Miguel Fliguer's Blog - Posts Tagged "eating-contest"

“The Vermonster is a large ice cream sundae found in Ben & Jerry’s ‘scoop shops’, which is served in a ‘Vermonster Bucket’ and consists of 20 scoops of ice cream, a fudge brownie, four bananas, three cookies, 10 scoops of walnuts, four toppings, four ladles of hot fudge, and whipped cream. It contains 14,000 calories and 500 grams of fat. Each Vermonster is intended to be shared by four or more people. Roman and I will consume one each.” -- Tim Ferriss, The 4-Hour Chef


[…] We arrived to St. Johnsbury after a long journey through beautiful New Hampshire, and for the night we rented a cheap, old shack on Webster St., not far from the town square. We were thrilled to be in Vermont again, this time with a clear purpose… to face, and conquer, the legendary Ice Cream Bucket. Or, as locals call it, The Frozen Beast.

Ever since our first visit to Maxfield’s, Morton and Lovecraft had developed a queer obsession with finding, and conquering, the most outrageous ice-cream desserts in the Northeast. Lovecraft in particular still grumbled about that fateful day in Warren, when he could try only twenty-eight flavors instead of the full thirty-two from the menu.

For months, we had heard rumors and whispers about people claiming to have seen the Beast from afar. Somewhere in the Green Mountains dwelled a hermit who once sent a remarkable letter to Lovecraft, vividly describing his dreams of a dairy monstrosity walking among the snowed peaks. And there was that disturbing St. Johnsbury’s Caledonian-Record news clipping about a man found on the road to Burlington, babbling madly and covered in a gelid substance which, when analyzed later, turned out to be melted ice-cream.

Rumors, old wives’ tales… But now, we were close to the truth. Only fifty miles separated us from the town of Waterbury, home of a creamery establishment called Benedict & Jeremiah, where the Beast had been first summoned into existence. That place was usually open to the general public but our source (a man whose name I will not mention here) had provided us with a telephone number for “special visitors”. So the three of us went to a postal office, and Lovecraft telephoned the man, as we huddled our heads close to the receiver.

After an exchange of pleasantries, the man on the other side of the line asked how many pilgrims would be in our party, and our names, and whether we would fancy a tour of the creamery workshop afterwards. He also mentioned that the usual choice for the few selected visitors was to sample a few favorite flavors. Apparently, our reputation of fearless ice-cream devourers had not preceded us, so Lovecraft asked him directly about the mythical Frozen Beast.

The line went silent for a moment. Then, the man spoke in an awed, respectful tone, “Ah, I see. But I would like to warn you first, Sir. Being worthy of The Bucket, or as you named it, the Beast, calls for the finest qualities in a man… Courage, determination, and of course a clear, strategic mind. Since you and your companions have come from far away to Vermont in your quest, I realize you are men of the highest calibre, and it will be my honour to personally prepare a Bucket for your party to share tomorrow. The Bucket is conceived for partaking among four, five or even six people. However, sharing one betwixt a party of three is not uncommon.”

Lovecraft replied, “That is very courteous of you, Sir, but to be perfectly clear, each of us would like to consume one Bucket.” I did not catch the man’s reply, but Lovecraft said, “Very well, we will be there at noon. Thank you very much Sir.” He was grinning mischievously, and that made Morton and I smile as well.

After the call, we returned to our lodging place and slept peacefully. In the morning we fortified ourselves with good coffee and biscuits, and took the bus to Burlington. On the way we saw a glimpse of the gilded domes of Montpelier shining in the distance. We got off in Waterbury at ten o’clock, which gave us time to explore the town before our noon appointment. Lovecraft, always the indefatigable, excitedly led the way looking for old steeples and windows and other architectural oddities, while Morton and I enjoyed the peace and quiet of the almost empty streets.

After a short walk up the road to Stowe, we reached the grounds of the creamery. Lovecraft announced our presence to a cheerful receptionist, and after a brief wait our contact man greeted us and led the way to a garden inside the factory grounds. We walked to a beautiful gazebo, and sat around an old-fashioned wooden table.

The man shewed us a list of flavors to choose, and proudly explained that a Bucket contained a mighty twenty ice-cream scoops. Morton dryly observed that since we had conquered a twenty-eight flavor marathon in Maxfield’s the previous year, a mere twenty-scoops was almost contemptible. The man, undaunted, replied that the Bucket also included a brownie, four whole bananas, three cookies, ten scoops of walnuts, four toppings of our choice, and four ladles of hot fudge, with a generous slathering of whipped cream on top.

