The Wings for Wishes Professional Eating Championship is happening in Miami on March 9, and Crazy Legs Conti, a Boston guy with 22 years of experience on the speed-eating circuit, will be there to chow down and, he hopes, win money.
Conti, who grew up in Belmont, will attack the wings strategically, factoring in meat-to-bone ratios for both drumsticks and flats: spin-and-eat for the drumsticks, a push-and-pull of the bones and cartilage to free up meat in the flats.
The cerebral game plan suits the Johns Hopkins University graduate. “Wings are a technique food, so I stand a pretty good chance versus more of a straight-up capacity contest,” he said.
To be sure, wings contests are about capacity too. Conti called the 10-minute race “a marathon of eating. You’re aiming to get about four to five pounds of chicken wing meat in that amount of time,” or 100 to 125 wings.
Such is the life of a competitive eater. Later in March is a fudge contest in Missouri, then the “Ultimate Bologna Showdown” in Knoxville, Tenn., and, farther down the road, the Super Bowl of competitive eating — the Nathan’s Famous Fourth of July International Hot Dog Contest in New York. The latter requires qualifying at a lead-up event; Conti estimates he’s participated in 16 Coney Island hot dog contests (like a proper Bostonian, he refers to them as “hut dogs”) across his career.
Conti’s 22 years on the circuit is uncommon. George Shea, chairman of Major League Eating, the body that oversees competitive eating, said via email, “Legs is, without doubt, the eminence grease of the circuit.”
Conti, 53, lives in Manhattan’s funky East Village, in a cozy apartment that features a mural of him, food tray on either hand, in a suit with the pant legs cut into shorts (Crazy Legs indeed — he wears shorts 365 days a year). There’s a sign at his feet that says “Eat All You Can.”
Conti has dreadlocks and does not own a cellphone, preferring to “exist in real life.” He’s the maître d’ at an upscale show called Speakeasy Magick. His work uniform, as his mural suggests, is a suit with the legs sliced into shorts.
He got his start in competitive eating back in 2002, when Conti and some friends went to New Orleans while the Patriots were playing in the Super Bowl at the Superdome. He didn’t have a ticket, but stumbled upon a restaurant, Acme Oyster House, that would cover the patron’s bill if they set the record for oyster consumption. The house record was 33 dozen.
“I ended up breaking the record while the Patriots won the Super Bowl,” Conti said. “The Super Bowl and the Oyster Bowl.”
He’d been a fan of competitive eating, often venturing to Coney Island to watch the hot dog contest. He entered an oyster contest a couple months after the Super Bowl, again in New Orleans, and won.
Conti was officially on the circuit.
“I think of oysters as kind of my spirit animal,” he said. “I don’t think there’s anything wrong with eating your spirit animal.”
His mother, Rona, still lives in Belmont. She said Jason, his name before he legally changed it to Crazy Legs, showed an astounding capacity for ingestion as a kid. The milkman was always impressed by how much milk the Contis would go through. “He asked how many children I have,” she said. “I said two, but only one drinks milk.”
Conti stands 6 feet 3 inches tall and weighs around 220 pounds. He’s run a few marathons, and looks like he’d be good for, say, a half-marathon these days. He stays in shape with yoga and meditation.
As competitive eating has evolved, the once gargantuan eaters have slimmed. “When I’ve gained weight, I haven’t been as effective at the table,” Conti said. “So there’s an incentive to stay thinner and to stay in traditional athletic shape.”
Conti has seen the pastime evolve in other ways. When he broke in, it was the “trophy era” — no cash for the winner. There is money to be made today. A pistachio contest in Santa Monica in late February gave the winner $5,000. The fudge contest in Missouri awards $2,500 to the winner. Wings for Wishes pays a $2,000 grand prize.
Eaters study rivals’ techniques on YouTube. Competitive eating “kind of left the subculture a while ago,” Conti said.
Asked how much longer he’ll continue, Conti mentioned Boston sports heroes Tom Brady and Kevin Garnett, who enjoyed long careers. As he spoke, Conti wore a Celtics hoodie with Garnett’s name on it.
“I’m still relevant, I’m still an elite eater,” he said.
“I try to be an ambassador to the sport and welcome the rookies, but also celebrate the fact that I’ve been able to do this for 22 years, and really enjoy the travel, the food, the people, and the storytelling.”
If he finds himself coming in last at every event, he added, “maybe it’s time to hang up the esophagus.”
Competitive eating would be less fun without him. Tim Janus, who competed under the moniker Eater X and lived with Conti, called him the most colorful person at the table. “He’s got a great sense of personal style, and he’s one of the funnier people on the circuit,” Janus said. “He’s also one of the nicest and most generous people. For that reason alone, I always hope for the best for Crazy Legs.”
What might he take on after retiring? Conti is an avid writer, with a screenplay in the works. He could see himself hosting a Food Network show — something where fun stories are passed around the table alongside the nosh.
His intelligence immediately apparent, one can’t help but wonder what Conti’s life would have been like if he’d pursued a traditional career path. But he’s happy with the one he’s chosen, noting that Wall Street would never go for a guy in a suit with the pant legs cut off. And any other career would not have seen Conti partaking in eating competitions overseas to entertain the military. “That’s just been the best thing I’ve done as a human,” he said.
Rona is pleased with her son’s choices too. “There are so many lawyers and doctors,” she said, “and so few competitive eaters.”