by Dave Dewitt
And my friend Gary Nabhan, who is an ethnobotanist, revealed that the Tarahumara Indians of Sonora, Mexico, use the tiny chiltepíns in curing ceremonies—not to rid someone of a current affliction but to prevent maladies as a result of future witchcraft. According to Gary,
Such witchcraft is caused by a sukurame sorcerer who uses a special bird called a disagiki as a pathogenic agent to transmit illness. He is the only one who can see the bird, which is no bigger than a finger tip but lives on meat and tortillas. It flies into houses crying ‘Shit! Shit!’ and then eats your food or defecates on you. The only way to prevent its coming is to throw some chiltepíns into the air and eat some yourself. The bird is like no other birds. More like evil people than its feathered kind, it cannot stand chiles.
Neither can sharks, if the Indians of the Cuna Islands off Panama can be believed; they tow chiles behind their boats to ward them off.
Stained glass window in the vestibule of the Sanctuary of the Transcendental Capsaicinophilic Society in Santa Fe. Photograph by Dave DeWitt. Note: This is a joke.
In the American Southwest there is a fascinating witchcraft cure. Two nails are tied together in the shape of a cross with a piece of wire. The cross is placed in a fire, and when it is red hot, it is removed from the fire and placed on a rock. A trinity of small chiles is placed on it, and then some rock salt. The resulting vapors are said to banish any witchcraft in the area.
In the Ozarks and deep South of the United States, an African American legend holds that for peppers to grow out and be hot, you have to be very angry when you plant them. The best peppers are said to be planted by a lunatic!
Perhaps the oddest legend I encountered came from Jethro Kloss’s herbal bestseller, Back to Eden. He quotes the Standard Guide to Non-Poisonous Herbal Medicine: “A peculiar effect of capsicum is worth mentioning. In Mexico the people are very fond of it; and their bodies get thoroughly saturated with it, and if one of them happens to die on the prairie the vultures will not touch the body on account of its being so impregnated with the Capsicum.”
But apparently folklore and the ancient mystical remedies are not enough for devoted chile aficionados. There is an online cult that has its own website on the Internet: the Transcendental Capsaicinophilic Society. According to the tongue-in-cheek site, the cult is devoted to the worship of chiles, the life-long dedication to chile consumption, and making fun of people who “just can’t take that spicy food.” In the “Chants and Rituals” portion of the site, there is the “Litany Against Pain,” “to be repeated silently when tempted to complain of burning”:
Teach me, Chile, and I shall Learn.
Take me, Chile, and I shall Escape.
Focus my eyes, Chile, and I shall See.
Consume more Chiles.
I feel no pain, for the Chile is my teacher.
I feel no pain, for the Chile takes me beyond myself.
I feel no pain, for the Chile gives me sight.
OF CONTESTS, COOKOFFS, AND FESTIVALS
During the second half of the twentieth century, the legend of the chile pepper exploded as enthusiasts began to glorify its fiery nature with celebrations in various parts of the country. Some of the earliest celebrations were pepper-eating contests, which apparently originated in Louisiana. In 1956, Newsweek magazine reported such a contest in the Bayou Teche country near New Iberia. The contestants were required to munch their way through progressively hotter chiles and were penalized if they winced, shuddered, or flinched. It is interesting to note that the magazine stated that jalapeños were “the hottest pepper known,” which we know is not true. The winner of that contest, Ed “Hot Mouth” Taylor, “munched his way right through the jalapeño as nonchalantly as if he had been eating turnip greens,” reported the magazine.
Chile-eating contests are now commonplace throughout the US, with jalapeños often the chile of choice. In 1988, John Espinosa of San Antonio, Texas, gulped his way into the Guinness Book of World Records by consuming an amazing 29 jalapeños in two minutes flat! It should be noted that I neither endorse nor encourage hot pepper–eating contests because of the danger of capsaicin burns and other medical complications.
Plates of 50-gram portions of chopped pepperoncini for the Peperoncino Eating Contest. ‘Diavolicchio Diamante’ is the official championship cultivar of the contest. It roughly translates as “most devilish diamond.” Contest winners these days force down about two pounds of these quite hot peppers. Photograph by Harald Zoschke. Used with permission.
