The real Super Bowl controversy concerns Cincinnati chili — and I’ve solved it
Stuck in New York, it’s difficult to perfect the chili-not-chili beloved of Cincinnati natives like my husband
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Your support makes all the difference.Two minutes after the Cincinnati Bengals kicked their way into Super Bowl LVI, the first request hit my strategic chili reserve.
“Chili-time! Whatcha got in the upper cabinets?” huffed my husband from a Downtown Brooklyn YMCA treadmill. A neighbor spied me hauling trash: “Your husband is from Cincinnati, right? Any extra chili?” By morning, my firstborn son, planning an in-person, post-Omicron gridiron fete, texted: “Need Skyline!“ Ten cans!
I’d barely Liked my brother-in-law’s hot chili mess photo on Instagram when he rang from Vermont. “Hey Aunt Caroline — Bring chili.”
“I gave you six cans of Gold Star for Christmas!”
“Long gone,” he chuckled. “Used a whole can on a monster four-way during the AFC championship.” Elsewhere on social media, our niece at college in Indiana chugged a can to celebrate. Welcome to the expat chili jungle!
Super Bowl means chili, and Cincinnati is famous for legendary parlors, from quaint stools in Mount Washington and Oakley to franchises dotting highway exits from Covington to Cleveland. But for Queen City expats, February 13 half-time chili battles won’t be won on the stove, but in the microwave. No need to brown ground chuck or roast habaneros. 2022’s Super Bowl chili comes from a can.
Cincinnati chili is not chili. It’s a thin, fragrant meat sauce poured over hot dogs to create “cheese coneys,” spaghetti plus toppings for a “three-, four- or five-way” — or, for the healthy crowd, spinach salad and sweet potatoes. Unlike traditional Texas con carne, Cincinnati’s melting pot brew is exotic, a spice market bouquet of cinnamon, cloves, allspice, anise, chocolate, coffee and oregano. Beans and onion go on top.
Two national brands dominate. Skyline, a Greek recipe, is sold in many national groceries. Gold Star, the “official” chili of the Bengals and the one visitors bib up and chow down at Cincinnati airport visits, is the closely guarded secret of four Jordanian brothers.
For the last Bengals Super Bowl in 1988, my then-boyfriend was a Cincinnati architect. I worked in a Louisville Ohio River museum. We courted along the I-71 corridor before we moved to the Big Apple. Our first fancy date was at LaBoom, a glitzy waterfront disco owned by Bengals quarterback Boomer Esiason and baseball legend Pete Rose. Afterwards, he invited me for a 2 a.m. three-way. Wait. What? That’s Cincinnati-speak for spaghetti, chili and a mountain of shredded cheese. He devoured a five-way with beans and onion and three cheese coneys, mustard, no onion. Nathan’s got nothing on him.
Today, married 30 years, our orders are the same, but I scout his beloved chili in New York City. The closest franchise is 400 miles away. I make a fine Texas chili and once quartermastered our Brooklyn church fair canteen, coaching an offensive lunch line of enough traditional beef, chicken and veggie chili to feed the Dallas Cowboys. But I can’t make a single pot of Cincinnati chili — can’t get the secret spice right.
Weary of his disappointed sighs, now I crack a can.
It’s available online for a premium, but I enjoy the hunt. I fill my luggage during Midwest trips, request it for Christmas, prowl stores on vacation and load it up at the Cincinnati airport. I prefer a strategic reserve of six cans.
Early pandemic, when grocery shopping became a sport itself, I hit the chili jackpot. Bottom shelf, Aisle 8 at Wegman’s Brooklyn Navy Yard. Skyline. $5.99 a can. No shipping required. I’ve been quietly re-supplying, establishing a strategic chili reserve, waiting for a run on my supply. Frankly, I thought it’d be Valentine’s Day.
Today, that upper cabinet runneth over with 27 cans. I allocate six for Vermont, gift two to the neighbor and reserve 10 for my son’s bash. Four for my husband’s game day, leaving five for my depleted reserve. Like the good-natured charity food battles between Los Angeles Pink’s Hot Dogs and Skyline, I figure I’ll use two cans donating good karma three-ways for the Brooklyn Heights Community Fridge.
Then I’ll update the grocery list.
I may be married another 30 years and it may take that long for the Bengals to return to the Super Bowl, but I’ll be ready.
Caroline Aiken Koster is a New York attorney and writer. She’s writing a book about finding common ground at her Appalachian family reunion.
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