yes, it was that time of the week again. It was the time where my colon shudders in fear. It was the time my arteries begin voluntarily clogging in anticipation of what they are about to be exposed to. It was the time where I swallow my dignity and make a public spectacle of myself as I ravage through an assortment of unhealthful cuisine.

I spent an hour shooting the breeze with concession cookers Jerry Post and Steve Lorbach. Post and Lorbach seemed to have it made at their station. They were surrounded by good food, blaring old-fashioned rock-n-roll on a nearby stereo, and raving about Jackson’s 6-0 record. As I was bobbing my head to Springsteen’s “Glory Days,” I was introduced to a man named Dave Delay. Delay was wearing a wrinkled blue apron with his nickname embroidered on the front. His nickname is derived from the main dish that he prepares Friday nights for Jackson fans. I fully expected the nickname to be “Steak Man” or “Chicken Man” or even “Pork Man.” But contrary to my stubborn speculation, Dave Delay is frequently referred to as “Veal Man.”

 Yes, you read it correctly, veal. I just couldn’t get my mind across the concept of veal. I get a certain feeling about me when I eat meat. The meat I’m eating becomes an unwarranted determinant of my personality and self-image. When I’m in front of a steak I feel brute and manly. I often envision myself gritting my teeth, chopping down trees, and trimming a mane of chest hair. When I eat fish or chicken I feel elegant and classy. I see myself as an esteemed philanthropist, a charismatic businessman, and, at times, a mannerly 18th century duchess. However, as I stood in front of veal I felt wildly irrelevant and moderately monotonous. I envisioned myself crocheting scarves, regularly viewing C-SPAN, and examining ant colonies. It was new territory for me. Nevertheless, I started to eat.

Deep Fried Jackson County Veal Sandwich- This was a massive slice of veal teetering helplessly on a bun that fell dreadfully short of accommodating the meat. I plowed through the sandwich mindlessly. The breading was outstanding. I had gone from generally uncomfortable and passively unstable to mysteriously confident and undoubtedly nourished. I regretted ever harboring negative thoughts about veal. It had won me over. In fact, by the time I finished the sandwich (which was a very swift process) I had developed what I perceived to be the initial stages of an intimate relationship with veal.

EATING TIP- Put ketchup and pickles on it. I would highly recommend you eat this with your eyes close. It simply enhances the bliss.

Pizza- It was gone in 20 seconds. I actually don’t really recall tasting it. I’m sure it was good. Ultimately, it is pizza.

EATING TIP- Show no regard for your surroundings. Devour it. Pizza is amazing. You have every right to just demolish it.

Pizza Rolls- These were your typical snack-like pizza rolls. They did have a twist, though. Instead of the conventional oven baking, they just toss them in the deep fryer. This was awesome for my taste buds but devastating for my esophagus. I methodically finished these off in well under a minute.

EATING TIP- If you need guidance in eating pizza rolls, seek immediate psychological assistance.

Deep Fried Jackson County Veal Sandwich- It was so good I had to have it twice. Only this time there were upward to twelve people watching me put the sandwich away. I felt like Tiger woods on the first tee. I had a following, a gallery. Periodically, I would hear a cheer. People were in awe. You would have thought it was the penguin feeding at your local zoo. The “Veal Man” stood alongside me and offered a running commentary of my excursion. For the couple minutes I was eating that sandwich, I sensed an extraordinary time of fellowship around me. It was almost as if there was a collective bond over my improper eating habits. It was a genuine moment.

In the end, the “Veal Man” lauded me. He constantly exclaimed that I was a professional, and I started to believe it. I had separated myself from other eaters. For that short amount of time, I was the king of consumption. I was the duke of digestion. I was the emperor of eating. I was the chairman of chewing. I was the sultan of swallowing. I was the monarch of munching.  I was the god of gorging. And most importantly I was the viceroy of veal.

From jamming to ‘80s rock under the tent to feasting on fried veal sandwiches, I had been associated with some of the biggest traditions in Jackson. Lorbach, Post, and the “Veal Man” truly showed me a good time at Alumni Stadium, and you can bet your bottom dollar that they also showed me the spirit of Friday night.

Gridiron Glory Taste of the Town Round Two

Another Friday arrived and I knew what was in store. As Gridiron Glory’s resident food expert, it was time to depart on another pancreatic pursuit to discover the tastiest tailgate treats in Southeast Ohio. This week’s assignment was a quest to “The Tank” in Ironton where the Tigers took on SEOAL powerhouse Logan.

