Chili School

Every fall, I find myself inundated with fresh vegetables, and invariably some of them go to waste because, seriously, what am I supposed to do with 15 zucchini, Mom? Enter chili, the harvest stew of the gods...

Chili is pretty much omnipresent come autumn, and for good reasons: it's simple to make, it's cheap, and it's delicious. Everybody has their own chili method and everybody will claim that theirs is the best, hence the invention of the chili cook-off. The big, dirty secret is that chili is a lot like pizza: it's pretty much always good, no matter what you do to it.

I don't want to get into all the rhetoric that goes along with chili. The Texas purists (dare I call them "puritans") will tell you that chili with beans is called "bean soup," not chili. To hell with that; try as you might, you're probably not going to fuck up your chili. All these rules were meant to be broken, but it is a good idea to have a solid grounding in what makes a good chili before you go overboard with your special recipe.

Anything that wishes to be called chili con carne will require these 3 things:



Meat. Carne. You can use pretty much anything you want. Beef (as pictured above) is probably the most popular, but plenty of great chilis have been made with pork, lamb, chicken, turkey or even game/roadkill meats like venison, rabbit, or squirrel. Generally, the cheaper the better: tougher cuts respond better to slow stewing than tender cuts. Also, don't be afraid to mix meats for interesting flavor combinations.

One big question is whether to use ground meat or small chunks. Either way is fine: it basically just becomes a texture question once you get to the finished product. I actually like to use both in the same stew.




Chili peppers. People can get really intimidated by this part, especially if they're afraid of hot peppers. You can use dried ground powder, but having big chunks of peppers in your chili is just a lot more visually and texturally appealing. And you don't have to use super hot peppers: the poblano (also called ancho when dried) is a great flavorful option that isn't too hot. Red and orange bell peppers can give you a nice sweetness and depth of flavor. Personally, I like really spicy chili, and I had just happened to come across some garden-fresh habanero, jalapeno, and cayenne peppers (seen above).




Secret hobo spices. You can really use just about anything to get a unique flavor out of your chili. Those puritans will tell you that a pre-made chili powder is cheating, but I find it to be a good starting point; you can always add flavors to suit your specific taste. Pretty much every pre-made chili powder is going to include dried ground chiles, cumin, oregano, garlic powder and salt. That's an acceptable base, but creativity is king when it comes to chili: don't be afraid to experiment. Chili is all about combinations of flavors, so play with sweets (sugar, fruits, chocolate), tarts (vinegar, hot sauce, beer), salts and savories.


So now I'm going to walk you through how to make a batch of traditional Texas red chili con carne. This recipe is probably different from anything you've been offered before, as it contains not only no beans, but also no tomatoes. It's amazingly simple and delicious. C'mon, let's go!




First, chop your meat into small chunks, about the size of a pecan. I'm using stew beef, usually cut from the shank, plate or brisket. These are tough cuts that generally aren't good for much else besides stewing. You'll want to use about 1 pound of meat for every quart of chili you want at the end.




Sear your beef until it turns slightly brown on the outside. The insides will still be raw, but don't worry: they'll cook through in the stewing process.




Add your ground beef and mix it well. I like to use ground beef because it's generally fattier and releases more beef flavor into the mix than chunks alone. Traditional chili recipes call for suet (raw beef fat), but I find this to be a better alternative.

Once you've got some fat in the bottom of the pot, add your peppers and saute them lightly, just enough to release their oils into the meat mix. I put an onion in here too, though it's considered to be a filler ingredient by those Texas chili snobs. I like onion. Fuck 'em.

Garlic time. Same deal as with the peppers, lightly saute to release its essence. I like a lot of garlic in my chili: I'll probably use 1.5-2 cloves per pound of meat.

Add spices. The biggest key here is to remember that the only way to "un-hot" chili is to dilute it, which will mess with your consistency and texture. You can start light and add more spices as you go. I'm making 3 quarts of chili, so I started with 4 teaspoons of chili powder, 1 teaspoon of salt, 1 teaspoon of cumin, 1 teaspoon of oregano, 1 teaspoon of cayenne, and a jigger of hot sauce. Remember, I like it spicy, so these measurements might be too much for you, lightweight...

You'll need to add some fluid to stew all these ingredients in. Water is commonly used and will do just fine. For this batch, I used a 12 oz. bottle of beer. I wouldn't use anything too fancy: really hoppy beers will just make your chili bitter. A good old American lawnmower lager like Budweiser is just fine.

Simmer that mixture for a while. The longer the better, but at least 2.5 hours or until the meat chunks are cooked through. Don't let the mix boil, or else your meat will get rubbery. Stir it and taste it occasionally. Add spices if necessary. I like to counterbalance the hot spice with sweetness. Brown sugar or molasses are nice. Agave syrup might rock your world.

Toward the end of the stew, you'll probably want to thicken the mixture up. Lots of ways to do this (including crushed tortilla chips), but the traditional way is to add masa (corn meal flour). This works the same way as making gravy: add masa a little bit at a time and let it simmer in. The flour particles will thicken as they heat. Don't add too much or else you'll have chili paste and you'll have to dilute it with water.

THE MOST IMPORTANT PART:

Your chili is not ready to eat yet. Not even close. Take it off the stove, seal it up in tupperware and refrigerate it overnight. Don't touch it until dinner time tomorrow. All those flavors need to coalesce together. I don't know what the science behind this is - shit, it might just be voodoo magic - but it works. I've eaten chili right out of the cooking pot and again the next day after refrigeration, and it's always better the next day. Put it away. Don't be tempted.

Make your self some cornbread. Chili's perfect compliment. Sweet starch to partner with your spicy stew.