Lovecraft seemed to be reassessing the challenge under this new light. Morton looked worried. We did not have considered the addition of alien ingredients to what we thought it was a pure ice-cream confectionery.

Presently Lovecraft spoke, “Very well my friends! We have come from faraway lands to conquer this challenge and we shall not be deterred. In fact, I believe we can use those elements to our advantage!” He then produced his travel notebook and pen, and proceeded to draw an extraordinary diagram of a Bucket, with several ice cream “geological substrata” (as he called them), and betwixt them, the additional unexpected ingredients in well-ordered layers.

He ripped the page and gave it to our contact man, saying “Here, please build for us three buckets according to these architectural specifications. Break the larger ingredients in minute pieces, and please use twenty different flavors for the scoops. We trust your judgement for the selection of toppings, and we shall patiently wait here. The glory of slaying the Beast is at hand!”

The man examined the diagram and then looked at Lovecraft with renewed respect. He spoke, “As I promised you yesterday, I will be honored to construct these Buckets myself. I will be back in about ten minutes. Please make yourselves at home, and explore our beautiful garden…” He did an ominous pause and with a deeper, theatrical voice said, “… and our graveyard.” Then he returned to his cheerful, professional demeanor, and gave Morton a small brass bell. “And if you would fancy coffee or an early taste of ice-cream,” he said with a wink, “just ring this bell and an assistant will be glad to serve you.” With that, he turned and dissapeared into the factory.

We all looked at each other in disbelief. Did the man had actually say “graveyard”? We all had heard it and still could not fathom it. Did the factory had a cemetery on its grounds? That sounded outrageously unsanitary, yet it exerted a queer attraction on us. Who were those interred there? Lovecraft hinted that the place was perhaps a burial ground for those who had perished in their confrontation against the Frozen Beast, the same challenge we were about to face. That was a sobering thought that made a chill run down my spine. Suddenly we were all in a taciturn mood.

But then Morton surprised us, taking a small box out from his coat pocket with a theatrical flourish. He opened the box and shewed three metal spoons, of beautiful antique making and polished to a mirror-like quality. He gave one to Lovecraft and another to me and said, “I purchased these spoons last year, after our visit to Maxfield’s. For ice-cream consumption, a noble metal is a far superior material than the common devices from these establishments." Lovecraft nodded approvingly, and we realized Morton had each spoon handle artistically engraved with our respective initials. We thanked him effusively, and in an admirable feat, Lovecraft quickly wrote on a paper napkin an impromptu sonnet, “To Mortonius, Esquire, upon his Gift of a Precious Silver Utensil” and gave it to him.

The ominous graveyard talk was, at least for the time being, forgotten.

Presently our contact man was back, pushing a brass tram with the three Buckets. He courteously arranged them in front of us around the table, and parked the tram next to it. We then had the chance to examine our challenges… Those were impressive confections of colossal size, heavy and overflowing with whipped cream and small chocolate pieces and multi-colored unfamiliar delights.

The man noticed our polished metal spoons and smiled approvingly. He said, “Gentlemen, I only have two suggestions for you before you begin. First, attempt to ingest as much as you can, as fast as you manage. Because after a few minutes, your stomach will send a signal to your brain imploring you to stop. Second, the spoon should go into your mouth with the ice-cream facing down, towards your tongue instead of your palate, to prevent numbing and discomfort. I must say you are about to make history and I am honored to be a witness. Good luck!”

Lovecraft picked up his spoon, smiling with a blissful, child-like delight at the prospect of that gargantuan icecream feast. He looked at us and only said, “Gentlemen…” And he began to carve spoonful after spoonful in a slow but deliberate manner, and consuming them with ease. Morton used a different, faster technique, as our contact man had suggested. I looked in awe at those two ice-cream champions… Morton, with winged feet like a sprinter; and Lovecraft, with the long-run endurance of the Marathon soldier. I soon realized I was in no way ready to keep up with them, so my choice was simply to explore the layers in my bucket, sampling the different iced flavors and the textures from the additional ingredients.

