By ten o’clock, I’d been staring into my half-full wine glass so long that the waiter was getting antsy. He probably thought I was a critic at first, then noticed my wet, swollen face and adjusted his expectations.

I wasn’t an expert in bold burgundies, just bad boyfriends; he’d forgotten about me. I’m not even convinced he meant to stand me up. Just forgot. Frankly, he wasn’t smart enough to be malicious. But he was definitely dumb enough to be oblivious.

So I sat, long after I should have picked up and left, and wallowed in my choices.

“Can I get you anything else, ma’am?” asked my server.

“Probably. Just not from your kitchen.”

He tiptoed away.

“And stop calling me ma’am.”

I still had some self-loathing on my plate. Pulling my sweater up over my shoulders, I returned to my meal and kept crying.

Half an hour passed. The candle on the table flickered at me. I was about to respond to it, when a guy entering the restaurant grabbed my attention. 

He immediately made a spectacle of himself. There was a GoPro strapped to his head, but also a second camera in his hand. His voice filled the room as he narrated his arrival, peddling bullshit I didn’t quite understand.

Heads turned, but no one seemed annoyed by the disruption. Instead, delighted smiles warmed the otherwise dim steakhouse. I heard bits and pieces from one of the other waiters (not mine—he knew better) gushing to a nearby table about how lucky we all were.

“…Hungry Eyes. That’s the name he uses online…competitive eater…food challenges…millions of followers…”

Oh Christ, don’t come over here…

Hungry Eyes sat down at the table right next to me.

No!

He was a big guy. Over six feet tall, but surprisingly fit—lean. He wore jeans and Cons and a tee that read “Papa’s Pizza Pie Club.” Short brown hair but an elaborate handlebar mustache, waxed and elegantly twisted at each end. He looked like a regular bro trying to channel Wyatt Earp. Or at the very least, the guy on the side of a Pringles can.

He set up his handheld camera on the other side of the table so that it would face him. That was it for me. I started to stand, but before I could, he spoke.

“Ladies and gentlemen, I’ve read your messages and listened to you. I’m at Ron’s West End Pub, and I’m here for…”

It has to be steak. This is a steakhouse.

“…New England’s ONLY asparagus challenge. Eight pounds of deep-fried asparagus, tater tots, and a beer in fifteen short minutes. The winner gets a tee shirt and a spot on the wall of fame…”

Which is near the bathrooms.

Ron suddenly materialized in our section and shouted, “Three, two, one, GO!”

It wasn’t pretty. Hungry Eyes double-fisted the biomass placed in front of him, mangling his lovely mustache in the process. He commented through a full mouth, detailing strategy and increasing discomfort. The crowd ate it up, and as I looked on from my front row seat, I completely forgot my shit.

Toward the end (he was easily going to defeat the challenge), he turned to me and apologized. The diners had finished with him.

“I’m so sorry. I know it isn’t pretty. Here you are enjoying your dinner, and I come in and ruin it.”

“It’s okay. I got stood up.”

“Somebody stood you up?”

“Yes in-fucking-deed.”

He laughed. “He doesn’t know what he’s missing.”

“Like watching a guy eat his weight in asparagus?”

“It’s a job. Sometimes we’re stuck doing the thing we’re good at. I eat, and you get stood up.”

“Fuck you.”

“But I do my thing well.”

He wound up sleeping at my place that night, and we had a great time. But my bathroom smelled horrible.