the LEXICON of Real American Food

Forgive us, chili-lovers. There is no separate entry in this lexicon for chili, nor for chilli or chili con carne. We have put these under the heading of chile because the e at the end signifies the plant on which all are based, no matter what the spelling. Whether the subject is botanical or gastronomical, New Mexicans like to use the e spelling out of respect for the co-state vegetable (along with the pinto bean).

Is it a vegetable? The chile is an ambiguous critter, a berry of the nightshade family (like the tomato) that agronomists know as a fruit but is so intensely green-flavored that it tastes like the ultimate vegetable. Its most famous characteristic is heat, but there is so much more. Recently Dr. Paul Bosland of New Mexico State University’s Chile Pepper Institute devised a useful method of taste taxonomy that goes beyond describing a chile as hot or not. Unlike oenophilic poesy, his Five Characteristics are specific measures that assist eater, writer, or cook in describing peppers’ diversity:

1. What is the heat profile? Does it come on quick (like a jalapeño) or is the punch delayed (like an habañero)? The speed of the feeling depends on the balance of capsaicinoids, of which there are twenty-two.

2. Where does the heat develop? You feel jalapeños at the front of the tongue; New Mexican pods work mid-palate; habañeros ignite nearest the throat.

3. Is the heat sharp or broad? Most Asian chiles have a pinprick feel. (There is one with a name that translates as “claws of the eagle.”) New Mexico chiles paint the tongue like a broad brush.

4. How fast does the chile’s feel dissipate? Some are hit and run. A scotch bonnet’s heat can linger for hours.

5. How intense is it? This is measured by the Scoville scale. Pimientos are zero, as are bell peppers. A jalapeño registers 5000. Habañeros can approach 500,000. The world’s hottest pepper, the Bhut Jolokia of India, scores a raging 1,000,000+.

Chili with an i always refers to a dish, not the plant, and when most people hear the word chili, it is chili con carne that they think of. Literally meaning chili (er, chile) with meat, that is just about all it is in its purest, true-Texas form: beef that is chunked or coarsely ground saturated with the flavor of chile (either in the form of pureed roasted pods or chile powder) and a liquid medium. Some spices, such as cumin, salt, and pepper, are welcome in the Lone Star paradigm, known as a “bowl of red,” but beans are taboo.

Chili con carne’s beginnings predate the Republic of Texas. Historians speculate that Mexican families living on both sides of the Rio Grande stewed beef with peppers not only to stretch the quantity, but, in the same way other cultures use curry spices, to disguise the taste of less-than-fresh provisions. After the Civil War, chili became identified with the “chili queens” of San Antonio’s mercado, an anything-goes outdoor bazaar where Texans dined on tamales, enchiladas, and fiery chili con carne. The queens who served it were colorful women in festively embroidered peasant blouses, and most contemporary accounts make a point of their virtue, despite a reputation for flirting with customers. Still, by the time the chili queens and their wares were banished for propriety’s sake in 1943, Texas-style chili had developed an enduring reputation as a red-hot meal at the edge of dining respectability.

Throughout most of the rest of the country, it is common for chili con carne to also include tomatoes, bell peppers, and, of course, beans, and to be topped with grated cheese and/or sour cream. Up the Rio Grande towards New Mexico’s Mesilla Valley, restaurants may offer a choice of red chili or green chili, the latter very unlike the familiar bright red stew and actually more of a soup, containing potatoes and onions and very likely pork instead of beef. Amend your order with the word “Christmas” and it will come topped with both red and green chili.

Despite its high status in the state, you are unlikely to see chile as a stand-alone dish on the menu of a New Mexican restaurant. But chile surely will come with any native-foods meal, probably as a sauce of seasoned, pureed pods suitable for dipping tortillas or ladling on stuffed chiles (chile rellenos). Chile is most common in New Mexico as the primary agent in other dishes, such as carne adovada or enchiladas.

According to the Illinois State Legislature, the correct spelling of the word is with two l’s, and the Chilli Capital of the World is the city of Springfield. Texans (and many other Americans) might not recognize Springfield chilli as chili. It is a forceful combo of “chili meat” (seasoned ground beef) and beans topped with a slick layer of oil that ranges from quite hot to thermonuclear. Oyster crackers always are served alongside.

