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Chocolate chili champ at the Thousand Trails Pio Pico Campground south of Jamul
“We have a reputation to uphold. I’ve never worked harder in my life.”
Hodad’s chili, respectable recipe, great value belly-filler.
“You ever seen a prettier car show than this?” asks Tim. He’s into cars. We’re walking among antique and vintage classics parked in this brilliant green meadow, under trees, with the smell of wildflowers mixing with the smell of — hey! — chili, wafting down the hill.
“Yeah,” I say. “And looks like we’re gonna have plenty of time to enjoy it.”
Sore subject. “Look!” says Tim. “I thought I was going to be able to get to the door lock through the rear window. How could I know I couldn’t reach it? And I had to lock it. I’ve got valuable stuff in there.” Because, yeah, Tim locked the danged door. So? Trouble with that is, when he purchased this ’89 Ford Ranger, the reason he got a special deal on it was because the seller had, uh, lost the door keys. But not a problem for Trusting Tim. The man never locks his doors.
Chef Miguel and Sandra- run Steele 94, the Spring Valley restaurant. Makes chocolate chili.
Until today. Today we’re out here in the boonies. This is Saturday. Seems everybody and their granny has driven out here to the Thousand Trails Pio Pico Campground south of Jamul for the town’s annual chili cook-off and car show. “I’ve got stuff in there in my cab,” says Tim, “and not just the window-cleaning gear.” Because that’s what he does. In between being one of the world’s great philosophers and artists. He’s called AAA, and yes, they have an unlocking service, a Slim Jim guy. But it’ll take a couple of hours for him to get out here. Happily, we really do have plenty we can do in the meantime, because Tim’s got all those cars to ogle, and me, I just have to follow my nose and the arrows on the signs jammed in the dirt that bear one word: “chili.”
The local Kiwanis here runs the cook-off. You buy tickets, and for $2 per tasting, you can have at it. I head for a path that winds up to a large ramada on a ridge overlooking the countryside. This is where all the chili stands are, and so it’s where all the crowds are. Chili fumes waft out amid the delicious smoke. Families stand around tasting the reddy-brown stuff from little paper pots. Kids race around with hula hoops. I come across four guys, Mike, Joe, Joe and Paul, scouring the crowds to pull in more customers for their effort. They’re with Knights of Columbus. Their chili’s tomatoey and kicky, but not hot to blow your gills away. Around the corner, the Jamul Tuna Club’s effort is, curiously, all beef. But the version that Tim starts squawking about — yeah, he’s abandoned the sedans and joined me for the smokey smells — is the one conjured up by the Steele 94 restaurant, just up the road. “Chocolate, dude! They’ve got chocolate in the chile! Awesome.”
Out in the Far West is where gthe annual car and chili fest happens.
The chef-owner of Steele 94 happens to be right here at his stall. “Yes, Chocolate de l’abuelita. We make a molé of it, mix it with white meat, turkey sausage, Merlot wine, cinnamon, cumin of course, and a three-bean mix-up of black, kidney and pinto beans. Plus, it’s lo-cal, and lo-salt. We try to cover the bases. I’m always experimenting. My wife and I have been in Jamul 30 years. But this restaurant has been going 60 years, We have a reputation to uphold. I’ve never worked harder in my life.”
Even though, technically, we could go on tasting through a dozen other chili makers around us here on this little plateau above Jamul (“Sweet Water!”), Miguel Aguirre’s Steele 94 chili gets my vote. It’s that combo of sweet chocolate plus the sexiness of the Merlot wine added to the cinnamon, the cumin and the three-bean combo, not to mention the chipotle heat…maybe you can’t quiet put your finger on anything beyond the chocolate, but you know it’s the tongue-zipping icing on a very rich cake.
I had forgotten how much I love chili. It’s like if the Irish got desperate and started to pep up their stew-saturated lives. And in fact, chili’s probably not Mexican in the first place. What’s Cooking, America found an old quote from the Diccionario Mejicanismo which called chili con carne “detestable food passing itself off as Mexican, sold in the U.S. from Texas to New York.” Never mind, I still love it. They say that it started up in San Antonio, Texas 100 years ago, but other legends talk of a Sister Mary of Agreda, Spain, who had visions of being in the Southwest of what’s now the U.S. in the 1600s, and discovering in them what amounted to a chile con carne recipe: venison or antelope meat, onions, tomatoes, and chile peppers. She was said to be known among native peoples as the Lady in Blue. Some colonial priests thought the heavy-on-chile emphasis amounted to surrendering to the excitations of the devil. But because the poor needed the chiles to bolster the small amount of meat they could afford, practicality won out.
