If you walk into The Local Table on South Fontaine Boulevard, the first thing you see is a mosaic of signed Polaroids. Each bears a dead-eyed hunk with the unwieldy smirk of one who has lost his dignity but earned a prized spot on the Wall of Meat. You’ve surely seen such a gallery. Looking over its thick-necked constituents, the wall seems a kind of Valhalla for the quantity-obsessed. The satisfied smiles straining under heavy cheeks, the hairy hands resting beside an empty plate with both thumbs up, the wives’ feigned pride showing cracks of dread. I love it. And last week, looking up at the Local Table’s council of heroes, I decided I was ready to take the oath.
The final boss in question is known as The Gambler. Three healthy patties, American and bacon on each, two eggs, pickles, scads of onion, lettuce, sauce, pulled pork and a moat of fries. Two big buns, too. 28 beans. But if you can erase the lot in nine minutes, it’s free. As the Paw Patrol, season nine Wipeout contestants and the U.S. Olympic bobsled team embraced their own missions on the screens above, I strategically disassembled the animal-vegetable-lipid amalgam before me. A waitress brought out a timer and fastened my plastic bib. She’d seen plenty of squirts like me go head-to-head with the Gambler. And they weren’t on the Wall.
5… 4… 3… 2… 1…
Mmm! I rain-checked the lid and blitzed through the first layer of patty and egg like a raccoon in a rubbish pile. One cool minute down. Maybe three years of burgers had prepared me for the Gambler’s Gordian knot. But it required full-time finger forking. Hand to mouth, I plowed into the mesosphere and felt my charge’s emotional labor take hold. The meat soon felt as hot and flavorless as sun-baked roofing material.
Five minutes.
I descended deeper into the roughshod globs of American cheese, shuddering as I began to feel myself falling out of love with hamburgers. I worked through the defiant rubber of another fried egg. Ryder and Rubble watched coldly. How would the Paw Patrol solve this problem?
Seven minutes.
I made it to the pulled pork and started double-fisting. Each mouthful brought me further from nourishment and closer to dispassionate athleticism. The empty buns stared up at me.
8 minutes.
I tore at them viciously, a wretched clown in the middle of the room, pulling slanted glances from a family enjoying their Reubens.
Time.
The Bobsled team hit a corner and was beaten by Germany by a landslide. The waitress showed me the clock and delivered the check, face down and folded. I removed my bib and looked at my white shirt. It was much cleaner than that of a winner. I wouldn’t be joining the moon-faced men—and at least one brave woman—on the Local Table’s wall of meat-minded speed-eaters. I tried to clean up the remaining fries and bread, but my stomach issued a seismic quiver of descent.
On the whole, I’d liken The Gambler to a fixer-upper: as you demolish it piece by piece, you discover its dark side—asbestos/having a stroke—and visions of living a comfortable life afterward quickly subside. Thank you, three-dollar bottomless Coke, for saving my life. I’m formally challenging Felix McCall ‘26 and Connor Cronk ‘26 to pony up and give The Gambler an earnest chomp. My best to you and yours.