[This entry is cross posted at ordinary-times.com]

All of this is true.

I don’t live in Austin. I don’t live in San Antonio, Houston, El Paso, or Amarillo. I don’t even live in Texas. In fact, I hate the Dallas Cowboys in that sports sense of hate where I’m sure they’re a bunch of good guys but want them to fail miserably at their job and still snicker over their veteran heavy team getting beaten by a bunch of Redskin scabs back in ’87. Otherwise, I love the place. I’ve been to the Lone Star State three times so far and have yet to meet a Texan I didn’t like.

I had chili in Austin, sort of. There was a fenced-in area with food trucks and a sultry twenty-something woman who was barely wearing any clothes. My then eight-year-old asked her if he could pet her dog several times. I was there for chili because that is, to an outsider, the mythopoetic foodstuff of the town. I’m still not sure if Austin chili is all they say because I was told I had to have it the local way, which I’m pretty sure meant the hipster way. I had Frito Pie, which means I had a bag of Fritos with some chili poured in and shredded cheddar sprinkled on top. It was great, but between the chips and cheese I couldn’t tell you what was distinctive about the chili. I’d rather have had it unadulterated.

If my travels and Guy Fieri have taught me anything it’s that Texans think they know chili, but really the state is populated by ribbon whores. Everyplace with a health department score and a chalk board is home to award winning best in the state county fair champion three years running five alarm homemade as seen on tv (television) genuine original Texas chili. Everybody gets a trophy in this culinary little league.