Jane and Michael Stern put out a cookbook a few years ago in which they argued that chili was so universally popular that it could be considered the one true national dish. To bolster the point, “Chili Nation” had a recipe from every state. The book drew appreciative notices everywhere but one of those states.
“The reviewers in Texas said we had 49 lousy recipes and one good one,” Jane Stern said with a laugh.
Modesty has never been an ingredient in chili, especially in the Lone Star State.
As countless bowls of chili are ladled at countless tables across the land, a lot of that chili would no doubt elicit knowing smirks from Texans. They aren’t just purists about chili; they’re downright territorial.
“Chili concocted outside of Texas is usually a weak, apologetic imitation of the real thing,” President Lyndon B. Johnson once opined.
Apologetic? Not Barry Goldwater, LBJ’s opponent in the 1964 election, who rose to the defense of Southwestern chili a few years later by declaring, “A Texan does not know chili from the leavings in a corral.”
A high-minded discourse, this chili debate.
Chili has always given cooks and cultural chauvinists plenty to argue about. Beyond bragging rights, there are legitimate culinary choices to consider: Does authentic chili have to be so fiery that it makes sweat bead on the forehead? Does chili have to contain beef, or can other meats make an appearance? Should it include tomatoes or onions? How about beans or macaroni? Should it always be red, or can it be green or perhaps even a cream-based white?
And how do you spell it, anyway? With an “i” or an “e”?
Rules of order
There are no right answers unless you’re competing at a cook-off. The organizations that sanction hundreds of them across the country–the International Chili Society (www.chilicookoff.com) and the Chili Appreciation Society International (chili.org)–both adhere to strict Texas fundamentalism in their rules. That means beef and no beans, except on the side.
“Beans are a big no-no,” says Kathleen Tolbert Ryan, proprietor of Tolbert’s Texas Trading Co. in Grapevine, near Dallas. She’s the daughter of the late Frank X. Tolbert, who wrote the book on Texas chili (“A Bowl of Red”) and co-founded the first chili cook-off in 1967 in the tiny border town of Terlingua. This being chili, the founders splintered into rival groups who stage dueling contests down the street from each other on the same weekend every November.
Tolbert, a Dallas historian and newspaper columnist, researched the roots of chili con carne (literally, peppers with meat) and found that it probably originated in the early 1800s, when Texas was still part of Mexico. The first canned chili appeared in San Antonio in the 1880s. By the 1890s, Texas had a chili concession at the Chicago World’s Fair, and the dish was on its way to national acceptance.
But a strange thing has happened to chili in recent years, the Sterns said. Even as the American palate has turned toward hotter foods, chili has come to have something of a low-rent image.
“It’s very out of fashion,” said Jane Stern, who admitted that she and her husband figured this out about the time their chili book was finished. “You don’t find it in as many restaurants these days. It’s something you find mainly in the home or at cook-offs. I think people associate chili with diners and greasy spoons–it’s the kind of thing you see in a Prilosec commercial.”
National appeal
Discomfort food or not, Americans still love chili, and Texas isn’t the only place with a long-standing affection.
In New Mexico and much of the Southwest, chili is as likely to be green as red and as likely to contain pork as beef. The classic chile verde is a thin, green sauce poured over everything from eggs to enchiladas and used as the basis for a variety of stews.
“In New Mexico, we respect the pod,” said Gary Maricle, owner of nmchili.com, an online retailer in Albuquerque. “We make chili where you can really taste the green chilies. In Texas, it’s all about tasting the meat.”
Note the different spellings. In most of the country, “chili” refers to the dish and “chile” to a hot pepper. In New Mexico, however, they insist that both be spelled with an “e.” In a display of native pride a few years ago, The Albuquerque Journal went so far as to decree that it would not print the word “chili” unless a Texan was being quoted. Maricle spells it “chili” in his Web address only because most Americans do, and he can sell them more “chiles” that way.
Midwestern departure
Another distinctive tradition can be found in the Midwest, where chili and noodles often share a bowl. The epicenter of this style is Cincinnati, where they use unexpected ingredients like cinnamon and chocolate and serve it over a bed of spaghetti, with beans, onions and grated cheese on top: “five-way,” in the parlance of the city’s many chili parlors.
“It looks kind of like Alpo,” Stern conceded, “but it’s really good.”
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The Cincinnati aberration began in the 1920s, when Greek and Macedonian immigrants started moving into the diner trade and put their stamp on the lunch counter dish.
“If you go to Greece, you won’t find any chili. But if you go to Cincinnati, the city is full of Greeks making chili,” said one of them, John Johnson, who has been tending the pots at Camp Washington Chili for more than 50 years. He admitted to adding cinnamon but never chocolate. Beyond that, he wouldn’t say.
“Even people from Texas like this chili,” Johnson claimed.