Back in Maxfield’s, Lovecraft had dominated the conversation, entertaining us with a flurry of anecdotes about the Italian origins of ice cream and the famous people who loved it. But this time the challenge seemed to require all his concentration. Morton, for his part, was eating quickly, so he had no time for idle talk. And I didn’t dare to interrupt them with small talk, so I watched in awe as both titans laboriously advanced against the monstrous frozen entities.

I had only barely finished the first layer of scoops in my bucket, when I noticed Morton had stopped his aggressive ingestion. His face was pale, and I feared he had a sudden indisposition. Lovecraft noticed that too, so he paused and asked him how he was feeling. Morton wryly smiled and said, “Well, friends, I admit defeat. There is still about half a layer of scoops here in my bucket, but I dread the thought of eating another spoonful…” He closed his eyes, and in obvious discomfort he leaned back on his chair and went very quiet.

I turned to Lovecraft and asked him about his progress against that frozen nightmare that had vanquished our friend. He said there was about one full layer of scoops remaining on his bucket, but now that Morton was out of the race, it was a matter of honor for him to finish it. With that, he methodically continued his assault.

I rang the brass bell and presently our contact man came to our table. He said a few words of encouragement to Morton, and was clearly in awe of Lovecraft and his slow, steady progress. I ordered coffee for me, but Morton declined it emphatically.

When coffee arrived a few minutes later, Lovecraft paused and remarked to our contact man that the Bucket ice-cream was of the finest quality, and some of the flavors were indeed more appealing than their equivalents from Maxfield’s. The man thanked him and said he would forward those compliments to Mr. Greenfield and Mr. Cohen, the creamery founders and general managers.

“Well, well,” asked Lovecraft with genuine surprise, “are you telling us the creators of this ice-cream masterpiece are from Semitic extraction?”

“Why, yes, of course”, the man replied, “They are both sons of Jewish immigrant families, which settled in Vermont sometime in the eighties. In fact, I am Jewish myself too… third generation here in Waterbury!” The man seemed puzzled by the question.

Lovecraft had a strange, thoughtful expression I haven’t seen on him before. He slowly consumed the last remainders of ice-cream and the soggy toppings at the bottom. Our contact man stood there, smiling quietly, while Morton and I watched Lovecraft finish the bucket, wondering about the forceful effect the man’s words had on him.

Presently he announced, “Gentlemen, that one was the very last bite!” He unfolded a napkin on the table, turned the Bucket upside down on top, and with a grin, he punched the bottom with the metal spoon, as an alpinist setting his flag at the conquered mountaintop. Our contact man started to clap, and Morton and I joined him in sincere tribute. Then the man said, “That was an impressive demonstration, Sir. You belong now to this factory’s lore, and your achievement will be properly remembered! Now, I realize you gentlemen need some time to recover but as soon as you feel capable, I would much appreciate if you join me for a tour of the gardens and the graveyard.”

I couldn’t resist and asked him, “Could you please explain what on Earth has a graveyard to do with a creamery?”

“Well,” the man said, “our factory prizes itself on providing the best ice-cream with the widest possible selection of flavors. Our sales numbers tell us the most popular and of course, the least requested ones. When the latter do not sell well for an extended period of time, they are discontinued… we don’t produce or sell them anymore. Since they are part of the history of the company, we memorialize them in a ceremony at our gardens. The cemetery is the burial ground of those flavors that, alas, could not capture their share of the public taste. Each grave has a headstone, with a proper epitaph. We had visitors that, after learning that one of their favorite flavors has passed away, went to the grave site and paid their respects, leaving a flower in remembrance.”

A factory employee then came and whispered something to our contact man, who apologized to us and hurriedly went inside the factory. I told my friends, “As soon as you feel ready to go, I want to explore that place!”

They nodded, and we talked for a few minutes as they recovered from the marathonic ice-cream ordeal. Lovecraft’s conversation was unusually sparse, but from the little he said, I realized he was still pondering about the creamery’s Jewish proprietors.

Presently Lovecraft and Morton decided they felt well enough for a walk, so I rang the brass bell. A young woman in a pristine white uniform came to our table, and with a courteous smile invited us to follow her to the garden. She would be our guide –she explained– because unforeseen circumstances in the factory prevented our contact man to join us.

We followed her through a wooden portal painted in white and blue, with a sign that said “Flavor Graveyard”. It was a beautiful day, and the headstones scattered across the lawn had a comical effect on us. Other patrons were there walking among the tombs, examining the grave slabs as if they were historians or genealogists wandering through a lost cemetery.

