Joey Chestnut did compete in a July 4th hot dog-eating competition after all, but not in the Coney Island contest that made him famous.

Chestnut, the 16-time winner of Nathan’s Famous Hot Dog Eating Contest, was officially banned from the annual event by Major League Eating in mid-June. Their beef? He had signed an endorsement deal with Impossible Foods, which makes plant-based proteins.

While Major League Eating has since said it walked back its ban, according to the Associated Press, Chestnut has said he won’t return to their stage at the corner of Surf and Stillwell avenues without an apology.

The world’s leading competitive eater instead battled a group of soldiers at the Fort Bliss army base in El Paso, Texas, in a patriotic performance for charity that was streamed live on his YouTube channel and followed by a “Meat and Greet.”

“For the first time anywhere, especially here at Fort Bliss, we have the ultimate hot dog-eating challenge,” roared an emcee wearing an American flag-patterned polo shirt. “Five minutes, all-beef hot dogs, one man against four of the Army’s finest.”

Chestnut, who said onstage that his grandfather, uncles, father and brother all served in the U.S. Army, faced off against four soldiers competing as a team.

The two tables were nearly neck and neck for much of the five minutes, but it was Chestnut who ultimately prevailed. As more than 18,000 viewers at home watched, and a horde of in-person spectators chanted his name and “USA,” Chestnut downed 57 hot dogs and buns to top his opponents’ 49.

“I love you guys, thank you so much. I’m so happy to be here,” Chestnut said afterward as he hoisted up his hard-earned, gold-plated belt. “I was hustling in the beginning and I slowed down a little bit — for a second I thought I might be able to hit 60, but you guys pushed me hard. Thank you so much.”

In an especially meaty twist, Chestnut ate almost as many hot dogs as the winner of the Nathan’s Famous Hot Dog Eating Contest did earlier that same day, some 2,000 miles away, but in half the amount of time.

Chestnut said he had broken his previous record of 55 hot dogs in five minutes. The 40-year-old holds over 50 world records for competitive eating (and not just for frankfurters), including a stomach-turning 76 hot dogs and buns in 10 minutes at Coney Island in 2021.

When asked at Fort Bliss what he could have done with 10 minutes, Chestnut replied, “I was on record pace … but eventually I’ll make a new record anyways.”

Impossible Foods — which officially announced its partnership with Chestnut earlier this week — pledged to donate $1,000 for every hot dog eaten to Operation Homefront, a nonprofit that supports military families. That added up to $106,000.

Chestnut may have been voted off the island, but he’s still hungry

Chestnut’s absence loomed over Coney Island on Thursday morning and afternoon, as 14 women and 14 men stuffed their faces in two separate, fast-paced faceoffs. Impossible Foods aired several ads (for chicken nugget alternatives) on ESPN as it aired, part of its effort to market to meat eaters.

Among the women, defending champion Miki Sudo of Florida downed 51 hot dogs in 10 minutes to claim the medal and a new world record, while Chicago’s Patrick Bertoletti scarfed down 58 to become just the third man to claim victory since Chestnut’s winning streak started in 2007 (he was defeated just once, by Matt Stonie in 2015).

Chestnut told USA Today earlier in the week that he hoped to consume more hot dogs and buns in five minutes than the Nathan’s winner could in 10, adding, “I think 56 is doable.” He finished one minute above that goal, and two short of beating Bertoletti.

Fort Bliss’ official account on X (formerly Twitter) publicly invited Chestnut to a hot dog eating contest in a post on June 25, about two weeks after his Coney Island ban made headlines.

Chestnut responded four days later that he was headed to El Paso on the 4th “to do what I do best, military style,” and extended an invite of his own to Impossible Foods.

“While I’m crushing hot dogs do y’all wanna come with and help feed the hungry crowd?” he added.

An Impossible Foods spokesperson told NPR over email that, even though Chestnut was eating real beef in the competition, they accepted his invitation and set up a “VIP sampling tent” at the base.

They also flew airplane banners in Miami and Los Angeles urging people to “Watch Joey Eat.”

And more than 113,000 YouTube viewers have, at least as of Friday morning.

Those who want another chance to watch Chestnut at work can tune into Netflix on Sept. 2, when Chestnut will go head-to-head with his archrival Takeru Kobayashi for the first time in 15 years.

Two years ago, I ditched any semblance of cheesy dating apps in favor of meeting the love of my life organically, like in the olden days.

On a chilly, spring Friday night, I scanned my monochromatic closet in an attempt to select an upscale casual lewk that would pair with “comfortable walking shoes,” which my bookish neighbor advised me to wear for our first playdate.

That’s when it hit me. I was hoping that he knew this wasn’t an actual date. I wanted to text him to manage his expectations. But it was already 10 p.m. and it felt inappropriately late.