In the late summer of 2006, I gave writer Gwyneth Doland an assignment to cover such an event, and here is her abbreviated report:
On the Saturday before Labor Day I drove out to Sky City Casino at Acoma Pueblo for the 2006 World Championship Jalapeño Competition, an event attended by about 100 people, but nevertheless officially sanctioned by the International Federation of Competitive Eating (IFOCE). It was the most awe-inspiring, uvula-tickling, gut-churning spectacle I have ever witnessed in what I must say is a long personal history of watching people eat. There were moments when I could only peek through cracks in the fingers I had clenched over my eyes, and there were moments when my lunch only stayed down because of the fingers clenched over my mouth. . . .
When time was up, it was too close to call between Bertoletti and LeFevre. The contestants all lingered, looking pained and ill as they wiped their faces and awaited the results. When “Jalapeño” Jed Donahue darted away from the table, we weren’t sure where he was going—until we all heard a really, really loud splash hitting asphalt. The crowd collectively groaned, and when Donahue returned to the table there was some confusion about whether or not he would be disqualified for what the IFOCE affectionately terms a “reversal of fortune.” As the 15 minute mark drew near, several contestants came dangerously close to reversal.
In the end it was determined that Pat Bertoletti had put down 177 pickled jalapeños, a feat rewarded with the $1,000 grand prize.
The 1950s also witnessed the beginning of chili con carne cookoffs, which are now some of the largest celebrations in the country involving chile peppers. The Chili Appreciation Society was formed in 1951 by George Haddaway and Jim Fuller to “improve the quality of chili in restaurants and broadcast Texas-style recipes all over the earth.” The organization was headquartered in Dallas, and when chapters began to form in other countries, the “International” was added to the name.
The Chili Appreciation Society International (CASI), was a non-dues-paying organization, and members did their own secretarial work. Their bible was With or Without Beans by Joe Cooper of Dallas, which is still in print at Amazon.com. The society slogan was “The aroma of good chili should generate rapture akin to a lover’s kiss.”
The society’s chapters had luncheon or dinner meetings about once a month over steaming “bowls of red.” Their “missionary endeavors” were debated and members spent a lot of time answering letters from all over the world and sending out “approved” recipes to those who requested them. Vats of chili were even packed in dry ice and shipped to chili-starved members in Europe. By 1964, Haddaway and his buddies headed for Los Angeles to establish a California chapter, which was duly installed at the Airport Marina Hotel. The Californians liked the chili and the society but warned the inexperienced: “Real chili con carne is not for sissies. Fowler’s Four-Alarm Chili is reputed to open 18 sinus cavities unknown to the medical profession.”
The first Terlingua, Texas, cookoff, held in 1967, was a promotion for Frank X. Tolbert’s book A Bowl of Red (also still in print) and featured a cookoff between Wick Fowler, inventor of Four-Alarm Chili Mix, and humorist H. Allen Smith, author of the article “Nobody Knows More About Chili Than I Do,” which appears in a 1967 issue of Holiday magazine. Because of the remoteness of the Terlingua cookoff, no one thought very many chili fans would show up, but 209 chapters of CASI were represented and over a thousand spectators attended. The contest ended in a draw between Fowler and Smith. In 1968, the second cookoff at Terlingua was
also declared a draw by Tolbert. But, of course, he had no choice since the ballot box was stolen by masked men with guns. These desperadoes threw it into an outhouse located over a mine shaft!
The ubiquitous pot of chili con carne is seen at every major cookoff. Photograph by Derek Ramsey. Wikimedia. GNU Free Documentation License, Version 1.2.
By 1970, over 5,000 spectators trekked to Terlingua, and it was evident that a major event had been created. CASI started to get organized, and local “Pods” were formed to hold preliminary cookoffs. The number of contests grew, and eventually “chiliheads,” as they were called, developed such a listing of cookoffs that competition cooking is now similar to a professional sports circuit. Most members of CASI belong to Pods, and cooks are given points for placing at sanctioned cookoffs throughout the year: four points for winning, three for second, two for third, and one for fourth. At the end of the year, all cooks having enough points to qualify are invited to cook at Terlingua, always the first Saturday in November.
The Terlingua cookoff can no longer legally be called the “World Championship” because that phrase has been trademarked by the International Chili Society (ICS). The International Chili Society was booted out of Texas in 1974 and was reborn in California. During the 1974 Terlingua cookoff, CASI celebrities C. V. Wood and Carroll Shelby flew a network television crew in to cover the festivities. Of course, it was only natural that the media people would interview the people who had provided the transportation, but Frank Tolbert did not appreciate the promotion. After standing around on the sidelines and not receiving any attention from the TV crew, he became angry. In a letter to Wood and Shelby, he “invited” them to promote their own chili cookoff in California and “save the freight.” So they did.
