No Beans
Eater magazine ran an article last month, by Courtney E. Smith, called “Seeing Red.” It’s about Texas chili—which, unless you’re from New Mexico, is the only real chili. Having derived fifty-percent of my DNA from Texas, I have my own opinions on the subject (‘though I will never turn down a bowl of chile from anywhere).
I haven’t sampled Cincinnati chile yet, but I suspect I’d even like it.
As you might expect, I have written a bit on the subject. In fact, I wrote an article, with exactly the same title, for Roll Magazine back in 2013. There’s considerable overlap (at least of the historical content) between the two articles. Two years later, I decided the subject deserved to be revisited—“Reheated Chili” was posted here, in 2022.
As a chili aficionado, I was especially lucky in getting to know Chef Jim Heywood. That gruff, funny, but caring individual was one of the first graduates of The Culinary Institute of America—back when it was still in New Haven, CT. When I knew him, he was a chef-instructor at the CIA’s Hyde Park campus.
Big Jim’s reputation was such that—when he met Chef Paul Bocuse for the first time—the Frenchman’s eyes opened wide, calling him, “Le roi du chili!”
Chef Heywood’s recipe for “Big Jim’s Hogbreath Chili” had made him—several times—grand national champion at the Las Vegas chili cook-off—an event that is the World Series/ Olympics of chili cook-offs. He had been, more than once, a judge there.
Big Jim never shared his recipe, of course, but he did tell me a few things about its preparation. Cook-off chili can be prepped, ahead of time (like measuring out ingredients), but must be cooked at the event. Jim partly froze the meat for his chili, so that he could cut it into precise 3/8-inch cubes. He prepared his own blend of chili spices, at home, so the competition would never find out what he used. He browned some, but not all, of the meat, to develop a rich Maillard browning.
Attention to detail is the mark of a champion.
Jim gave me the chance to be a judge at a couple of chili cook-offs. I like to think of it as a mark of his respect for my Texan DNA, but he might have had other motives. Sending me would have let him out of having to do it himself. Big Jim was no fool, nor did he suffer fools likely (or otherwise). He once described a colleague as “a monkey trying to fuck a football.”
He had his poetic moments.
To honor my late friend, here’s a (flaming) tongue-in-cheek account of judging a chili cook-off. It’s included in my little book, Hot Hot Hot/Risky Business.
Chili Cook-off Judging
Beer was free for judges—a keg from a local microbrewery was provided. This, no doubt, was meant to ensure the proper judicial objectivity. There might have been some idle talk about “cleansing the palate,” but everyone understood that this smokescreen was used in approximately the same manner in which incumbents talk about term limits.
The actual judging process is simple: First, judges are not to eat chili before the judging (this is so that we can actually stand the stuff). There are little numbered buckets o’ chili, divided between two tables. Each judge gets a score sheet. The chili is anonymous; the ballots are not. Irate chili-cooks are free to track down any judge at their leisure and extract what vengeance they will.
Anyway, the judges write down their impressions (“too greasy,” “too salty,” “habaneros, while piquant, are not classic,” “meat cut irregularly”—note: ground meat or beans are automatic disqualifiers—”too soupy,” “too dry,” “off color,” “only a gender-challenged Yankee (or someone from Cincinnati) would be foolish enough to add cinnamon to chili,” “smells strangely of burning rubber,” and “what the hell is that kiwi doin’ in there?”—that sort of refined analysis).
As one of the esteemed judges, I went around the table a coupla’ times, being careful not to actually retch over the bad ones. This was supposed to prevent other judges from being unduly influenced by my opinion—but it was really so that I would not be alone in the emergency room for the post-game show. At the end, the judges indicated (at the bottom of the form, between the grease stains, which three chilis they disliked least. And that’s all there was to it—except for a bit more palate-cleansing, before bolting toward the Port-o-sans, knocking over the occasional baby buggy, when necessary.
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