The First Annual Patterson Avenue Pancake Eating Contest

Every Saturday morning Malcolm Forsythe and his next-door neighbor on Patterson Avenue, Scott Barringer, would have breakfast together.

They always ate at the same place: Floyd’s Flapjack Palace. All of Floyd’s customers claimed there wasn’t a better place to eat pancakes than there.

Malcolm, who was a pretty big guy, always ordered the big stack of buttermilk pancakes. Scott, who was about average size, would go with the short stack of buckwheat pancakes. During their meal Malcolm would invariably start bragging about how many pancakes he could eat.

It could be asked at this point what kind of man has nothing more to brag about than how many pancakes he can eat, but maybe that’s a story for another day.

Scott would good-naturedly listen, but after a while Malcolm’s boasting got a little old. Finally, one day Scott reached his breaking point and blurted out: “Malcolm, I bet you $20 that I can eat more pancakes than you.”

As another aside, you could argue that a man who reaches his breaking over who can eat the most pancakes has a relatively low threshold for reaching his breaking point to begin with.

“What are you talking about?” Malcolm asked incredulously.

“I’m not talking about having a couple of pancakes on a lazy Saturday morning,” Scott said. “I’m talking about hardcore, in-your-face, down-and-dirty pancake eating.”

“That’s right in my wheelhouse,” Malcolm shot back. “When I was a kid, every year I'd win the summer camp pancake eating contest. I'd eat so many pancakes that I'd immediately go out into the woods and vomit. You’re on.”

And with that short and possibly overly graphic exchange, at least on Malcolm’s part, the First Annual Patterson Avenue Pancake Eating Contest was born.

Over the next few weeks the two men’s breakfasts included hashing out the rules of the competition. It would be held at Floyd’s Flapjack Palace, there would be no argument about that.

Malcolm, who was known to think big thoughts when big thoughts made no practical sense, felt that with the proper promotion the contest could attract national attention, particularly if it’s a slow news day.

Let’s get Kate Snow to cover it,” Scott said. “We should get Kate Snow from NBC.”

Kate Snow

It seemed that Scott was madly in love with Kate Snow. He even thought that if he could somehow just eliminate Lester Holt, who anchored the “NBC Nightly News,” then that would open the door for Kate Snow to be on five nights a week.

Lester Holt

Needless to say, they didn’t get Kate Snow or anybody else from NBC. Scott considered this just another setback in his long-time quest to meet Kate Snow. Maybe next year. He wasn’t one to give up easily.

Finally, the day of the big contest came. Floyd prepared trays and trays of pancakes and bought a few extra gallons of maple syrup.

Malcolm and Scott were polite and businesslike when they arrived and took their seats at a table that had been moved to the center of the dining area. Floyd put a plate of a half-dozen pancakes in front of each of them, and he had plenty more ready.

“Ready?” he asked.

“Ready,” said Malcolm.

“Ready,” said Scott.

“OK,” Floyd said in the most dramatic voice he could muster. “The First Annual Patterson Avenue Pancake Eating Contest starts…now!”

Scott grabbed his knife and fork and dug in. He finished his first pancake and looked over at Malcolm. He was surprised that he seemed to be taking his time. He was still eating his first pancake.

Scott ate another pancake, then another, and another. He looked at Malcolm, who, incredibly, was just starting his second pancake.

Suddenly Malcolm put down his knife and fork.

“You know, my wife and I are going to brunch in a couple of hours,” he said. “I don’t want to be too full for that, so I guess that’s enough for me.”

Malcolm got up, put a $20 bill on the counter, patted Scott on the shoulder and started to walk toward the door.

Scott spun around in his chair.

“What are you doing?” he exclaimed.

“I told you. I don’t want to be too full for brunch.”

“But we’re having a contest here. You can’t just quit and walk away. I’ve been starving myself for three days for this. You get back here and finish the contest.”

“Scott,” Malcolm said calmly. “It’s just a contest. You can win if you want. I’ll see you later.”

With that Malcolm walked out of the restaurant. Scott sat stunned for a few seconds then jumped out of his seat and ran to the door.

“Get back here you quitter,” he shouted down the street. “You can’t do this. We’re having a contest. You can’t let me win. You get back here and eat. You eat and eat and eat. You eat so much that you’re puking all the way home. Get back here. I don’t want to win this way. You get back here.”

But Malcolm wasn’t coming back. Scott sat back down and slumped in his chair. It was a hollow victory to say the least. In his mind, he likened it to the famous Sugar Ray Leonard-Roberto Duran No Mas fight, when Duran quit during the bout.

It was exactly like that, he reasoned, except of course for the absence of thousands of spectators, millions of dollars in prize money and hundreds of accredited members of the press covering the event.

But, life goes on. The next Saturday morning Malcolm and Scott were back at their favorite table in Floyd’s for breakfast. The conversation was pleasant, but one thing made it clear that Scott hadn’t gotten over his bitterness just yet.

This time, he ordered eggs.