            I began the day with an open mind. I finished the day with a closed stomach. I began the day at a comfortable body temperature. I finished the day in a cold sweat. I began the day with a general disregard for my personal well-being. I finished the day with a two-year subscription to Men’s Health. Needless to say, it was a successful trip.

            Naturally, when I arrived I sniffed out the concession stand. I went around to the back and assertively asked for an interview and sampling of their unique foods. The reaction I got was startling. My inquiry was met with laughter. The workers of the Band Booster concession stand harmoniously cackled. I briefly surveyed the area to see if Dane Cook or Will Ferrell were behind me telling jokes. It was at this time that I realized that they were laughing at my ambitious request. For a painstaking moment I felt about as awkward as Kim Jong-Il in front of the U.N. Security Council. Finally, the lively concession workers warmed up to me and offered a few of their most distinct dishes.

            Band Booster president Dru Pack was agonizingly short of shy about her intentions. She jokingly (I think) told me that if I didn’t like her food there would be consequences to pay. She proceeded to briefly outline the consequences, but I did not understand what she was saying because my thoughts were drowned in fear of my personal security. From her facial expressions and gestures I gathered that it would be a morally debatable form of corporal punishment that would require me to seek urgent counseling and vigorous physical rehabilitation. Little did I know, liking her food would not be an issue.

So, feeling about as safe as a share of K-Mart stock, I moved on to the eating.  Dru had four treats for me to try:

Hot Dog doused in Nacho Cheese- This one is pretty self explanatory. Your everyday hot dog just smothered in rich nacho cheese. This one is a fan favorite at Ironton. And I’ll tell you first hand it definitely isn’t an intestine favorite. Nevertheless, I absolutely parked it and enjoyed every bite.

Tiger in a Bag- This is Ironton’s version of a walking taco. It is taco meat, jalapenos, lettuce, tomatoes, Fritos, and sour cream all stuffed into a Frito bag.. This was outstanding. It also benched me. After I took a hearty bite of it, Dru cordially informed me that she thought it would be cute to sneak an inordinate amount of jalapeno sauce in it. I had heard of slipping drugs or laxatives in drinks as a practical (well, not very practical) joke. I had even heard of putting a small child’s pill in one of their favorite foods to get them to take it. But sneaking jalapeno sauce in my Frito bag? This was unprecedented. My larynx was trembling. My large intestine was quivering. My colon was shuddering. I instantly lost all fundamental feeling and sensation in the majority of my respiratory organs.

Sauce on a Bun- Still not over the jalapeno massacre, I pressed on to what Dru called the “redneck sloppy joe.” It was a unique sauce and I thoroughly enjoyed it.

GASTROINTESTINAL UPDATE: Remember earlier in the story when I was concerned for my personal safety? At this point my vital organs were concerned for their personal safety.

Pickle on a Stick- What a phenomenal idea. After indulging in an assortment of heavy and spicy foods, this pickle was a refreshing change of pace. We aren’t talking about your little dainty Vlasic pickles that you sprinkle on your hamburger either. These are monstrosities. These are juicy. These are crisp. These are delicious.

            I had eaten all these foods in less than three minutes. The rest of my Friday night was bittersweet. The extraordinary taste of the evening’s treats lingered on my tongue for hours. However, the extraordinary contents of what I ate lingered in my G.I. tract. On Friday nights in Athens many students can be found chugging beers. This Friday I could be found chugging Pepto Bismol. My trip to Ironton was overall rewarding. After joking around with Dru Pack and watching a rowdy group of band parents truly enjoy serving their community, I had realized that through their unbelievable cuisine and incredible attitude the Ironton band parent’s have embraced the spirit of Friday night.

 

Gridiron Glory Taste of the Town

            Friday night I embarked on a journey. I ventured across the winding roads of Route 13 to West Muskingum in search of their most delectable game day dishes. The unpredictability of this voyage was frightening, but its success was legendary. Lance Armstrong conquered the Tour de France with an unforgettable will and a swift bicycle. Christopher Columbus tackled the Atlantic Ocean with a faulty map and a massive ship. And I took on a Friday night in Tornado country with a 2002 Buick LeSabre and a relentless esophagus.

