To Bean or Not to Bean

With football season underway and the sassafras leaves beginning to turn scarlet, for me, it means chili—Texas red with beans—notwithstanding the International Chili Society (and Texas purists) define chili as not having “beans or other fillers.” The bean issue has sparked numerous arguments, but more about that later.

 

The first time I remember eating chili was in 1957, when my mother and I stopped at a roadside café, I believe named Anchor, just east of Mountain View near the intersection of U.S. Highway 60 and Mo. Highway 17. Mom ordered a bowl of chili for me. I do not remember much about the flavor, other than it did not taste like my grandma’s chili.

 

What I do remember is getting sick in the middle of the night. Without being too graphic, I specifically recall that it had beans because one got stuck in my nose. Mom and Grandma attributed my illness to the Anchor chili.

 

In retrospect, Grandma’s chili, although tasty, barely qualified as chili. Hers, a mild combination of hamburger, onions, tomatoes, and kidney beans, had no garlic and only one teaspoon of chili powder. Grandma did not cook with garlic, and the chili powder came from a small tin container, which had been in the pantry for ages, and, no doubt, oxidized of any piquancy. However, that was my understanding of chili until I moved to Willow Springs to live with my mother and stepfather.

 

Conventional wisdom suggests that cooks typically make the kind of chili their mother made, often from a handed-down recipe. That was not the case with my mom. She made what she called Texas-style chili. Riding shotgun in my father’s tractor-trailer rig, she experienced a different approach to a “bowl of red” in Texas truck stops. 

 

For my novice pallet, her chili was an acquired taste, but before long, I was hooked on chili that was kicked up several notches on the Scoville Scale, with flavor elevated by the addition of cumin, garlic, and oregano.

 

In the 1970s, I was on a quest to find the ultimate chili recipe. I read cookbooks and magazine articles and tried dozens of recipes. My research informed me that “chili powder” available in grocery stores was technically chili seasoning—a combination of ground chili peppers, garlic powder, oregano, and other proprietary ingredients. I also learned these products could become stale in short order.

 

It occurred to me that I needed to make my own chili powder. Without an internet for quick information on the subject, it was a matter of trial and error. Since I had a vegetable and herb garden, I had most everything I needed, including chili peppers. I called Mom and she agreed to lend her talent to the project. 

 

It was mid-August, but a perfect time, nevertheless. The ripe tomatoes in the garden begged to be picked and the oregano, basil, and thyme were at their peak of fragrance. I grew cayenne peppers for heat, but I needed ancho peppers (dried poblano peppers) with their smoky, mild paprika flavor as the foundation of my chili powder.

 

Today, supermarkets carry every imaginable pepper and product for Mexican and Latin cuisine, but back then, I had to go to an import store in the City of St. Louis to buy ancho peppers, which I had to grind. This was also before the advent of food processors, so I used a small electric coffee mill. I managed to grind enough peppers for the project but burned out the coffee grinder in the process. 

 

Mom cooked down the-out-of-the garden, dead ripe Big Boys to make tomato sauce, and I combined the dried herbs and garlic with the ground peppers for the chili powder that had an aromatic fragrance as pleasant as freshly-brewed coffee. 

 

We simmered the pot all afternoon, and the result, we both agreed, was the best chili we had ever eaten. The next morning, we had more for breakfast. And when Mom went home, she took a goodly portion with her. The problem, of course, is I keep trying to duplicate that batch of chili, but I always seem to fall short. I suppose sometimes the stars and the moon align perfectly for a once-in-lifetime experience and sets a standard by which all others are measured.

 

Other memorable events in my life have revolved around chili. One resulted from a conversation among several friends during “happy hour” at a St. Louis restaurant. The subject of chili came up and a “discussion” arose as to who could make the best and whether beans should be included. Challenges and accusations ensued that could only be settled by having a chili cook-off.

 

A date for the contest was set and rules were stipulated, with a commemorative prize to the winner—a volleyball trophy attached to an inverted brass bucket. As the date approached, one of the members of the group, “Mr. Smith” (a no-beaner), mailed a shoebox full of dried beans mixed with mothballs to “Jones” (a pro-beaner), with a note: “Maybe if you use some of these beans, it will improve your chili.”

 

Mr. Jones, not to be outdone, replied with a letter informing Smith if he persisted in his “bean hate mail” he would refer the matter to the postal authorities for prosecution. Moreover, if he had any more hateful comments, he should direct them to his attorney and co-bean, Lonnie Whitaker, whose defense of the noble bean in the case of In re Ex Frijole was legendary in international legal circles. 

 

The cook-off became an annual affair. I won the first year, took home the trophy, and decorated the volleyball to look like a bean in the outstretched hand of the player on the trophy. The next year, however, no-beaner Smith won, broke off the “bean” from the trophy, and sent a hostage photo of the desecrated trophy to the other contestants. Over the years, after much growth, the contest finally ended, albeit, with the trophy in my possession. One of these days, I may reglue the bean.

 

In the early 1980s, I was twice a judge of the Missouri Chili Cook-off, and one year, my judging partner was Joe DeFrates, a two-time world champion and the developer of the national brand, Chili Man Chili. 

When I told Mr. DeFrates I was going to make chili for a large Wendell Bailey congressional campaign event in Pleasant Hill, Missouri, he suggested I simply buy numerous cans of Chili Man Chili and serve that. Longtime readers of this column will recall that I made the chili from scratch using 40-pounds of ground beef.

 

Speaking of chili cook-offs, good luck to fellow chili enthusiasts—pro-bean and no-bean—who are entering the G&W Foods Chili Cook-Off in Willow Springs on Saturday, October 5, 2024. Viva Frijoles!