Some Like It Hot!

A pungent concoction of cubed beef, reddish-brown gravy and zesty spices simmers in a heavy aluminum pot on Cindy Reed Wilkins’ portable propane stove. In an hour, she’ll add the last round of ingredients—salt, cumin, chili powder and a dash of fresh hot pepper—to what she hopes will be an award-winning chili.

"Good luck, Cindy!" exclaims fellow contender Honey Jones of Canyon Lake, Texas (pop. 16,870), as she gives Wilkins a hug.

Wilkins and Jones, both former grand champions of the Terlingua International Chili Championship, were among 330 cooks from across the nation who put their culinary talents to the test last November during the 38th annual competition in Terlingua, Texas (pop. 267).

Friend vs. friend. Husband against wife. Even mothers challenged daughters during the four-day outdoor event hosted by the Chili Appreciation Society International (CASI), which sanctions 560 cookoffs annually in the United States, Canada and Mexico.

Throughout the year, some 800 cookoffs across North America pit chili lovers against one another in an ongoing debate about who—and what ingredients—makes the best batch of chili. While the competition is heated, having fun is a big part of the contests.

"There’s so much camaraderie," says Wilkins, of Houston, Texas, who met her husband, Bruce, at a chili cookoff 10 years ago in Rockport, Texas.

Both Bruce and Wilkins’ mother, Maxine Reed, compete, too. "Chiliheads are truly one big family," Wilkins adds.

During the CASI competition, which attracts 10,000 spectators, one chili is declared the winner by a final panel of 16 judges who evaluate entries based on aroma, red color, consistency, taste and aftertaste.

Even then, contestants still can argue that their chili is the best. After all, individual cooks determine their own ingredients and degree of hotness.

The inaugural cookoff

The first Terlingua chili cookoff was in 1967. That’s when two writers—H. Allen Smith of New York City and Frank X. Tolbert of Dallas—argued at length in print over whose state made the best chili. Adding fuel to the chili fire, Smith claimed that "no living man" could top his homemade "zestfully flavorful" chili. With the article, Smith included his chili recipe that called for pinto beans, an ingredient shunned by Texas purists.

Ultimately, the two agreed to a chili duel. Smith’s contender from Texas was Wick Fowler, the owner of Wick Fowler’s Two-Alarm Chili in Austin and a member of the Chili Appreciation Society, CASI’s predecessor, which formed in 1951. The much-publicized event drew hundreds of people to Terlingua, a remote ghost town in the desert near the Chisos Mountains. The match ended in a draw. So a second competition was held the following year.

By 1969, the Terlingua cookoff had become established as the "world championship of chili." More and more people crowded into the tiny town with each passing year. In 1975, members of the newly formed International Chili Society (ICS) withdrew from the Terlingua cookoff over differences of opinion on how the contest should be run and started hosting their own cookoffs in Newport Beach, Calif.

Today, ICS has 4,000 members and sanctions more than 200 cookoffs annually, including its trademarked World’s Championship Chili Cookoff each October. Last year in Las Vegas, 400 ICS contestants competed for cash prizes in three categories: traditional red, chili verde and salsa.

"Some of our cooks travel 40,000 miles a year," says Carol Hancock, ICS executive director in San Juan Capistrano, Calif. (pop. 33,826). "Some have cooked in 47 or 48 states, and their goal is to cook in all 50."

Another fracture took place at the Terlingua cookoff in 1983 when contestants disagreed over who qualified to participate in the championship. To this day, Terlingua hosts two chili cookoffs during the first weekend in November: CASI’s Terlingua International Chili Championship at the 320-acre Rancho CASI de los Chisos west of Terlingua and the Original Terlingua International Frank X. Tolbert-Wick Fowler Memorial Championship Chili Cookoff, held behind the Terlingua Store.

"We love the cookoff so much," says Kathleen Tolbert Ryan, of Grapevine, Texas (pop. 42,059), who directs the Tolbert-Fowler cookoff in tribute to her father, Frank. "I guess it just gets into your blood."