We realized it was a well-crafted publicity stratagem, nothing more; and yet, it was harmless fun for the creamery customers… families with children amongst them. But Lovecraft was still on a pensive mood. He stood there, tall and gaunt amidst the tombstones, and Morton asked him what was on his mind.

Finally, he said “I had always judged impossible for the Jewish character to create true, original beauty…” As if talking to himself, he muttered, “That magnificent ice-cream confection, this immaculate garden, this clever graveyard of flavors… everything here proves otherwise…” And then he went quiet.

Morton and I conferred and decided that, since Lovecraft seemed deeply affected, we should end our visit. We asked the guide to give our regards to our contact man, who was hindered by some emergency in the factory and could not come to say goodbye.

We walked towards the bus stop in Waterbury. Lovecraft was still in that somber mood and didn’t talk at all. We boarded the bus to Burlington, where they had lodging arrangements for another night. I was already thinking of the bus I had to take at midnight, the first leg of my arduous travel back to Minnesota, while my friends would keep exploring the area for a few more days. That put me in a dark mood, and so it was an unusually silent ride for the three of us.

At the bus station later that night, Lovecraft shook my hand, looked me in the eyes and said, “That cemetery of flavors we saw, was in fact a cemetery of prejudice. Think about it.”

I boarded and waved my friends good-bye. As the bus pierced the night, and all through the long journey to St. Paul, with several bus changes in between, I meditated on Lovecraft’s cryptic parting message.

In time, of course, it all became clear.

Only a few years later, after the cataclysmic world war, when the horrors of fascism and racism were laid out in plain sight for all the humanity to see, Lovecraft was already a changed man. Gone were his racial prejudices against blacks, Jews, oriental and aboriginals. Gone were his sympathies to totalitarian dictatorships. He wrote several well-known articles denouncing the outdated and anti-scientific racial theories he had gladly espoused in the early 30’s. His work turned more and more to the philosophical aspects of science-fiction themes, and his pieces were warmly received by critics and publishers.

Lovecraft is now recognized, of course, as one of the champions of the civil-rights movement in America, at least since the early 60’s when his health was already in decline. His articles and correspondence from that period shew his obsession with the complete eradication of racial prejudice in the public and private spheres. He never renounced his rigorous rationalism or his atheism, nevertheless his complete volte-face on racial matters had a few notable repercussions. Prominent New York City rabbis invited him to speak at their communities, and the photograph of a grinning Lovecraft shaking hands with a black Baptist minister became immensely popular.

He was perfectly aware that those activities would have horrified his old self, but as he wrote in a famous letter to Isaac Asimov, “my prejudices lie buried in a small Vermont town, and no necromancy can raise them again.” There was much discussion among scholars when his letters were published, but at the time, only Morton and I understood that line.

In 1964, when he was frail and in poor health, Lovecraft wanted to participate in a civil-rights march across Providence, but Sonia convinced him to stay home. When he later heard about young students trampled by horses and hauled off to jail, he lamented not having been there for moral support. A few weeks later, he passed away peacefully in his sleep and the world lost not only the absolute master of the weird, but a sensible, caring man.

Over the years, I have talked a few times with Derleth about the complete change of mind Lovecraft experienced after our expedition to Vermont. But I never had the chance to talk about it with him, or with Morton. All I can say is what I have written here. Two Jewish ice-cream entrepreneurs, effortlessly and unknowingly, demolished years of ingrained prejudice with a simple, sweet, frozen monstrosity. That prejudice lies buried –without a headstone– in that beautiful, sunny graveyard where today, laughing children chase each other among the flavor tombs, and patrons share an Ice-Cream Bucket… or as they call it nowadays, a “Lovecraft’s Vermonster”.
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Inspired by Donald Wandrei’s “The Dweller in Darkness”, the chronicle of how Lovecraft, Morton and himself visited Maxfield’s, an ice-cream establishment in Warren, Massachussets. This piece was originally included in “Marginalia”, edited by Wandrei and August Derleth. The relevant bit is on David Haden’s fascinating book, Walking With Cthulhu: H.P. Lovecraft as psychogeographer, New York City 1924-26

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This is a chapter from Cooking With Lovecraft: Supernatural Horror In The Kitchen by Miguel Fliguer, available in paperback and Kindle here.