Michael Phelps, Apolo Ohno Plug Subway's Fritos Chicken Enchilada Melt (Video)

Categories: Gutbombs

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Screenshot via YouTube
Michael Phelps goes "cruncha muncha" on Subway's new sandwich.
Remember Subway? The fast-food chain made superfamous by that guy Jared who shed some serious poundage by eating a healthy, well-balanced diet composed of Subway sammies that contained lots of veggies?

Apparently, on the 15th anniversary of Jared Fogle's accomplishment, Subway decided to celebrate with the introduction of its Frito Chicken Enchilada Melt sandwich -- a sandwich that would surely have never helped Fogle reach his weight loss goal.

As the commercial actually says, "Wait a minute. The Fritos go on the sub?"

Why, yes. Yes, they do.

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Joey Chestnut Wins Sixth Consecutive Nathan's Hot Dog Eating Championship

Categories: Gutbombs
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ESPN
Joey Chestnut wins his sixth consecutive Nathan's hot dog eating title.
Twenty-eight-year-old Joey "Jaws" Chestnut of San Jose, California, won his sixth consecutive hot-dog-eating title yesterday at the Nathan's Hot Dog Eating championship by eating 68 hot dogs in ten minutes.

For those of you into math -- that's 6.8 hot dogs every minute! 

The contest, now in its 97th year, is held every July Fourth in Coney Island, Brooklyn, at the original Nathan's Restaurant on Surf Avenue, in the shadow of the world-famous Cyclone roller coaster.

Chestnut beat out 30 other opponents by scarfing nearly six dozen hot dogs and buns in the allotted time. Tin Janus of New York wasn't even a close second, downing 52 dogs. Trailing in third place was Patrick Bertoletti of Chicago with 51 hot dogs.

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Doughnuts Are the Cause of America's Problems

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It is true that America is home to the Luther Burger. It is true that America invented greasy fast food and continues to love its Burgerdonalds and McKings with heart-stirring (and -stopping) patriotic ardor. It is true that our prolonged prosperity in the 20th Century, our early adoption of refrigeration, and our vast continent of cattle-friendly farmland combined to addict our grandparents to unhealthy quantities of red meat and to enduringly define the American dinner as a plate full of starch and flesh, with an unloved ghetto of frozen vegetalia shmushed off to the side. And it is true that several species of indigenous American grub were meant to power farmers through long days manning a plow, or whatever it is that farmers do. (Think the sweet meatballs and hot bacon dressing of Pennsylvania Dutch cooking and the classical breakfast poison of flapjacks + syrup + bacon + sausage + eggs + toast + coffee. The coffee, as it happens, is a diuretic, which hamper's the body's ability to eliminate the lethal tonnage of the foregoing ingredients.) It's the last point that I've been thinking about lately: Locating the culprit for my expanding waistline amid breakfast foods. 

What put me in mind of breakfast foods was an argument I had with a roommate of mine, the daughter of a ship captain who has grown up internationally, in coastal cities around the world. We were at dinner. She'd eaten mussels. I'd had steak tartar. We both had a sweet tooth. My roommate commented on the absence of doughnuts on American dessert menus. And I said -- as I think a lot of Americans might say, rather thoughtlessly -- "Of course. Doughnuts are a breakfast food."

That we were in a French restaurant made my remark more idiotic than it would otherwise be, French restaurants being the sorts of places where doughnuts really are a dessert food. (Here there was only chocolate pot de'creme.) My roommate gave me a look both incredulous and fearful -- incredulous because, the moment you think about it, it becomes apparent that doughnuts are a horrendous breakfast food; fearful because a few years in the United States had taught her that there is no limit to the grossness of the American palate, and she suspected she was about to learn something ugly.
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Burritos: They're Not for Women

Categories: Gutbombs
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I don't remember where I had my first Chipotle burrito, and that's the point. I was too busy eating it. I do remember the careful ritual: peeling off rounds of foil, a quick visual examination followed by a dash of Tabasco. The first expectant bite, then another, then another. Setting the burrito down to chew and sip some water. Being hurried but unworried. Feasting like a predator.

The appeal, the process, is so terribly masculine. Don't get me wrong: I've sat alongside many lovely ladies in Chipotles across the country. I would have spoken to them if we hadn't each been in flagrante delicto with our own head-sized fresh-Mex fiestas. At bars and diners, you'll fall into idle chitchat with truck drivers and down-and-outers, boasting or complaining between sips. At the burrito restaurant, you eat. It's understood.

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McDonald's Gets Me High

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One of my roommates is a highly driven young entrepreneur raised in Asia by American parents, and he is an enthusiastic consumer of all ingestibles, be they solid, liquid, or smoke. Like me, his favorite foods are uni and foie gras. Like me, he loves excellent craft beer, appreciates delicately carved usuzukuri, and values freshness of ingredients. He's a goddamned snob, frankly. Yet perhaps once a month, an evil gleam appears in his eye, and he says, "Brandon, you deserve a break today."

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Raw vs. Cooked Seafood: A Debate Better Had Before This Happens

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Are one of these the culprit?


Last week, I bought one bad clam, along with approximately a hundred of its siblings, from a perfectly respectable (and totally blameless) fish monger. The clam sojourned briefly in my refrigerator and then spent an hour or so atop my stove, in the company of tomatoes, coconut milk, chiles, and cilantro. The clam and its siblings were then laid across a bed of thin rice noodles and gobbled up by me, my partner, and two dinner guests.

I'd never cooked clams before, and hadn't intended to. Last Saturday, one of my dinner guests said he and his partner rather liked seafood, and I set about planning a dinner of maki rolls and unagi-don. Then, on Monday, the day before our date, this guest mentioned: "Oh, by the way -- we love seafood, but not sushi."

So much for maki. As we ate our clams Tuesday evening, I asked my guest why he and his partner didn't like sushi, and his response struck me as incredibly retrograde. "Well, it's raw," he said, giving me a look that suggested the wrongness of rawness ought to be self-evident.

"And?" I inquired, around a mouthful of poison.

"That's just not safe!" he said. I didn't argue with him then. But now, as I venture gingerly

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Which Is Worse: KFC's New Cheesy Bacon Bowl or a Frito Pie?

Categories: Gutbombs
Casserole comebacks aren't just for fat-basking Paula Dean, as fast food and sit-down restaurants continue to introduce them in the form of pies and bowls. Yesterday Eater.com reported Kentucky Fried Chicken's newest gutbomb, the Cheesy Bacon Bowl, an amalgamation of mashed potatoes, fried chicken, corn, gravy, cheese, and now bacon. It's an "abomination," Gawker declared. How bad is it?

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The dish: KFC's Cheesy Bacon Bowl

The damage: A 183g. snack-sized bowl minus bacon is 260 calories, 120 from fat. The big bowl -- a massive
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