Last week I drove to Cincinnati, which I should have done a long time ago. It’s only five hours (not counting the switch to the Eastern time zone) from me, and it’s truly a lovely place. I was so impressed with the few neighborhoods I had time to explore. Murals everywhere, along with so many stories surely tucked away in the delicate but hardy Painted Lady Victorian houses. Very friendly people. And, the reason for my visit, the birthplace of one of my all-time favorite bands, The Afghan Whigs, who were playing a homecoming show for their 40th anniversary.
I love a hometown show. But that’s another post.
In theory this was my first trip to Cincinnati. I don’t count the first trip. It was during the blazing hot summer of 2003, the same day as that big East Coast blackout that almost reached southwestern Ohio. I should have taken that as an omen.
I was in the Kentucky suburbs of Cincinnati for a few days because I was a bridesmaid in a wedding for someone on the internet I’d met once in person. A big, fat, sweaty, pregnant bridesmaid. The bride was having a destination wedding in the Caribbean. Aside from only wanting the wedding party at the hometown reception, sparing me a trip to an even hotter, sweatier place, she was an absolute Bridezilla.
But this was a month before the wedding and I didn’t realize how strong the Bridezilla tendencies were when I decided to pay a visit for the wedding shower/bachelorette party weekend.
There’s really not much to tell. It was pretty routine, and a reminder that I’m so not a traditional wedding person. This was the second and final time I was asked to be in a wedding party, and I fucking bailed between the bachelorette weekend and the reception. Mostly because of pregnancy and mental health issues, which the bride wasn’t too keen in honoring. Oh well.
I did do one touristy thing during that trip to the Cincinnati area: I always want to try the local foods everywhere I go, so I took myself out to Skyline Chili.
Cincinnati chili is definitely its own regional thing, not easily found once you’re 100 miles or so away from Ohio. Although the Cincinnati diaspora keeps it alive. Even Greg Dulli, leader of the Afghan Whigs who now lives in Los Angeles, recently sang its praises to Trib Live in the Pittsburgh area:
Cincinnati chili, Skyline, Gold Star, either one. Some people are like, ‘Gold star is inferior.’ I’m like, like you (expletive) know. There’s also Empress and Camp Washington and there’s all kinds of other boutique chilis that are just as good or better than either one of those. So, but that said, I don’t eat meat anymore. But I will tell you that I do make Impossible Cincinnati chili at least four times a year, and it’s (expletive) killer. Those who do not like it, that’s your choice. But I love it, I love it, I love it. I love it with beans, I love it with cheese, I love it with onions, I like it on spaghetti or not on spaghetti. I’ll eat it any (expletive) way.
What makes people use so many [expletive] expletives when it comes to this chili? It’s fucking weird, and that makes people defensive. Which I get. So much so that I work really hard to avoid calling any food “weird.” Too subjective, and it’s insulting to the people in the region who love it. Plus, I’ve seem people come completely unhinged in St. Louis over our weird pizza, and these cities in the lower Midwest can get violent.
In the most simple terms, Cincinnati chili is unique (not weird not weird not weird) because, instead of peppery and spicy seasonings with Southwestern and Mexican roots, it’s seasoned with cinnamon, cloves, and nutmeg—a concoction common in Macedonia and Northern Greece—where the brothers who invented the chili in Cincinnati were born.
There’s also the ordering protocol. It goes like this:
One-way: Just a bowl of chili. Two-way: Chili served over spaghetti Three-way: Chili over spaghetti, topped with beautiful giant pile of finely-shredded cheddar Four-way: A three-way with either raw onions or kidney beans added to the mix. That's right, you don't get beans unless you order them. Five-way: May Jesus be with you.
When I arrived at Skyline on that halcyon day of sweaty pregnancy, I was starving in the way only pregnant women can be: volatily hungry. Something deeper than hangry. Hunger backed with rage and deep sadness and probably guilt and maybe some giddiness. I went all-in and ordered a five-way.
Which I promptly threw up when I returned to Bridezilla’s house.
It was the onions.
Twenty-three years is a long time, though. Tastes change. The fetus I carried is of an age where they can put whatever stupid thing in their chili that they want. So, after Wednesday night’s concert, I ordered a chili four-way (beans, not onions since it was pushing midnight and what I was eating was a terrible idea without adding more fuel to the fire I’d feel at 4 am) from Gold Star, and waited in my hotel’s lobby for delivery.
Did I mention that Cincinnati is a very friendly city? It really is. The desk clerk who’d checked me in was still working, and we chatted. Then a couple came in, wearing wrist bands from the venue, buying drinks for the room. We talked at length about the show and other bands we love, trading recommendations.
The woman in the couple and I were pretty deep in conversation when a young woman in Uggs did the Uggs scoot-stomp through the lobby and went outside, her very shapely bare ass hanging out from the bottom of her parka.
“UM, did y’all see that?!” the desk clerk asked.
Far more than I wanted, yep.
We didn’t go after her, but we all kept an eye on her outside to make sure nothing happened to her.
“Don’t you wish that we didn’t have to worry about things like this?” the concert woman said. “That, instead of waiting for something bad to happen, we could be like, ‘Oh, she’s having a night. She’ll be fine.’”
That really would be a better world.
I was still waiting for my food when she returned. We made sure she was safe and okay as best we could. She seemed fine. Just … pantsless.
There but for the grace of god go I.
I updated Suzie back home:
With femme sans pantaloons safely back inside, I went to my room with my four-way, which was smelling mighty good. The spicing was pretty mild, and the cheese brought balance and a smack of umami to the whole thing. While I was a little unsure after my first few bites, before I knew it I’d downed the whole thing.
And yes, I woke up with some unpleasant reflux at 4 am and lived to tell. I’m 53. If I’m eating dinner at midnight, I’m definitely waking up displeased with my decision at 4 am.
Thursday morning, I was feeling things. Specifically, migraine things. Not bad, just the effects of a long drive the day before, the excitement of the concert and femme sans pantaloons, while focusing on getting on the road home. I took my time getting ready and leaving the hotel.
When I got to my car in the parking lot, I heaved my bag into the back seat of my car and … heaved.
Standing in the Comfort Inn parking lot, leaning way forward so I wouldn’t get vomit blowback on my clothes or in my hair, I couldn’t feel the usual mild panic that comes with suddenly throwing up in public because I was too busy thinking, “Oh wow! I’m throwing up Cincinnati Chili again in Cincinnati after 23 years!”
Chili—2 Robin—0
While I won’t wait another 23 years to return to Cincinnati, I think I’m more likely to go outside bare-assed in a parka than I am to eat the Devil’s Spaghetti again. I know it’s not the chili’s fault. The first time it was pregnancy puking. This time was definitely migraine puking. I did the same thing while throwing the same bag into my rental car in Hartford, but with airplane coffee. Maybe it’s my weekender bag’s fault.
I think the only way I’ll try the devil’s spaghetti again is if that sexy demon Dulli makes his meat-free version for me. And if he once again says, “Those who don’t like it, that’s a choice,” I will holler, “I AM TRYING!!!” Because I didn’t eat tacos for most of my childhood because I threw them up with some blue bubblegum when I was three, but I always come back eventually. The devil’s spaghetti in the Queen City will surely beckon to me again. And I’ll say, “Oh, why the hell not? What are the chances?” And we’ll find out.
You probably don’t want to buy me a chili. I don’t blame you. Maybe a coffee?