Also see: chili mac, Cincinnati chili, Green Bay chili, green chile cheeseburger, Minorcan chowder.

When we began hunting roadfood, one of the best books that guided us was Frank X. Tolbert’s A Bowl of Red, which was about all sorts of good Texas eats, but especially chili. In its description of the early 1970s Terlingua chili wars (godfather to virtually all modern cook-offs and contests), Tolbert noted that Tigua Indian tribal chief Jose Sierra began his chili by filling a huge pot one-third full with hot peppers.

So you can imagine that, years ago, when we stopped to have lunch at the urban reservation of the Tiguas (say “Tee-wa”), we were thrilled to run into Mr. Sierra himself. Pegging us as out-of-towners, he kindly suggested that we would be wise not to order the chili. He thought it would be too hot for our Anglo palates. Being proud and ignorant, we took his warning as a cry to arms and ordered two big bowls. As we ate them with tears streaming out our eyes and beads of sweat popping on our foreheads, we came to understand that it is not wise to play macho games with a Texas chilihead. You will lose.

After the heat on our tongues subsided enough for us to regain the power of speech, we begged Mr. Sierra for the recipe. Here it is, but toned down to mid-level hot. If you want to goose it up to tear-wrenching standards, double the jalapeño pepper powder, include other fiery peppers of your choice, or add ½ stick dynamite.

1 cup chopped onion

2 cloves garlic, minced

2 tablespoons vegetable oil

2 pounds beef round, cut into ½-inch cubes

1 ½ teaspoons salt

1 tablespoon sugar

1 ½ teaspoons coarse ground pepper

1 ½ teaspoons oregano

1 tablespoon ground cumin

5 tablespoons chili powder

1 ½ teaspoons ground jalapeño powder

1 15-ounce can tomato sauce

1 ½ cups water

1 tablespoon masa harina, dissolved in ½ cup water

1. Sauté onion and garlic in oil until soft. Add beef and cook until it is browned. Add salt, sugar, pepper, oregano, cumin, chili powder, jalapeño powder, tomato sauce, and water. Stir well. Bring to a boil. Reduce heat to a low boil and simmer, partially covered, for 70 minutes. Remove from heat. Add masa harina dissolved in water to chili. Place the chili over low heat for 5 minutes, stirring occasionally.

2. Serve with beans, rice, or bread on the side: All are useful for muffling the heat.

Porubsky’s Grocery of Topeka, Kansas, has been a chili landmark for generations. Its version is Midwestern style, meaning the beef is ground, beans are included, and the spice level is moderate. When we inquired, not one of the Porubsky family was able to write down the recipe—for the simple reason that there is no recipe. It is an uncomplicated dish made by taste, feel, and experience: a little of this, a jot of that, a dash more of something else. We spent a morning watching Charlie Jr. prepare a day’s worth, so here is our educated version of Porubsky’s pride. Its heat level can be adjusted by using hot or mild chili powder and by adding more or less hot sauce.

1 cup chopped onion

2 cloves garlic, minced

2 tablespoons vegetable oil

2 pounds coarsely ground chuck

1½ teaspoons salt

3 tablespoons chili powder

1 tablespoon ground cumin

2 teaspoons Worcestershire sauce

1 tablespoon sugar

3 cups tomato sauce

2 cups water

2 16-ounce cans red kidney beans, drained

Tabasco sauce, to taste (we use 10 drops for a faint heat)

Saltine crackers

Dill pickles, thickly sliced and halved into bite-size nuggets

1. In a heavy saucepan, sauté the onions and garlic in oil over medium heat until they are soft. Add beef and salt. Cook until the beef is browned throughout, breaking it up with a fork as it cooks. Drain off any excess fat. Add chili powder, cumin, Worcestershire, sugar, tomato sauce, and water. Bring the pot to a low boil and simmer 30 minutes, stirring occasionally. Add the beans and simmer 15 minutes more. Add Tabasco sauce to taste, and more salt if desired.

2. Serve with saltines crumbled on top of each portion and dill pickle pieces as a garnish.

CHILE