Mike, Joe, Joe, Paul reckon their chili is the best in the world. They may be right!
Except, three nights later, you’d never know it. I’m looking for a place that carries the spicy stew in downtown San Diego. Not easy! Try it. Finally, up on 9th and Broadway, I come across the looks-closed-but-is-actually-open Hodad’s Downtown. The place has always had a rebellious, generous vibe. I slip up to the counter. No sign of chili on the menu, but they do have a little standup menu tacked to the napkin dispenser. “Bowl of Hodad’s Secret Recipe,” it says. “12-ounce, topped with cheddar cheese, onions by request, $6.75.” They also have an open-face chili burger, 1/3lb with cheddar, $11. Or chili fries, with fat wedges of potato “smothered in chili” for $10.75.
I go for the bowl. Hey, it’s $6.75 and plenty filling. Maybe salty, but nice and picante, with large chunks of beef giving it an impressive heft. Deal! No wonder chili, this cultural orphan, is still loved everywhere — except the part of the world it kinda represents. I sit back and enjoy every chew (the spice also tenderizes the meat). Those Irish have everything but flavor. You can’t go back: chili is still the choice of us po’ folks, 500 years after the Good Sister saw its recipe in a vision.
The Place: Hodad’s Downtown, 945 Broadway, 619-234-6323
Hours: 11am-9pm daily.
Prices: Bowl of Hodad’s Secret Recipe Chili (12-ounces, topped with cheddar cheese, onions by request), $6.75; 1/3lb open-face chili burger, with cheddar, $11; chili fries (with fat wedges of potato smothered in chili), $10.75; chicken soup, $13; taco salad, $16; plus burgers galore
Buses: all downtown
Nearest Bus Stop: 8th and Broadway
Here's something you might be interested in.
Chocolate chili champ at the Thousand Trails Pio Pico Campground south of Jamul
“We have a reputation to uphold. I’ve never worked harder in my life.”
Chocolate chili champ at the Thousand Trails Pio Pico Campground south of Jamul
“We have a reputation to uphold. I’ve never worked harder in my life.”
Hodad’s chili, respectable recipe, great value belly-filler.
“You ever seen a prettier car show than this?” asks Tim. He’s into cars. We’re walking among antique and vintage classics parked in this brilliant green meadow, under trees, with the smell of wildflowers mixing with the smell of — hey! — chili, wafting down the hill.
“Yeah,” I say. “And looks like we’re gonna have plenty of time to enjoy it.”
Sore subject. “Look!” says Tim. “I thought I was going to be able to get to the door lock through the rear window. How could I know I couldn’t reach it? And I had to lock it. I’ve got valuable stuff in there.” Because, yeah, Tim locked the danged door. So? Trouble with that is, when he purchased this ’89 Ford Ranger, the reason he got a special deal on it was because the seller had, uh, lost the door keys. But not a problem for Trusting Tim. The man never locks his doors.
Chef Miguel and Sandra- run Steele 94, the Spring Valley restaurant. Makes chocolate chili.
Until today. Today we’re out here in the boonies. This is Saturday. Seems everybody and their granny has driven out here to the Thousand Trails Pio Pico Campground south of Jamul for the town’s annual chili cook-off and car show. “I’ve got stuff in there in my cab,” says Tim, “and not just the window-cleaning gear.” Because that’s what he does. In between being one of the world’s great philosophers and artists. He’s called AAA, and yes, they have an unlocking service, a Slim Jim guy. But it’ll take a couple of hours for him to get out here. Happily, we really do have plenty we can do in the meantime, because Tim’s got all those cars to ogle, and me, I just have to follow my nose and the arrows on the signs jammed in the dirt that bear one word: “chili.”
