As you may know, I have recently started a new job with a national manufacturing firm.  I’m still new to my work group, so when a few teammates asked if I’d be willing to participate in the “Meat Mountain” challenge for lunch the following day, I said “sure” without really thinking about it.

Now, for those of you who are unaware, the Arby’s chain of fast food restaurants (“they have the meats!”) has a specialty sandwich they call “The Meat Mountain”.  It’s on their “secret menu”, meaning you won’t see it advertised, but it is available if you ask for it.  I had never heard of it before,  but being that I am a sensible man in his early fifties who rarely eats fast food, its no doubt that I was blissfully unaware of this monstrosity and affront to sandwich-dom.

This “secret” offering is piled high with chicken tenders, turkey, ham, corned beef, brisket, steak, roast beef, and pepper bacon.  Basically, it’s every meat that Arby’s has on their menu – piled onto one bun, along with cheddar and Swiss cheese.  Our location also threw a fish filet on the bottom of their mountain, just to thumb their noses at convention.  Those rebels. The cost for this mad scientist creation?  $10 – and that’s just for the entrée – no sides.

The sandwich alone checks in at a whopping 1030 calories – minimum (I checked).  That’s equivalent to two McDonald’s Big Macs, about one and a half Burger King Whoppers, or about 2 1/3 Chick-Fil-A Chicken sandwiches.

If that isn’t enough – it also came with a large side of curly fries and a large soft drink.  I mean enough soda to actually swim in.  It was ridiculous.  They also sent along about fifty packets of condiments (I’m not joking here, either.)  So of course, I loaded up this meat monster with horseradish sauce and barbeque sauce – because at this point – why not?  I was “all-in” – full commitment.

So there we sat in our cubicle area, three men with three enormous bags of food, stinking up the entire common area, all hunched over with what I call the “Philly Cheesesteak lean” (so we wouldn’t get any food on our shirts). Someone shouted “go!” and without hesitation, we dove in.

Now I learned to eat fast from my days working in theme parks (where if you got five minutes to pound down some grub, you did).  Sadly, this habit has followed me through the rest of my life, so once I picked up that sandwich, I wasn’t putting it down.  Each bite had sauce running down my arm, and every so often I would have to reach around and quickly bite off meat that was trying to make an escape out of the back of the theater. 

When I came up for air a few minutes later, the behemoth was gone.  I glanced at my co-workers, who were still far behind me.  I watched them finish theirs as I polished off the curly fries (but never did drink all of that soda – I’m only a mortal man).

Upon completion, we all had the same, glazed look on our faces.  The stare of a person who has witnessed something terrible, but couldn’t tear their gaze away.  It’s something in the eyes.  Sad, shocked, and remorseful – all at the same time.  You know, just an ordinary lunch break.

The aftermath?  Well, I had planned ahead, so I was pounding Tum’s antacid tablets like Sweet-Tarts all afternoon, never letting on to my younger teammates that I was suffering.  One of my co-horts had to excuse himself from an afternoon meeting due to “meat sweats”, as he looked like he had just run a marathon in a wetsuit on a steamy August morning.  The other was standing at his desk the remainder of the day in order to shake off the urge to drift away into blissful slumber.

The kicker to it all?  On the receipt, it actually stated “Meat Mountain – small”.

Hmmmm, could I handle a “large” Meat Mountain?

Let’s hope I never have to find out.