New York City is a series of theme parties. There's the frat-guy theme, the wealthy-democrat theme, the American-perception-of-China theme, and all three of these parties, Murray Hill, the Upper West Side, and China Town, have their own drink specials. There is also the idealist student theme, the impoverished theme, the forcibly indifferent dumpster diving theme. There's the theme of homogenous Brooklyn, of overpriced Manhattan, of fearing Staten Island.
And then there's the food theme(s).
New York City has a delicious infatuation with theme eateries. It's only in this city that a mac & cheese craving can be satisfied with a "masala mac & cheese," a "Parisienne mac & cheese" and "all-American mac & cheese," all under one roof. It's only in this city that a rice pudding break becomes an overwhelming endeavor, as "coconut coma" and "fluent in French" are among dozens of choices. And it's only in this city that hundreds of hipsters join together to consume voraciously endless bowls of chili.
Sunday, January 27th, was New York City's Chili Fest, a celebration of comfort food for chili connoisseurs from all boroughs. Tureens of steaming chili line the corridors of Chelsea Market, while chives and chips and steel spoons seem to be thrown about in frenzy. Those tabling and representing their restaurant, while seemingly cordial, are actually fiercely competing with each other for the Golden Chili Mug 2013 title. To witness this historic event (and to be immersed in beans and beer), my friend spontaneously purchased tickets, and I began rummaging through my closet to find my flannel.
There is always that one girl who interrupts the flow of buffets or dinner parties to ask what is in the food. She's always the one with a deathly allergy to an obscure Brazilian fall grain or with the religious restrictions on certain meats or with neurotic fear of the waiter's thumb grazing her soup. And then there's that one girl who is a vegetarian by choice.
Competition was so cutthroat for the Golden Chili Mug 2013 title, that restaurants could not compromise unique recipes for the registered meatless. We asked volunteers, chefs, support staff if there was even one restaurant with a vegetarian version of their chili. The response was the same. Everyone would initially stare blankly, and then open their mouths as if to say, "Alas! You're that girl," but would instead say, "I'm sure there is. But the bar is over there. Why don't you start with beer, first?"
There were all types of chili. There was chili with Thai spices, chili with beef and tofu, chili with Mexican flair. But the one ingredient they all had in common was beer. And so, the only way I could have vegetarian chili, that is, chili stripped of its meat, was to consume its most fundamental component.
And I obliged.
By the end of the night, chili fest had become a dance. Underscoring the perception of unity on to which each so desperately held, a wave of flannel and beards, a spectrum of different colors and sizes, swayed in unison.
There is no such thing as "classic New York," for it is only a series of theme parties, pockets of authenticity wrapped up and sold to the consuming mainstream (you, me, the rest of the world). But if there were such a thing, New York Chili Fest might come close.
And then there's the food theme(s).
New York City has a delicious infatuation with theme eateries. It's only in this city that a mac & cheese craving can be satisfied with a "masala mac & cheese," a "Parisienne mac & cheese" and "all-American mac & cheese," all under one roof. It's only in this city that a rice pudding break becomes an overwhelming endeavor, as "coconut coma" and "fluent in French" are among dozens of choices. And it's only in this city that hundreds of hipsters join together to consume voraciously endless bowls of chili.
Sunday, January 27th, was New York City's Chili Fest, a celebration of comfort food for chili connoisseurs from all boroughs. Tureens of steaming chili line the corridors of Chelsea Market, while chives and chips and steel spoons seem to be thrown about in frenzy. Those tabling and representing their restaurant, while seemingly cordial, are actually fiercely competing with each other for the Golden Chili Mug 2013 title. To witness this historic event (and to be immersed in beans and beer), my friend spontaneously purchased tickets, and I began rummaging through my closet to find my flannel.
There is always that one girl who interrupts the flow of buffets or dinner parties to ask what is in the food. She's always the one with a deathly allergy to an obscure Brazilian fall grain or with the religious restrictions on certain meats or with neurotic fear of the waiter's thumb grazing her soup. And then there's that one girl who is a vegetarian by choice.
Competition was so cutthroat for the Golden Chili Mug 2013 title, that restaurants could not compromise unique recipes for the registered meatless. We asked volunteers, chefs, support staff if there was even one restaurant with a vegetarian version of their chili. The response was the same. Everyone would initially stare blankly, and then open their mouths as if to say, "Alas! You're that girl," but would instead say, "I'm sure there is. But the bar is over there. Why don't you start with beer, first?"
There were all types of chili. There was chili with Thai spices, chili with beef and tofu, chili with Mexican flair. But the one ingredient they all had in common was beer. And so, the only way I could have vegetarian chili, that is, chili stripped of its meat, was to consume its most fundamental component.
And I obliged.
By the end of the night, chili fest had become a dance. Underscoring the perception of unity on to which each so desperately held, a wave of flannel and beards, a spectrum of different colors and sizes, swayed in unison.
There is no such thing as "classic New York," for it is only a series of theme parties, pockets of authenticity wrapped up and sold to the consuming mainstream (you, me, the rest of the world). But if there were such a thing, New York Chili Fest might come close.
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