The next day, we were en route to brunch at Perch, the rooftop restaurant in downtown L.A., when he told me that he worked in finance. I mentioned that I had a book underway.

“I don’t want to be in it,” he stammered.

Utterly befuddled, I asked him to clarify.

“You’re writing a love and dating book, and we’re on a date …”

My cinnamon brown skin flushed hot red. “I thought we were neighborly hanging out … because I don’t date my neighbors.”

“I don’t either, but I figured since you live on the other side of the building and I never see you, it’d be fine,” he said.

I clenched my teeth and mentally kicked myself for not listening to my intuition. His rationale was flawed, but my blood-sugar level was dropping rapidly. Plus, he was in the driver’s seat.

I’d met him two months prior on my hellish moving day that commenced in Orange County, just as the sun set and darkness crept in. The management office was closed. My garage keys were in my apartment, and I didn’t have a way to maneuver behind the ironclad gates until my neighbor came to the rescue.

On two more unexpected run-ins we exchanged surface-level pleasantries, but romantic sparks never ignited for me. However, the lack of fireworks didn’t halt present-day, 37-year-old me from taking a leap of faith by giving a new potential beau a chance.

After dating one too many fun boys, toxic boys and all-the-wrong boys, I’ve yielded to the hard-earned wisdom gained from 20 years of absurd romances — heeding psychologists’ suggestions (and a nagging intuition) — to choose a partner who calms my nervous system instead of someone who gives me a flurry of butterflies that dissipate.

Because I was essentially trapped with my neighbor, I pivoted my focus to tallying up his admirable qualities, including our shared love for well-seasoned healthy cuisines. In between bites of my mushroom omelet at Perch, we bonded over our dysfunctional families, perfectly depicted in our favorite binge show, “The Bear.” Later, when the chipper waitress asked if we’d like to take my neighbor’s extra plate of food to-go, I declined. Upon second thought, my face brightened.

“Let’s give it to a homeless person,” he said.

“You stole the words out of my mouth.”

His generous heart earned him a gold star on my invisible “potential lover” chart.

Also, my comfy sneakers proved practical as we meandered each cavernous nook at the Last Bookstore, took a quick ride up and down Angels Flight and quenched our afternoon thirst by sipping pressed juice at Grand Central Market, where we aligned on feeling like outsiders fantasizing about moving abroad one day. He’s Italian, Jewish and Mexican but bemoaned that none of the cultures embedded in his DNA accepted him as such. I’m Black, white, Cape Verdean and Indigenous, and I’ve never fit into any singular box I check.

I initially resisted ending the night savoring Ethiopian food, but I admired that he intently listened to me rattle off my peculiar long list of chronic ailments as we stuffed our faces using our bare hands.

“Well, you look healthy.” He grinned.

“Thanks, but I don’t always feel like it.” I searched his baby face, which appeared younger than 41.

Confusion swirled from that candlelit moment onward. Would I be open to a second date? He proposed we head to Solvang, the Huntington Library or attend the L.A. County Fair — all of which I declined. I’m a die-hard nature lover who prefers serene botanical gardens or pristine beaches.

Later, my girlfriend, who’s a therapist, asked if I’d consider dating him as a “one-off” — an exception to my dating rule.

“Unequivocally, no.”

Under idyllic circumstances, oh yeah! After all, there was a dreamy guy at my old O.C. residence who had warm chestnut eyes and olive skin. He sported crisp suits and had a billion-dollar smile that emerged whenever we’d cross paths during my morning strolls as he sped off to work. A glimmer of him was the highlight of my day. He was someone I’d absolutely break every prudish rule for.

My L.A. neighbor followed up on second-date details. I asked for a day to rearrange my schedule. Within minutes, he jumped to asking, “Are you sure you want to date me?”

In that moment, “Let It Go” from “Frozen” echoed in my head. I crave someone who’s patient, kind and understanding. Frankly, I didn’t want to run into my neighbor while he was on dates with other women or have him see me while I was on dates.

Ultimately I settled for the old “let’s be friends.” I also texted him a dating tip: “Ask a girl her interests.”

He sniped back with several irrational paragraphs and a spicy “here’s a tip for you.” His unfavorable response sealed the romance coffin.

The next morning, I rounded a corner in the lobby of my building prepared to conquer Costco on a holiday weekend. That’s when I saw an unfamiliar person wearing thick reading glasses and a newsboy cap. He was sauntering ahead of a burly woman who appeared more familial than sexual. Then again, I knew little of my presumptuous neighbor’s tastes.

“Hey, Fawn.”

“I didn’t recognize you.”

It was quite awkward. Crossing paths with my neighbor and his female acquaintance solidified everything. It’s never a good idea to date your neighbor.

