Hating the Coney Island Hotdog Man

The fog hung low and thick over the Coney Island boardwalk until the mid-afternoon. From the end of the pier, where dozens of men gathered to trap crabs but kept bringing up nothing but bottom feeders, you could barely make out the parachute drop or the Cyclone. Hell, you could barely see the boardwalk from out there. It was the Fourth of July, and a strange pall had been cast over one of the happiest places on earth.

As a result of the early rains that day, and the threatened thunderstorms gathering to the west, the crowds at Coney weren't as massive as you'd expect. Not around noon, at least. We were taking a shot in the dark heading down there?we didn't know if it would be a madhouse or not. We were, for a few hours, pleasantly surprised. There were more people than you'd find on a usual Wednesday, maybe?enough to insure lines beneath the Wonder Wheel and most of the other rides?but not what you'd expect on Our Nation's 225th Birthday.

Maybe most of the crowds were over at Nathan's, to see the annual hotdog-eating contest. We would've been there had we remembered. It didn't matter, though, because after the winner was announced, most of the crowd retired to Ruby's Bar to try and make some sense out of what they had just witnessed.

"Were you at the contest?" a young couple seated at the end of the bar asked me and my gal (full disclosure: although they were complete strangers, they bought us beers.) We shook our heads sadly. If I'd've known when it was, if I hadn't been so stupid, we probably would've been there.

"A Japanese guy won," the young woman said.

"That little guy?" I asked, holding up a hand at shoulder-height for emphasis, referring to last year's winner.

"No," she said, "a different one this time. He set a new world record. Ate 50 of them."

"My God," I said, trying to imagine 50 hotdogs in 12 minutes. "Where was that big fat guy who's always there? Did he do anything?" They knew immediately whom I meant?local competition stalwart "Hungry" Charles Hardy. For the last several years, he's been America's last, best hope against this quiet invasion of Japanese hotdog eaters.

"Oh, he ate about four," the young woman said, barely concealing her bitterness. "I could've beaten him."

Unsurprisingly then?perhaps realizing full well that this woman could have eaten more hotdogs than he did?the 320-pound Hardy announced his retirement from the competitive eating game shortly after the contest.

You have to wonder?without Mr. Hardy there, whom can we count on to bring this most American of trophies (well, belts) back to America?

"First the Japanese take our electronics," the young man said, shaking his head in disbelief. "And now they come over here and take our hotdog eating contests. What's next?"

It was a sentiment which seemed to be shared down the length of the bar. So much so, in fact, that all talk of the day's contest?new world record or not?evaporated much more quickly than the heavy morning fog. Nobody, it seemed, wanted to be reminded of one more defeat, one more bit of evidence regarding America's slipping dominance on the world stage.

An hour later, a small party of Japanese visitors arrived at the bar, loaded down with platefuls of oysters and fried clams. They sat at a table against the far wall, though, far away from everyone else. At least they seemed happy about things.