            After an unsettling trek to the stadium, I arrived keen to discover the taste of West M. I strolled eagerly into the confines and immediately began sniffing around the concession area. My initial behavior drew several inquisitive looks from an assortment of spectators. I was a Rottweiler outside an Outback Steakhouse. I was a seagull hovering over the Atlantic Ocean. I was Al Roker at a Ponderosa ten years ago. I was carnivorous. I was ravenous. I was ready to go.

            I proceeded to meander around the concession area for a while longer before I found the source of West Muskingum’s tasty tailgate. I first spotted a huge Traeger grill. A grill that was so big you could cook enough of three different meats to stock the entire concession stand. When I first saw the grill, I stood in awe of it at one point pausing for a moment of silence in appreciation of it. As I slowly raised my head to see who was operating it, I expected to see several brute men standing and staring at the grill with admirable approval. Instead, I found two assiduous ladies. Michelle Gutridge and Barb Wolfe were adding meat to the grill diligently. I approached them and introduced myself. It was clear that they were in the zone. I made small talk with Michelle. She agreed to allow me to taste some of their unique foods and promptly resumed working. So, I took a step back and observed. What I watched was music in motion.  I never thought the smoothest most operative offense I would see this year would be that of the West Muskingum High School Band Boosters. Michelle grilled the dishes to perfection, constantly checking the meat to ensure it was of the highest quality. But it was after the meat was cooked that impressed me the most. Barb Wolfe, a volunteer band mother, would receive a perpetually clean handoff from Gutridge and dart into the concession stand, where Band Booster president Paula Moore would await enthusiastically to prepare it to be served. It was a beautiful thing. Offensive coordinators around the area should take a lesson from these astute women.

Finally, I was given an opportunity to taste the foods. Here they are in order:

8 oz steak on a stick- This was a straight succulent steak cooked medium well on a stick. I was utterly baffled by this. I stood before it and marveled at the immense wonders of innovation. Then, I punctually devoured it. You may ask: ‘did you use A1 sauce?’ No need ladies and gentlemen. This cut of meat is almost as spectacular as the way Michelle Gutridge cooks it.

Pulled Pork Sandwich with apricot barbeque sauce- Gutridge doesn’t mess around with her pulled pork. She began cooking it Thursday night. She smokes it on the grill for an astonishing 18 hours. At first I was skeptical about this. After all, in 18 hours I could make Easy Mac 308 times. I questioned whether it was worth it or not and was instructed to taste for myself. That was before I started thinking about the combination of apricot and barbeque. I felt like I was compromising between a tea party and a hog roast. So, I cautiously went on with it. The results were phenomenal. Eighteen hours and three bites later, I appreciated every second that went into making that pork.

Sweet Potato with Cinnamon Butter- Once again, I was in heaven. It just blows my mind that they would think to bake sweet potatoes at a football game. I ate this so fast I almost didn’t taste it. It was so rich and decadent that it melted in my mouth. I absolutely mauled the poor potato in my hands, utterly disregarding the two forks that they had so thoughtfully provided for me.

I had been eating for four and a half minutes and had already tasted everything. I, also, had developed a considerable amount of intestinal discomfort (not due to the quality of the food, but more or less the manner in which I ate it) and a mild case of heartburn. That’s when Paula Moore suggested that I go to the other side of the stands and try out the Athletic Booster’s rib eye sandwiches. This was a classic example of my head telling me yes and my heart (as well as a host of major organs) telling me no. Naturally, I treaded over to the other side and began blubbering around again.

I found the same massive grill and held another ceremonial moment of silence. This time, however, I found a group of men holding down the grill. I met with Jack Brady, a volunteer Athletic Booster. He presented me with a sandwich. I queasily observed it. It consisted of a large, sebaceous slab of meat doused in yellow nacho cheese. My small intestine was quivering. Needless to say I took one bite and loved it. The meat was gloriously tender, and the cheese just added to its succulence and to my developing digestive disorder. In fact, I don’t recall there being more than one bite. I believe I just kept on trucking right through the whole sandwich.

I arrived in West Muskingum Friday night with a selfish appetite for the finest foods. I left humbled by the people I encountered, and the food I ate. The concession experience in West M is phenomenal. They have it all going for them: tremendous football, tremendous food, and tremendous people. That, to me, is the spirit of Friday night.