Thursday 10 November 2011

Slurping my way to success - almost

Following our dice with death at October’s Danjiri, it was uncertain as to how this month’s traditional oddities of the orient could exceed expectations.

Yubara’s annual noodle eating contest certainly did its best.

Invited to enlist by one of my teachers, presumably to provide some “white person” comedy value, I gladly obliged.

A proudly patriotic country, Japanese people are stereotypically under the belief that no one else can do as they do. Non-Japanese infiltrating local life are instantly assumed idiotic and taken pity on.

Congratulated by genuinely surprised locals on a daily basis for my chopstick using prowess, as well as tasks as menial as wiping a tray or flushing a toilet, in rural Japan closing a sliding door warrants a standing ovation.

On occasion this can work to your advantage. Sunday’s competition was just one of these occasions.

Arriving early, the tension in the air was high, nerves were shaking and contestants sombre faced at the prospect of the challenge which lay ahead.

Last on the list, we had to wait for realms of children and men to compete in the soba slurp off.

A natural born winner, this time was not wasted.

Instead I assessed tactics.

First up were two of my larger, to be more precise morbidly obese, students who return for a minimum of third helpings during a typical school lunch time, and one featherweight child.

As the unlikely trio assumed their positions, chopsticks poised, I predicted the pecking order; fattest kid first, less fat but still of gastronomical proportions second, and whippet legs third.

Sadly the future heart attack victims, who didn’t use the dipping sauce provided, began regurgitating noodles into their palms, retching and on the verge of developing lack of oxygen induced brain damage. Meanwhile the wimpy kid took the lead, becoming the clear winner.

This scenario was repeated time and time again as tensions grew fast.

Another fat child learnt by the error of his peers’ ways, adopting the dip-slurp method, leading him to unprecedented victory.

The judges called our names and I took my place behind 500 grams of stone cold soba noodles, cracking the chopsticks and ready for action.

Quietly confident, no one was aware of my secret weapon, a mouth large enough to accommodate 20 grapes or a clenched fist.

The whistle sounded.

Despite getting off to a sloppy start due to an incident with the chopsticks, I gathered speed. Using tactics gleamed from earlier competitors, I crammed to the sound of a kindergarten child, who had earlier attempted to flog me an enormous jar of her Grandfather’s overpriced honey under the guise that she loved me, squawking her good luck wishes, which induced a fit of hysterics.

Determination took a hold and I powered through regardless.

Hearing the commentator repeating my name, I knew I must be nearing success so began stuffing handfuls of noodles which had slopped onto the table into my mouth, throwing my hands into the air to signal I’d finished to the sound of the cheering crowd, chanting my name.

Waiting for my opponents to catch up, I eyed dip-slurp fat kid tucking into a family sized polyester tray of Yakisoba, visibly eager to maintain his portly physique.

Finishing first with a time of 2minutes 53seconds, the next group in our heat was called to the table.

Sending out negative brainwaves throughout their round, I willed no one to beat my time.

One wizened, five-stone grandmother, immune to my magical powers, finished with a time of 2minutes 15seconds, putting her in first place and demoting me to a sloppy second.

Unaware what her secret weapon was, she clearly needed the food to insulate her frail bones against the Siberian winter currently travelling to the valleys of Yubara. But I still felt a sense of defeat. A feeling I can only assume is experienced by those straight A* students when they disgrace their overly ambitious parents as well as the entire extended family when they fail and get an A in General Studies, suicide being the only admirable action to be taken in such an eventuality.

Luckily I had good friends around to pull me through one of the darkest hours of my life so far.

More positively, we have gained local celebrity status. White people entering a noodle contest has been the talk of the town. At the hairdresser’s on Monday the owner disappeared, re-emerging seconds later with the newspaper, overtly excited that he was in the presence of such a local hero.

Next time, I will win.

1 comment:

  1. I am very much looking forward to seeing the re-enactment of this in Noodletime when you are back in the land of London!

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