How to Beat the Yankees with Your Stomach

I hate the New York Yankees for all the sad, dull reasons so many other people hate them. They win by outspending everyone. Their fans are arrogant. They practice insufferable traditions like kissing busts of their own dead superstars and hoisting championship banners.

After decades of impotent loathing, I finally found myself in a position to take action. I was gifted a $325 ticket to the new Yankee Stadium to see Satan’s pin-striped nine battle my beloved Baltimore Orioles. It turns out that $325 buys not just an excellent seat but, more important, access to the all-you-can-eat buffet that is the superswanky Legends Suite. My plan was simple: eat enough in free concessions that the Bombers would think twice about poaching a small-market team’s best starting pitcher next winter.

After fasting all day in preparation, I entered the Legends Suite with my ludicrously expensive ticket and was greeted by celebrity chef April Bloomfield of the Spotted Pig, a fancy Manhattan gastro-pub. The suite’s entire foyer is a massive buffet with countless stations, and Bloomfield quickly served up a moist pork-belly sandwich–so moist that the bread fell apart. Really, April? I washed this down with a Chateaubriand cheeseburger on a puffy little brioche. It was perfect, so I ordered another. Even though I was technically in the Bronx, I decided I’d calculate the damage in estimated Manhattan prices. I put my tab at $40. I had been there 10 minutes.

After a survey of the rest of the buffet turned up only healthful, inexpensive options, I began to wonder where my seat was. It also dawned on me that I had been in a room like this before. During a brief foray into high-stakes gambling at Foxwoods Resort Casino in Connecticut, a friend and I dived into a comped mountain of shrimp and lobster tails before stepping onto the casino floor jacked up on seafood and self-loathing. The Legends Suite is just like that: stuffed with so many bankers and so much excess that I felt kind of gross for enjoying myself so much.

When I arrived at my seat–after grabbing a movie-theater-size bag of peanut M&M’s ($5) to tide me over for the walk–I was, I admit, impressed. Third row behind the Yankee dugout. So close I could see the spot where Alex Rodriguez injected his steroids. The great thing? That statement’s not even libelous.

The Yankees led, 2 to 1, but obviously I had other concerns. A waiter came by with a bag of peanuts ($5), which I downed while considering the menu. To start, I went with a box of chicken fingers and spicy buffalo sauce ($10), a lobster roll ($15), a hot dog ($5) and two large, unsweetened iced teas ($7). Plus another giant bag of peanut M&M’s. The waiter eyed me suspiciously.

Minutes later, the food arrived. The lobster roll was an exaggeratedly pink paste on white bread. The hot dog was a hot dog. But the chicken fingers were a revelation. So I ordered another box. I also remembered that I had brought a friend with me, so we talked a little between bites. But I needed to stay focused. When a waitress came by bearing trays of pasta–again, this $1.5 billion food court is technically a baseball stadium–I asked if the pasta was any good. Turns out no one had ever tried any. So: pasta ($15)! It was terrible pasta, but I felt very good eating it.

By the seventh inning, the game had turned into a 9-to-1 rout. I forget who was winning. It may have been the scrappy overachievers with nine players making at least $13 million each per year. The figure I focused on was $112. Impressive for a one-man eating band, but the Yankees were still making a killing on my ticket. Bloat was setting in. As I stuffed three more bags of peanut M&M’s in my pockets on the way out, I felt a little depressed.

But back home, my sadness turned to joy. A quick search of online ticket sellers revealed that a Legends Suite ticket can be had for about $100 on some nights. So by a twist of logic, I not only soaked the Yankees for $27 but also tripped on a great recession value. The New York Yankees: what a bargain!

Global Dispatch For more postcards from around the world, visit time.com