The local Kiwanis here runs the cook-off. You buy tickets, and for $2 per tasting, you can have at it. I head for a path that winds up to a large ramada on a ridge overlooking the countryside. This is where all the chili stands are, and so it’s where all the crowds are. Chili fumes waft out amid the delicious smoke. Families stand around tasting the reddy-brown stuff from little paper pots. Kids race around with hula hoops. I come across four guys, Mike, Joe, Joe and Paul, scouring the crowds to pull in more customers for their effort. They’re with Knights of Columbus. Their chili’s tomatoey and kicky, but not hot to blow your gills away. Around the corner, the Jamul Tuna Club’s effort is, curiously, all beef. But the version that Tim starts squawking about — yeah, he’s abandoned the sedans and joined me for the smokey smells — is the one conjured up by the Steele 94 restaurant, just up the road. “Chocolate, dude! They’ve got chocolate in the chile! Awesome.”
Out in the Far West is where gthe annual car and chili fest happens.
The chef-owner of Steele 94 happens to be right here at his stall. “Yes, Chocolate de l’abuelita. We make a molé of it, mix it with white meat, turkey sausage, Merlot wine, cinnamon, cumin of course, and a three-bean mix-up of black, kidney and pinto beans. Plus, it’s lo-cal, and lo-salt. We try to cover the bases. I’m always experimenting. My wife and I have been in Jamul 30 years. But this restaurant has been going 60 years, We have a reputation to uphold. I’ve never worked harder in my life.”
Even though, technically, we could go on tasting through a dozen other chili makers around us here on this little plateau above Jamul (“Sweet Water!”), Miguel Aguirre’s Steele 94 chili gets my vote. It’s that combo of sweet chocolate plus the sexiness of the Merlot wine added to the cinnamon, the cumin and the three-bean combo, not to mention the chipotle heat…maybe you can’t quiet put your finger on anything beyond the chocolate, but you know it’s the tongue-zipping icing on a very rich cake.
I had forgotten how much I love chili. It’s like if the Irish got desperate and started to pep up their stew-saturated lives. And in fact, chili’s probably not Mexican in the first place. What’s Cooking, America found an old quote from the Diccionario Mejicanismo which called chili con carne “detestable food passing itself off as Mexican, sold in the U.S. from Texas to New York.” Never mind, I still love it. They say that it started up in San Antonio, Texas 100 years ago, but other legends talk of a Sister Mary of Agreda, Spain, who had visions of being in the Southwest of what’s now the U.S. in the 1600s, and discovering in them what amounted to a chile con carne recipe: venison or antelope meat, onions, tomatoes, and chile peppers. She was said to be known among native peoples as the Lady in Blue. Some colonial priests thought the heavy-on-chile emphasis amounted to surrendering to the excitations of the devil. But because the poor needed the chiles to bolster the small amount of meat they could afford, practicality won out.
Mike, Joe, Joe, Paul reckon their chili is the best in the world. They may be right!
Except, three nights later, you’d never know it. I’m looking for a place that carries the spicy stew in downtown San Diego. Not easy! Try it. Finally, up on 9th and Broadway, I come across the looks-closed-but-is-actually-open Hodad’s Downtown. The place has always had a rebellious, generous vibe. I slip up to the counter. No sign of chili on the menu, but they do have a little standup menu tacked to the napkin dispenser. “Bowl of Hodad’s Secret Recipe,” it says. “12-ounce, topped with cheddar cheese, onions by request, $6.75.” They also have an open-face chili burger, 1/3lb with cheddar, $11. Or chili fries, with fat wedges of potato “smothered in chili” for $10.75.
I go for the bowl. Hey, it’s $6.75 and plenty filling. Maybe salty, but nice and picante, with large chunks of beef giving it an impressive heft. Deal! No wonder chili, this cultural orphan, is still loved everywhere — except the part of the world it kinda represents. I sit back and enjoy every chew (the spice also tenderizes the meat). Those Irish have everything but flavor. You can’t go back: chili is still the choice of us po’ folks, 500 years after the Good Sister saw its recipe in a vision.
The Place: Hodad’s Downtown, 945 Broadway, 619-234-6323
Hours: 11am-9pm daily.
Prices: Bowl of Hodad’s Secret Recipe Chili (12-ounces, topped with cheddar cheese, onions by request), $6.75; 1/3lb open-face chili burger, with cheddar, $11; chili fries (with fat wedges of potato smothered in chili), $10.75; chicken soup, $13; taco salad, $16; plus burgers galore
Buses: all downtown
Nearest Bus Stop: 8th and Broadway
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