Time to eat! Texas chili isn't necessarily the most beautiful dish, but it's damned tasty.

Look at that spoonful: a chunk, some ground, a couple pepper pieces... YUM!

Time to make more...

Raffi's Vision Comes to Fruition

And like a sucker, I just got a damn Black Berry. If you are still cool enough to have a regular style phone like the one shown above, then I would head over to Cellfoam as soon as humanly possible, because nothing will make you cooler faster. But make sure you get the holster, otherwise you'd just look silly.

Old Timey Sexism, In Cookbook Form!

Honey, your camp style macaroni and deviled chicken is almost ready! Just let me whip up a whimsical leafy salad with some dainty soup for myself. Whew, cooking all the man food is tough! I can barely lift this chicken leg! Thanks to Worcestershire Sauce for showing me how!

How Much Could You Burgle With This Hamburger?

I've always been a fan of fake meats, but this little hambag takes the cake. This holiday weekend you can boast the most roast at your BBQ with either a hamburger, hotdog or chicken leg bag from designer Hannah Havana. Check out her entire line here.

For Shame...

I am a terrible person.

Well, I feel terrible at least. Here's the deal: I've been working on a big project at work for the last 2-3 weeks and it's required me to be in the office almost every day. My office is 100 miles from my house, so I usually get to work from home 2-3 days a week. Just not these weeks. 200 miles of commute means I have to pack life in around the edges, so I don't have time to cook, and I don't have time for meals at fancy restaurants. Most of my meals have been handed to me through my car window for most of the month, and it's finally beginning to take its toll.

I have explored pretty much every I-70 exit's food possibilities between Columbus and Dayton. Tim Horton's on Hilliard-Rome Road (just past the west outerbelt in Franklin County) is great for the Bagel B.E.L.T. sandwich and a cup of coffee in the morning. The McDonald's on US42 in London consistently forgets my hash browns. There's a Hardee's in Springfield that has almost made my heart stop. The Burger King in Huber Heights has the worst fries I've ever tasted. The Wendy's on Hoke Rd. in Englewood has actually handed me an entire bag of food that was *almost* what I ordered. But I keep going back to these places (and all the other fast-food joints that litter the landscape) because my work life is encroaching heavily on my social life.

Hopefully things will return to normal soon. I feel awful. My liver is begging me for forgiveness. I respond by drowning it with alcohol once I get back to Columbus. I have probably consumed enough sodium in the last year from eating fast food to last me for the next decade. Not to mention that I am not as svelte as I once was as a young man.

I should probably go on a diet of shredded newspapers and wasabi to counteract this egregious sin I've committed against my body, but I think I'll settle for another Beef & Cheddar with curly fries and admit that the situation is hopeless as long as I live like a nomad.

The Lowest Common Denominator

I watch more TV now than I used to - not particularly proud of that. I'm a slightly-more-than-casual baseball fan, so I end up watching a lot of games. When I don't get up in between innings to refresh my beer (springtime means Columbus Brewing Company Apricot Ale) or, um, let it out, I end up watching commercials. Now I'm a fairly educated man, so I understand the point of advertising is essentially to fool you into wanting something, which is why I'm fascinated by the ads for Pizza Hut's Tuscani Pastas. Take this one, for instance:

If you're old enough to remember, it's essentially the same as "we replaced your regular coffee with Folgers crystals." Anybody with half a taste bud in their mouth knows that Folgers tastes like burnt horse turds compared to an artisan-roasted coffee, but if you need a caffeine fix, you'll take it. I haven't tried the Pizza Hut pasta, but I'd be willing to make two assumptions:

1) It's not good enough to be served in "America's finest restaurants," as Folgers would put it, and
2) It's probably not the worst Chicken Alfredo you'll ever taste in your life.

About 25% of people are what are called "supertasters," meaning they experience taste more intensely than average people - see the They Might Be Giants song "John Lee Supertaster" for more information. I've never been tested, but I like to think that I'm one of them for as much as I obsess about food. The basis for operating a successful restaurant is serving great food, but there's much more to it than just that. If only 25% of the population can really experience the true depth of a dish, that means 3 out of every 4 people who come to your restaurant think that a happy meal is as good as your aged porterhouse steak. So why do they spend the extra money?

Remember when I said that the point of advertising was to fool you into wanting something? We've been conditioned to believe that a steak tastes better than a processed hamburger, but only 25% of us will ever know for sure. We've also been conditioned to believe that a steak dinner is more elegant, more sophisticated, more romantic than the lowly burger. Where would you rather take a date: Ruth's Chris or Hardee's? Since 75% of people don't really enjoy food with their mouths, it's become a full-sensory experience, hence why that Pizza Hut pasta "tastes great" in a fancy NY bistro.

So what happens when you actually order it? I'll have to follow-up with an actual review, but I'm guessing it's not as good as it would be if you served it to me in a white tablecloth establishment. However, I'd put money on it being average, dare I say, re-orderable. Just because food comes from Pizza Hut doesn't mean they didn't have a chef prepare it at some point. And just because 75% of people don't taste food in all its glory doesn't mean they can't distinguish "yum" from "yuk." If they expect repeat business on a mass-market scale, it has to be pleasing to the lowest common denominator, which means it'll appeal to certain base responses from everyone. The Chicken Alfredo will be velvety-smooth, probably with a hint of savory smokiness from the meat, and a rich sauce (but not *too* rich). It'll be adequately salty due to the cheeses used to make Alfredo sauce, and spiced just enough to enjoy it without doctoring.

Doesn't sound bad, right? I haven't even tried it yet, but I instinctively know what it will taste like. There's a science to pleasing everyone that, shockingly, involves actual science as well as culinary skill.