Cincinnati chili is a sacred dish among locals: noodles squirm under a blanket of meat accented by cloves, cumin, cinnamon and other Mediterranean spices. Fluorescent orange cheese is piled on top, cradling oyster crackers and drops of hot sauce. And, if you’re a die-hard fan, onions or beans (or both) may be in the mix, too.
In the Queen City, we strike down the chili gods in favor of our own, authentic blend originated in large part by Greek immigrants. As Nick Kindelsperger of the Chicago Tribune found out, our take “is not a chunky chili. The ground meat mixture is cooked until it nearly dissolves into a paste, making it far more like a Bolognese sauce than anything you’d find in Texas.”
The food critic recently visited our humble chili parlors to ask, Is Cincinnati chili actually chili?. His verdict was published earlier this week as part of a series that explores Midwest foodie wonders.
Take a deep breath: He says that he’s a convert. There’s no judgement of our palate here, but rather, a fondness for our city’s most famous dish.
This February, CityBeat concocted our own chili trail, traversing from parlor to parlor. We slid into booths — fork and knife in hand — delving into the dish itself, yes, but also its long history. It was Tom and John Kiradjieff, immigrants born in what was then Hroupista, Macedonia, who began the tradition in 1922. They opened Empress Chili, which then gave birth to a breadth of parlors across the region.
“The ongoing joke is that they can’t really find chili in Greece,” James Papakirk, the current owner of Empress, told us in February, adding that if you go up to a counter and ask for it in Greece, they’d refer to it as spaghetti with meat sauce. His theory is that the dish stems from a Greek-style lasagna called pastichio: thick, tubular noodles layered in a similar meat sauce with a thick layer of béchamel and spices reminiscent of Cincy chili.
As Kindelsperger cited, the founders didn’t taste test more traditional chili before opening up shop; rather, the dish was a creation from their own cultural backgrounds, transplanted to the Midwestern frontier.
As more Greek immigrants came, they found work in chili parlors; some went on to open their own. Kindelsperger visited a handful, including the obvious: Skyline and Gold Star Chili.
For the uninitiated, loyals to the two chains have fought over which bowl reigns supreme. As for our Chicagoan pal, he gave the edge to Skyline because of “its more complex spice profile.”
Sorry, Gold Star. We still love you.
He also stopped by Northern Kentucky’s most beloved chain, Dixie Chili. First opened in Newport, Ky. via Nicholas D. Sarakatsannis, it’s been in operation since 1929. Kindelsperger praised its “gorgeous” spice profile and “beefy backbone.” On our own trail, (co-authored by myself and Jude Noel), Noel cited this stop as his place; he grew up right down the road from one in Erlanger.
Other places Kindelsperger dropped by? The West Side’s Price Hill Chili (note: you can put goetta on your chili here for ultimate Cincinnati madness) and Camp Washington Chili, the latter of which he writes is arguably “the most complex, with a rumored 18 different spices going into each pot.”
After his tour — it seems like the dude ate enough of the stuff to last him a lifetime — he ended with well-deserved praise of Cincy’s often eyebrow-raising staple, writing that there’s a “convincing case that no city in the country is as wild about chili.”
Our suggestions for Kindelsperger next time he comes to town? Blue Jay Restaurant (Northside), Chili Time (Saint Bernard) and Cretan’s (Carthage).
This article appears in Aug 15-22, 2018.
