BRIDGEPORT — I found the beast at Pancho Pistolas.
It was a meat-filled behemoth called the 17-inch burrito.
Sure, I love Mexican food. If I was on death row, my final meal would be a burrito dinner straight from the source. Every time I see chips and salsa, I get the kind of hunger that eats at a man. But could I conquer this thing?
I certainly wanted to try.
But before the main course, an appetizer of sorts.
My road to the battle with the beast began innocently enough. With a new lease on an apartment in Bridgeport, I soon learned I was within walking distance of three taco shops. At each one, I’d become a regular at different times of the day.
The first was Goodie Tacos, 1117 W. 31st St., a place that’s been around for almost three decades, always reliable for a quick lunch fix with a bottle of orange-flavored Jarritos.
My next discovery was Taqueria San Jose, of the early-morning, greasy spoon variety, the kind of place I’d find police officers chomping on chips and salsa in the dead of night and catch a late-night broadcast of an ESPN documentary on the Chicago Bulls. The place was a classic storefront with aluminum-wrapped burritos dripping with juice — the perfect post-Bernice’s recharge meal washed down with tamarind-flavored Jarritos.
For dinner, I’d often hit Pancho Pistolas, a sharply designed haunt where the servers wear matching shirts and margaritas are drained by the pitcher.
It was here, at 700 W. 31st St., where I first encountered the giant.
Eating lunch with a friend, I saw a pack of 17-inch burritos appear from the kitchen, stretched across the plates like floppy rolling pins. A table of young men said they’d ordered them as a personal challenge: Finish the plate and win. Bragging rights for life.
In Chicago, where huge helpings rule — from deep dish pizza slices to big beef sandwiches to barnyards of chicken wings — it’s not surprising for locals to channel their inner Joey Chestnut, a professional eater known to consume titanic amounts of food.
But could I do it?
The men snapped photos before digging in. I’m not sure how their battle ended, but I promised myself I’d return and try my hand at what I considered my Mt. Olympus of gooey goodness.
That day would come on Oct. 8, 2015.
I walk into Pancho Pistolas at 2:42 p.m. and take a seat at a table by the window. A server hands me a menu. I open up to the middle and see the story of the beast:
PANCHO GRANDE
$15.75 - $20.95
The waitress walks up and asks if I know what I want.
“I want this,” I say, pointing to the Pancho Grande. “Steak … Does anyone ever finish this?”
“Yes,” the waitress says, smiling, like I’m some amateur, big burrito-eating chump — which I am. “Do you want anything to drink?”
I stick with water. She disappears to put my order in.
There’s now a basket of chips, cup of salsa and bowl of pico de gallo in front of me. While I’d normally dig in, no questions asked, I’m undecided: If I have any chance of defeating this thing, I should lay off the filling extras, right?
Nah.
The salsa is too good to skip. I scoop up a nice Homer Simpson helping with a chip and throw it down the hatch.
The spicy-salty-sweetness affirms my decision: Worth it.
Waiting for the burrito, I look across 31st Street: There’s Freddie’s Italian Eatery, where I can get a giant beef sandwich called the Big Beef. Maybe that’s the next challenge, I think. I get cocky.
OK, dude. Who are you, Takeru Kobayashi? No, you’re Ed Komenda, and Ed Komenda needs to…
Focus.
I ponder: Should I eat the burrito with a fork and knife? Two-hand it like a hoagie? I wait until the beast appears and instincts take over.
It’s 2:51 p.m. when the waitress unleashes the flour-wrapped Beelzebub.
One glimpse, and I look away, as if I’d turn to stone if I look my nemesis in the eyes.
I’m zapped with embarrassment. No human should ever be allowed to order such a monstrous, unholy dinner.
The Pancho Grande taunts me.
Your move, bub.
After two minutes of cowering in awe, I snap a photo with my iPhone. Then I grab a fork and knife and gingerly slice the bad boy in half.
To eat this thing from end to end would seem almost pornographic.
Cut in half, the beast is still ungodly. Half of a Pancho Grande is still longer than my 8-inch reporter’s notebook.
I dive in. The first bite is a big one. The amount of steak is astounding. I consider how tough it will be to taste the same flavors through 17 inches.
I think: Might be good to add salsa to fight what competition eaters call “flavor fatigue.” But again, I’m not a competition eater — I’m Ed Komenda, and I want salsa on my burrito. So I scoop up a spoonful and drizzle it on the next bite.
Mmmmmmmm... Good.
By 3 p.m., I’m halfway through the first hunk.
I feel a wave of warmth wash over my body. It can’t be the “meat sweats” can it? Too early for that. Turns out it’s the beanie and sweatshirt I wore to battle, now unnecessary after the salsa.
I take off my sweatshirt, take a sip of water and resume chowing down.
At 3:07 p.m., I’m feeling woozy. A line of school children passes the front window. Their eyes scan the pile of burrito on my table. Did they notice my struggle? Will it be the stuff of legend? Or tragedy?
Nearby, two twenty-something women eat what looks like guacamole salad — a perfectly sensible choice on an unseasonably warm afternoon in October.
I look back on my own plate and realize: I'm not enjoying this. Rather than my friend, food has become my enemy. A lot of people have complicated relationships with food — relationships that smack of addiction. What was I doing here? I'd always been the one to make demands of my food. Now this burrito was making demands on me.
I take another big bite.
Minor food shock: It starts at your stomach, which seems to be stretching, complaining, “Hey, you bastard, what are you doing to me?”
By 3:13 p.m. the beast has cooled. The cheese is no longer gooey, now closer to the texture of a slab of cold pizza left on the counter overnight.
The cold bites are difficult to chew. The flavors, and even the colors of the meat inside, have dulled. I add more salsa, sip water.
The flavor fatigue has really set in, as house music pumps out of the restaurant’s loud speakers: a funeral dirge for a South Side dimwit who thought he had what it takes to slay the beast.
Another bite at 3:16 p.m. Chills shoot down my back.
Abort, Abort.
I chew, sadly.
Just when I think to quit, my smiley waitress shows up.
“How’s everything?”
“Still going.”
“Keep going,” she says, “take your time.”
Her advice is wasted. The burrito has won.
I once considered myself a true Chicagoan, the Mike Ditka of the dinner table, but I realize I’m not.
The next time my waitress appears, I ask for a to-go box — defeated by the mighty fare of Pancho Pistolas.
I will always remember it as my own personal burrito beatdown. Next time, I think I'll just order the salad.
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