Last year, more than 100 chili cooks competed during the three-day Tolbert-Fowler event, which attracted 2,000 people.

Regional flavor

Differences of opinion long have been associated with making chili, whether the debate involved contest rules, personal tastes or regional variations.

Chili purists in Texas argue heatedly against adding beans of any sort, while California cooks can’t imagine a bowl without them. In New Mexico, residents favor a traditional dish called chile verde, a green chile stew often made with chicken or pork. In the Midwest, folks relish Cincinnati-style chili, flecked with sweet spices like cinnamon and allspice, then served on top of spaghetti.

Chili fans can dicker over meat, too. For family meals, many cooks brown ground beef, venison or pork. For competition chili, most contestants choose lean chuck roast cut into bite-sized cubes or coarsely ground. All chili cookoff regulations ban the addition of beans, rice or pasta so only primary flavors prevail.

Despite countless variations, all chili shares a common ingredient—chile peppers. Some cooks prefer peppering their pot with fiery hot habaneros, while others choose milder green chilies. Many cooks skip fresh peppers altogether and simply sprinkle in store-bought chili powder.

That doesn’t stop aficionados like Wilkins and Jones from putting their own chili recipes to the test at cookoffs across Texas and the nation. Packing tables, tarps, and utensils, bags of ingredients, and other gear, they spend their leisure time traveling thousands of miles each year to compete. Most meet fellow chiliheads and stay in travel trailers or motor homes they’ve bought since catching chili cookoff fever.

Contestants travel the chili circuit to earn enough points to qualify for the three national championships. Winners typically receive trophies and ribbons rather than cash prizes because entry fees usually fund charitable causes such as college scholarships and public libraries.

The exception is during ICS’s championship when a $25,000 prize is awarded to the winner in the "traditional red" division, and the chili verde champ receives $3,000.

Chili champion

Roger Foltz of Mesquite, Texas (pop. 124,523), made chili history last year when he won CASI’s grand championship title and missed first place by one point at the Tolbert-Fowler cookoff.

"There was only one other better thing in my life," Foltz says of the moment he won the CASI title, "and that was the birth of my three children."

Selecting a CASI champion involves a team of 351 judges—supplied with bite-sized pieces of carrot, celery, and cheese for "cleansing the palate"—who sample spoonfuls of chili and pare 337 entries down to one outstanding winner.

"There were four top-notch chilis this time," says Ronny Dodson, the Brewster County (Texas) sheriff who has judged chili at Terlingua for 11 years. "They had just the right texture. They weren’t too dry or too spicy."

Even in the wake of such thorough testing, some will argue—naturally—on what constitutes a championship-worthy bowl of chili.

"Lots of luck makes great chili," says competitor Keith Karaff of Houston. "You can win a cookoff one day and never get off the preliminary table with the same recipe the next day."

A Texas tradition

Chuck wagon cooks on Texas cattle drives made some of the first chili, according to folklorist W. C. Jameson, author of The Ultimate Chili Cookbook.

"Nothing’s documented about that," says Jameson of Woodland Park, Colo. (pop. 6,515). "It likely had multiple origins."

Newspaper reports do confirm that during the 1880s, "chili queens," mostly Mexican women, hawked their fiery brews from colorful carts lined up around Military Plaza in San Antonio. They arrived before dusk and built mesquite fires to warm their cauldrons of chili. Health regulations in the 1930s ended the chili queens’ reigns.

Chili became standard fare at jails across the Southwest in the early 1900s and a culinary favorite among Hollywood stars when Chasen’s Restaurant in West Hollywood, Calif., started serving the hot stuff in 1936.

After World War II, chili parlors sprang up across Texas and other states. A bowl of chili with free soda crackers was an inexpensive meal.

Texas proclaimed chili as its state dish in 1977.

Sheryl Smith-Rodgers is a freelance writer in Blanco, Texas.

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