Adam Richman, Vomitologist OR

‘Man vs. Food’ — The Barfing Show

You’ve seen him, oversized frat boy, gee-whiz grin, sheepdog hair a little too long on the top and sides, elbows propped on the greasy formica of some college-town pigout palace, looking, usually thirty minutes into the show, whey-faced and distinctly queasy. “Man v. Food” is the name of this particular Travel Channel crowd-pleaser, and barfing seems to be the game. Oh, the pretext, as in the show’s title, is that he’s taking on eating challenges from California to Connecticut, although I don’t remember that part of American history where manifest destiny involved “triumphing” over 3 pounds of fries and 4 pounds of hamburger and cheese on the same plate or a six pound milkshake or a 12-egg omelet and a couple of pounds of hash browns. Unless we’re calling morbid obesity, diabetes, and heart disease triumphs these days. Did I miss something?

Nah, I don’t think so. Rather, the conceit of the show, tucked behind that false bravado of any kind of a challenge, is really that it’s all about the thrill of the hurl, the spunk of the chunks, as the crowd perches on the edge of their seats, watching the orgy from ringside. And there’s always a crowd, always a fist-pumping, sports-bar moment when he lets fly with one of his signature, not very spontaneous, lines. (Are you ready for a challenge?)

But, really, when it comes down to it, the show’s about puking, or, more precisely, waiting for someone else to puke, as he often takes on partners in his challenges. As the host, of course, he can’t puke or he’d lose his legitimacy, never mind the FCC. He’s allowed to put down his fork and admit defeat (“…and today, food won!”).

Oddly enough, we’re never shown anyone actually vomiting, though the producers do sneak in regular shots of unhappy, overstuffed challengers in that familiar, umbrella-handle pose. Adam is allowed to hint that, after a particularly noxious bout, he’s headed for the bathroom, and this second-hand barfing seems to add another titillating factor to the pretty crass equation.

Can you imagine the pitch meeting? You know, they’ll see him shove this just whompin’ inhuman two-fisted piece of meat into his face, I mean, see the beads of sweat pop out, the chin tremble, the eyes weep. They’ll feel his pain! And then maybe he makes it — or maybe they just know he’s gotta puke. But, wait for it, he never does! His partner can do the hurling, puking by proxy, y’know?

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