The author is a writer and creative producer living in Los Angeles. She’s working on a humorous love and dating memoir. She can be found on Instagram: @writteninstone

L.A. Affairs chronicles the search for romantic love in all its glorious expressions in the L.A. area, and we want to hear your true story. We pay $400 for a published essay. Email LAAffairs@latimes.com. You can find submission guidelines here. You can find past columns here.

You may not know the name Leslie Bricusse (pronounced Brick’-us), but you very likely hum some of the songs he’s written: “Pure Imagination,” “What Kind of Fool Am I?,” “Talk to the Animals,” Superman’s theme “Can You Read My Mind,” “Goldfinger.”

And remarkably, some 60 years after his heyday, the composer-lyricist is having a moment.

In A Quiet Place: Day One, a woman who may be the last human survivor on a Manhattan infested with aliens checks her iPod and pulls up Nina Simone singing “Feeling Good.” She needs a song to express defiance and how, as her world lies in ruins, she exults in being alive. Sentiments Bricusse put to music six decades ago seem perfect.

That same song popped up on the premiere of the Netflix series Obliterated to help a bomb defuser steady his hand. And family audiences spent last Christmas singing along with “Pure Imagination,” crooned by Timothée Chalamet’s Willy Wonka to tie him firmly with the Gene Wilder original.

Bricusse often wrote lyrics for other composers’ music. He wrote “Pure Imagination” and “Feeling Good” with Anthony Newley. At other times, he wrote both music and lyrics. He was a master of many styles, all of them entertaining, and it turns out that’s every bit as true of the papers his widow, actress Yvonne “Evie” Romain Bricusse, best known for co-starring with Elvis Presley in Double Trouble, donated recently to the Library of Congress.

Mark Eden Horowitz, a senior music specialist at the Library of Congress, where the Bricusse papers join those of Leonard Bernstein, Richard Rodgers, the Gershwins and others, says that in addition to the scripts, musical scores, notes for ideas on shows that never came together, recordings and other items, what’s remarkable about this particular collection is Bricusse’s notebooks.

“Just sort of drugstore notebooks,” he says, holding one out, “but he lived his life in these things.

“They’re beautifully calligraphed, most pages are numbered and often dated and indicate where he was in the world at the time, Acapulco on November third, 1986.” And then he does these amazing calendars.”

Calendars rendered in five or six colors, and necessary because “he’s constantly working on 10 or 12 projects at a time.”

Leslie Bricusse’s multicolored “Doctor Dolittle” calendar.

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Some of those, no one’s heard of. “For a long time, chuckles Horowitz, “he was working on a musical version of Henry VIII. I swear he considered 30 different titles, one of which was The King & I & I & I & I & I.”

There are lots of fun discoveries. Bricusse’s lyrics sound so natural that it’s hard to imagine they didn’t just spring from him that way, but the notebooks are where he polished them. Take page 58 in the one where he’s working on “Goldfinger.” He has heart of gold/this heart is cold….web of sin but don’t come in. But he has too many “golden”s, so in the notebook, he’s slashed through golden, in “the man with the golden touch” and replaced it with “Midas.”

A sneak peek into Bricusse’s creative process as he worked on “Goldfinger.”

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That turned an OK line into a classic and goes much better with the next line that he already had: “A spider’s touch.”

That’ll be a fun find for somebody’s dissertation. Mixed in with that sort of thing is marginalia about theater, movies, budgets, life … seemingly whatever was on his mind.

“He asks himself questions,” says Horowitz, “he puts down what he’s thinking, asks himself should he be thinking that? Why is he thinking this? What should he do about it?” It’s his thoughts about everything that is ideal for researchers.

Asked whether George Gershwin did something similar, Horowitz almost laughs. “No. I’ve never seen a collection with this much-organized detail.”

A page from Leslie Bricusse’s notebooks.

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So, it is a treasure trove, but also one in which those details are sometimes puzzling — blocks of letters, say, in some of the margins. It turns out that’s how Bricusse wrote out the melodies — not with musical notes on sheet music as most composers do, but using the alphabetical letters that represented the notes. C, A, B-flat, and so on. Horowitz figured out how to read them and how to play the melodies if asked.

These pop songs were Leslie Bricusse’s life work. The notebooks, decorated, colorized, wildly ornate, feel — perhaps inadvertently — like art, themselves.

Horowitz, noting that Bricusse’s widow is an artist and that they collaborated on some things together, agrees. “Clearly, yes, he has a sense of design, and color, and he seems to want to keep things lively and interesting and attractive.

“I think he’s an entertainer in every sense. He wants people to be bubbling joyous; I think he’s always looking for the rainbow, for the magic.”

Judging from the notebooks that have found a new home in the Leslie Bricusse Collection at the Library of Congress, he found it.