January 15th, 2005

You Ain’t Cool, Skeezics…You’re Chili

I once spent a year sharing a kitchen with the epicurist known as Kreiger, a time during which my five-gallon soup pot was never empty. Weekends meant labourious bus trips to the Conestoga Mall grocery store, followed by simmering stews and popping soup-bubbles, infused with a sick sense of humour. Take, for example, our sensory and street-savvy blend known as Wu-Stew, pictured here in its infancy:

Wu-Stew halfway through the simmering process

And, what Wu-Tang themed dish would be complete without Wu Bat Biscuits?

Suffice it to say, if we weren’t straight-B students that year, at least we ate clever.

One of the recipes we perfected was beef chili. The simple, hearty, lasts-a-month kind. Since that day when we finally dragged our previous attempts at chili to a higher plane, I have made this easy and convenient dish about a hundred times. Chili’s natural habitat is a lazy Sunday afternoon, curled up on the couch while tomato-infused broth pops and whistles. There exists no time when chili can’t be made, but there are times when chili must be made. You’ll know when.

Most of the ingredients for good chili should already sit in your pantry. You’ll probably have to go to the store for:

ground/cubed beef, pork, chicken, or turkey (or a combination of these)
kidney or black beans
fresh vegetables
some heat, in pepper format

You’ve got these, surely:

chili powder
cumin
onions and garlic
canned tomatoes
Worcestershire sauce
whatever else

The key to chili is not to discriminate. The essense of chili rests upon pillars of commingling flavours, and there are few ingredients that can’t be invited to the party. I’ve added everything from vodka to dill to Chicken McNugget Barbecue sauce to baker’s chocolate to my mix, with nary a sour taste. Experimentation is encouraged—after all, a chili recipe should become one’s own, and a few missteps in your halcyon youth shouldn’t send a budding Chilist running back to shrinkwapped microwave entrees.

My chili follows a loose formula. Some form of beef is a must. Even if chicken chili is on the menu, beef stock adds a sublime subtlety. For you almost-vegetarians, beef stock in an otherwise vegetarian blend can elevate a dull veggie-pot blend to a level of flavour that even your most carnivorous Texan would approve of. Chili need not be unhealthy, but it helps. Don’t fear the beefer.

You must brown your meat. That means medium-high to high heat, some oil, and plenty of stirring. Some salt’n'pep and Worcestershire (for beef) won’t hurt anybody. I like to brown them alongside onion and garlic, which are a natural compliment to most meats. For a robust texture, try a mix of ground and cubed meat.

If you’re using beef or pork, you should probably drain the fat after browning. Just tip the covered pot and pour it into a can. Don’t season the meat until you’ve done this, as you’ll just pour out your spices. You don’t have to drain all the fat, but at least drain some. Or don’t drain any and see if I care, pig.

Add some veg. Again, a matter of personal taste. Texans like beef and onions only, while us Northern urbanites like a bit of colour. I have found carrots, celery, zucchini, bell pepper, and corn to all be fine choices. I dislike mushrooms, but if you are the kind of apple-cheeked woodland creature that eats fungus, have at ‘er. In any case, add veg to meat and watch the imbroglio unfold. If using bell pepper, save them until the last 15 minutes or so of cooking to preserve a bit of the crunch and flavour.

Now, liquids. Canned tomatoes and their brothy habitat are a must. Uncork and dump as many cans as you like, but two works best for me. Throw down some tomato paste too, if you like. The rest of the liquid is up to you. Some winners in my past have been: dark beer (preferably flat), red or white wine (depending on the type of meat), and beef stock. For a vegetarian chili, now’s the time for vegetable bouillon cubes pre-dissolved in hot water.

If you’ve got a nice vinegar you enjoy, by all means, bring cousin vinny along.

You want the consistency to be halfway between impenetrable meat-cream and sheer soup. Again, to your preference. You can always boil off or add more, but ideally you get it right the first time. Been a little too liberal with the stock? A healthy sprinkle of cornstarch or Mexican corn flour can help restore equilibrium to the viscosity.

At this juncture, spice the everloving Jesus out of that shit. Now is the time for a limp wrist and a full spice bottle. The basis of chili is chili powder, and now’s the time for you to stop being such a pussy about it. DUMP it in there. Most recipes fall woefully short of the required amount for good chili. I have been known to drop in a heaping double-handed scoop of the stuff on a good day. Stir it in well to avoid clumping, and don’t forget to keep adding. Add and add until it feels like Enough, and then add more. It’s good, trust me. Don’t add so much as to overpower everything, but please give chili powder a prominent seat at the table.

All other matters related to spicing are up to you. Cumin is a near-necessity, but can be shelved if you favour a more exotic blend. A stick of cinnamon can cut the spice with an understated sweetness. Deploy cayenne at will if it’s just not fiery enough yet. A shot of dill towards the end of cooking is a pleasant surprise. And S and P to taste, of course.

As for other natural heat sources, the chili pepper is your finest friend. Try everything from ordinary green chiles to habaneros to chipotles to nothing at all. Keep the seeds in for a trip to the sun. I’m no expert on chiles. A small can of chipotles, pureed, adds a wonderful smoky taste. You probably want to eschew pickled things, but then again…says who?

Now, the bean. Beans are a contentious chili constituent indeed. Purists will implore you to save them for your summer Tupperware salads, while others point to their inoffensive texture, healthful effects, and potential for gag-worthy (in all senses of the word) gastronomical pyrotechnics. Either way, rinse your canned beans thoroughly in a colander, and aim to make them a supporting cast member, rather than the show itself. You don’t need to add beans (the canned kind) until the end, but it doesn’t hurt anything to add them earlier.

Stir until all’s well, raise the temperature until it reaches a boil, pull the heat down to low and simmer. How long? Until it’s ready. Thicken it into paste for those tough household caulking jobs, or keep it runny if you’re sitting down to catch the Bengals game. Stir occasionally and scrape the bottom—that’s where the flavour is.

To serve: you’ll need cheese. Where? Way on top. Chedda isn’t necessarily betta, but it’s good. Betta is Monterey Jack, or a sprinkling of fresh Parmesan.

What else? Crusty rolls make a good sidekick. Sourdough is King, but as long as the bread makes a mess, it’s the right kind. Thick tortilla chips are a fine accoutrement, as are a handful of chopped scallions, sour cream, and even guacamole. Hell, pour it on pasta and see if I give a shit. The DNA test results are in; the chili is yours, and can’t nobody take it from you, and you’ll raise it like your own. Amen.