Memoirs of a Chili Judge

Once upon a time, I entered chili contests. Then I judged a couple. Entering a chili contest can be heartbreaking, but judging one takes the skin of an elephant.

Chili is about the only food on which almost every American has strong opinions. As a result, a chili contest is a contradiction--an unresolvable conflict of principles. If you think the problem begins and ends with those who believe chili means “with beans” versus those who think beans violate and debauch everything this nation stands for, you haven’t begun to get your feet wet on the subject.

For instance, it’s self-evident to me that chili means chunks of beef stewed in a pungent sauce, thick and dark red from ground peppers. Tomatoes should take the form of tomato sauce or puree, just enough to keep the whole thing from getting too dry.

But in judging chili contests, I have learned that a lot of people sincerely believe chili is made from ground beef and chunks of tomato. If you write, “What is this, some kind of soupy hash?” on the ballot, you may find yourself trying to reason with three or four chili chefs at once.

As a Californian, I have not the slightest doubt that chili needs a strong cumin flavor; otherwise, it’s goulash. But Cincinnati-style chili, at least as I’ve had it, seems dominated by sweet spices such as cinnamon and clove, and in the Midwest, I’ve discovered, beef suet is considered essential. I’d as soon add crankcase oil, which is pretty much the opinion of Midwesterners about my adding garlic.

And so it goes. There are people who make pork and chicken chili, people who always put in hominy, even some who include potatoes or dried fruit (I am not making this up). Many chili chefs believe profoundly that success depends on a secret ingredient--in my judging experience, nearly always Mexican beer, tequila, cactus or some repellent animal (armadillo, rattlesnake, alligator, the worm from a mescal bottle).

On the other hand, the very first contest I entered was won by a vegetarian chili made with white beans and bell peppers. I should have learned a lesson from that, and from the savage ostracism of the judges that followed. Being a chili contest judge is like being a crossing guard in Bosnia.