Tibor gave Matúš a subtle, man-to-man smile and set the first plate down in front of him. It was ravioli. Large, glossy ravioli coated in butter and sprinkled with Parmesan. The aroma of pasta, cheese, and herbs immediately drifted up toward him. Matúš’s eyes lit up. He loved ravioli. For an appetizer, it was a respectable portion—almost suspiciously respectable—but he didn’t think much about it. Tibor said, “First appetizer.”
Matúš picked up his utensils and started eating. On a screen in a small room next door, betting immediately opened up. People were placing wagers on how long it would take him to finish the first serving. Tibor started a stopwatch. Matúš had no idea. He ate quickly, calmly, with the confidence of a man who didn’t like wasting time. The ravioli disappeared fast. Twenty-five. Twenty-six. Twenty-seven. Stop. Four minutes and twenty-seven seconds. Nobody guessed it correctly.
Tibor poured Matúš a glass of wine and brought out the second appetizer. This time it was warm potato croquettes with bryndza cream, bacon dust, and onion oil. Maybe two hundred fifty grams, but plated elegantly. Tasting-menu style. Innocent-looking. Matúš figured this wouldn’t be a problem. It wasn’t. Tibor stood nearby, occasionally topping off his glass, occasionally encouraging him with a short comment. Matúš ate and felt his competitive side slowly waking up. Not against the audience he didn’t know existed. Against himself. After the second appetizer came another glass of wine and a third plate. Matúš thought it would finally be the main course. It wasn’t. A beef tartare on toasted bread landed in front of him. Another appetizer. Matúš was already starting to feel pressure in his stomach. He’d basically eaten almost a kilo of food and they were still just getting started. He finished it.
Tibor poured more wine and asked, “Everything okay?”
Matúš wiped his mouth and nodded.
Tibor added, “Everything so far is going on the menu.”
Matúš leaned back. His shirt was stretched tight across his stomach.
“Compliments to the chef. The food is outstanding.”
Tibor smiled and asked if he was ready for the next course. Matúš nodded. A moment later, a bowl of thick tripe soup was sitting in front of him. He loved tripe soup. He scooped up a hefty chunk of tripe with his spoon like an excavator. The soup was spicy, rich, heavy, and thick. He didn’t even notice there was almost four hundred milliliters of it. The hot paprika flushed his face. His ears turned red. The tripe soup vanished into his belly like a glass of water. The betting intensified.
Back home, Adam and Jonáš sat in front of a laptop, staring at the screen in disbelief. They watched Matúš as one dish after another disappeared from the plates. After the tripe soup came a rich beef broth with liver dumplings. Then Hungarian goulash with homemade bread dumplings. In the corner of the screen, estimated calorie counts kept updating.
Jonáš didn’t move. Adam sat with his hands resting on the table, watching Matúš’s shirt struggle more and more against his stomach. Watching the fabric stretch. Watching the mass of his belly press against the edge of the table. Watching his brother keep a calm expression while his body was already working at full capacity. Tibor brought another dish. Roasted duck liver with onion jam, butter brioche, and red wine sauce. Matúš looked up.
“How much more do you have prepared?”
“You’ve already eaten more than half.”
The betting picked up momentum. Tibor leaned toward Matúš and whispered that he could unbutton his shirt. It would be more comfortable. If he wanted, Tibor could do it for him. Matúš agreed. Tibor slowly loosened the buttons. The shirt opened, and Matúš’s stomach finally spilled forward. The next dish was already in front of him. Pork cheeks with root vegetables, potato cream purée, pan sauce, and crispy onions. Matúš picked up his utensils. He ate. He was surprised himself that he still wasn’t full. Then another dish arrived. Grilled sausage with bean ragout and sauerkraut. Another glass of wine. The wine was lighter, but it helped. It dulled the boundaries.
Adam kept staring at the screen. He wanted to do something. Turn it off. Call him. Go get him. But he sat there, hypnotized. He was starting to get worried. In the corner of the screen it now read: 8,400 kcal.
Adam remembered the time he’d tried to eat ten thousand calories at a Chinese buffet. It hadn’t ended well. Even though he’d absolutely stuffed himself that day, he’d been banned from that buffet ever since.
“You actually have experience with that? I never would’ve guessed.”
Adam didn’t answer. He kept watching Matúš.
Matúš was served cottage cheese crepes with butter, sugar, and fruit sauce. He thought that had to be the end. After the crepes came their famous steamed buns. Four large ones, soft, sprinkled with poppy seeds and drenched in butter and sugar. A lot for a tasting menu. Then came tiramisu in a deep bowl. Creamy, heavy, sweet. Matúš ate more slowly. But he kept eating. The last bite disappeared into his belly after two and a half hours. Everything.
Tibor walked in carrying a pitcher of water. He poured a glass and then looked at Matúš. He was slumped back in the armchair, shirt open, jacket pushed behind him, his stomach enormous, stretched tight, and heavy.
“Can you stand up?” Tibor asked.
“Don’t you have anything else?” Matúš said with a smile.
“No.” Tibor shook his head. “I’ll help you up.”
Matúš stood. He felt a little drunk, but after seeing the four empty wine bottles, he wasn’t surprised. He took off his shirt and handed it to Tibor. It was soaked with sweat and missing buttons, but it had done its job. Matúš tried to pull his T-shirt back on. His stomach was too large, too full, and hanging too low. The fabric caught on top of his belly and refused to go any farther. After a moment, he gave up. He kept only the jacket on. His belly remained exposed. Full. Heavy. Visible.
Tibor looked at him, then at the monitor in the next room. The numbers stopped. The betting was closed. Matúš had no idea how many people had just been watching him. Not yet.