Not so fast. Mel FitzHenry, president of the Chili Appreciation Society International–who loves his bowl of red so much that he retired to a mobile home in Terlingua–lived for a time in Cincinnati. He didn’t care for the chili. “All I could taste was cinnamon,” he said.
In many other states, chili cook-offs bubble up almost every weekend, many sanctioned by the International Chili Society. There are many ways to get attention with your chili at a cook-off. Most greenhorns make their chili too hot, as if they’re trying to prove their manhood. The good ones learn to think more about their taste buds.
There’s another way to get attention at a chili contest, but it isn’t for the faint of heart. Consider what happened in November when Don Eastep, an Illinois retiree, took first place at the Original Terlingua International Chili Cook-off (www.abowlofred.com). (In a Washington Post story last November, Eastep explained that he had taken his brother’s place, but didn’t have any chili to cook.) “I didn’t like it too much that he was from Illinois,” said Kathleen Tolbert Ryan, who runs the competition, “but we gave him the trophy anyway.”
Then she discovered the scandalous truth: The winner hadn’t cooked any chili. He’d wandered around collecting samples of other people’s entries in a cup and had submitted the conglomeration as his own. Confronted, he admitted his treachery and said it was all a prank that got out of hand.
“We defrocked him immediately,” Ryan said. “I marched him back up to that stage and made him give the trophy back.” She was consoled by the fact that the second-place finisher–and rightful winner–was a dentist from Dallas. A Texan, thank heaven.
Big molar Texas chili
Preparation time: 5 minutes
Cooking time: 2 hours
Yield: 6 servings
Mel FitzHenry of Terlingua, Texas, makes a classic bowl of red: thick, dark and beefy. What else would you expect from the president of Chili Appreciation Society International? The name refers to what he did for a living before he retired to a life of chili: He sold dental paraphernalia. Serve this with crackers, grated Cheddar cheese and a slice of jalapeno pepper, if desired. If you want beans, serve them on the side.
1 teaspoon vegetable oil
2 pounds ground beef chuck
1 can (14 ounces) beef broth
1 can (8 ounces) tomato sauce
1 tablespoon each: paprika, granulated onion
5 tablespoons chili powder
1 teaspoon ground red pepper
2 beef bouillon cubes
1 chicken bouillon cube
1 tablespoon ground cumin
1/2 teaspoon each: granulated garlic, salt
1. Heat vegetable oil in a large skillet over medium-high heat; add beef. Cook until browned; drain fat. Transfer the meat to a 5-quart stockpot; cover with 1 inch or so of water. Heat to a boil; cook 30 minutes.
2. Add broth and tomato sauce; cook over medium-high heat until thickened, about 30 minutes. Stir in paprika, granulated onion, 3 tablespoons of the chili powder, red pepper and bouillon cubes. Reduce heat to simmer; cook 30 minutes.
3. Stir in remaining 2 tablespoons of the chili powder, cumin, granulated garlic and salt. Cook 30 minutes; add water as needed.
Nutrition information per serving:
190 calories, 34% of calories from fat, 8 g fat, 2 g saturated fat, 60 mg cholesterol, 9 g carbohydrates, 25 g protein, 1,186 mg sodium, 4 g fiber
Slow-cooker green chili with tortillas
Preparation time: 30 minutes
Cooking time: 5 hours
Yield: 6 servings
Unable to find a Southwestern-style pork chili like the ones he loved in Colorado, Jesse Boone, an Alpharetta, Ga., accountant, devised his own. It’s easy enough to throw together for weeknight meals. Roasted and peeled poblano or Anaheim chilies are traditional in this recipe, but canned chilies, hot or mild, also work well. If you would like to prepare the chili in the morning before work, set the slow cooker on low and cook all day.
3 to 4 pounds bone-in pork butt, trimmed, cut into large chunks, or 1 1/2 pounds boneless pork butt
1 can (27 ounces) or 7 cans (4 ounces each) chopped mild green chilies
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3 canned chipotle chilies or to taste
2 teaspoons ground cumin
1 head garlic, cloves peeled but left whole
2 tablespoons flour
2 cups cold water
Salt, freshly ground pepper
Flour tortillas
Sour cream, optional
1. Place the pork, green chilies, garlic, chipotles and cumin in a slow cooker; set to desired temperature. Stir flour into cold water until dissolved; add to cooker. Cover; cook on high until pork is tender enough to pierce easily with a fork, about 5 hours.
2. Remove meat from pot; let cool until you can work with it. Shred into a large bowl. Remove garlic and chilies; mash them and spoon over pork. Season with salt and pepper. Roll in tortillas; serve with sour cream if desired.
Nutrition information per serving:
224 calories, 33% of calories from fat, 8 g fat, 3 g saturated fat, 69 mg cholesterol, 12 g carbohydrates, 25 g protein, 556 mg sodium, 3 g fiber