They formed the International Chili Society and made plans for a major cookoff. After searching for a suitable location for the ICS cookoff in California, the Tropico Gold Mine, located three miles west of Rosamond in the Mohave Desert, was selected. The International Chili Society also thumbed its nose at CASI by trademarking the phrase “World Championship Chili Cookoff.”
The first Championship Chili Cookoff held in California was twice as big as expected—about 20,000 people attended. Perhaps some of them were star-struck by the celebrity judges: William Conrad, Robert Mitchum, Ernest Borgnine, Peter Marshall, Dale Robertson, and John Derek. The Miss Chili Pepper was Diana House, who went on to spice up Playboy magazine.
Meanwhile, back in Texas, Frank Tolbert was busy organizing CASI and promoting the Terlingua cookoff. Although relations between the two societies seemed to be “heated,” they were in constant communication with each other. Early in 1976, ICS began to get organized by finding corporate sponsors. Pepsi, Budweiser, Hunt-Wesson, Tabasco, the American Spice Trade Association, and Tequila Sauza came on board to help raise money for various charities. By 1977 the turnout at Tropico Gold Mine for the championship exceeded 35,000. That year Tommy Lasorda, Leslie Uggams, Andy Granatelli, and Bobby Unser were added to the celebrity judging staff, and by the end of the fourth championship, over $50,000 had been raised for charity.
Cash prizes were growing as well. In 1978, the World’s Champion Chili Cook, LaVerne “Nevada Annie” Harris, picked up $14,000—which was great pay for three hours of cooking. Ten years later, the 1988 championship was held on October 30 in Tropico with over $35,000 in cash prizes and awards. Since 1975, ICS has raised over $10 million for charities and nonprofit organizations. There are nearly 15,000 members worldwide, who sanction about 350 cookoffs every year with nearly 10,000 contestants and 5,000 judges. Obviously, chili cookoffs today are no longer off-the-wall events but, rather, viable fund-raising efforts.
In addition to raising money, ICS has a lot of fun, which is demonstrated by some of the events at the Tropico Gold Mine cookoff. In 1988, the Tulsa, Oklahoma, Jaycees built the World’s Largest Pot of Competition-Style Chili. The 750 gallons of chili was made with 75 pounds of bacon, 3,000 pounds of chili-grind meat, 1,500 pounds of onions, 1,200 cloves of garlic, nearly 30 pounds of spices—and, of course, more than 50 pounds of fresh chiles. The concoction, based on a recipe called Chili from Hell, was served to more than 20,000 chiliheads at Tropico in a benefit for the St. Jude’s Children’s Hospital in Memphis.
Chili lovers are never satisfied. Despite the fact that the bowl o’ red is the Texas State dish, a movement has begun to have Congress declare chili con carne America’s Official Food. Led by self-proclaimed World Chili Ambassador Ormly Gumfudgin, and supported by the International Chili Society and Maximum Strength Pepto-Bismol, the movement hopes to obtain the signatures of one million chiliheads on a petition to support passage of the bill, which has been before Congress but never acted upon. Considering the fact that the ICS sanctions more than 150 chili cookoffs each year, and CASI sanctions more than 450—meaning that more than 750,000 people attend chili cookoffs each year—perhaps this goal is reachable.
Cookoff contestants love to dress up in weird costumes, but this is the real deal. Here, Staff Sergeant Carlos Morales prepares his own recipe for chili as he participates in the Last Battle Over Baghdad Chili Cookoff. The cookoff took place at the Sather Air Base pavilion, Baghdad. It was a Chili Appreciation Society International–sanctioned event with all proceeds benefiting the Boy and Girl Scouts of Iraq. Photograph by Staff Sergeant Daniel Yarnall. Wikimedia. This image is a work of a US Army soldier or employee, taken or made as part of that person’s official duties. As a work of the US federal government, the image is in the public domain.
There seems to be no end to the ever-growing number of other festivals celebrating the chile pepper. Laredo, Texas, holds a Jalapeño Fiesta each year, while tiny Hatch, New Mexico, draws more than 10,000 people to its Hatch Chile Festival, held every year over the Labor Day weekend. Tucson, Arizona, holds its Fiesta de los Chiles in mid-October at the Tucson Botanical Gardens, complete with a chile rap song performed by a puppeteer. Las Cruces, New Mexico, produced an annual Enchilada Fiesta for 34 years, at which they created the World’s Largest Enchilada, nearly eight feet in diameter. But in 2015, Robert Estrada, who made the Guinness World Record–holding enchilada, said he was retiring and could not make the enchilada anymore.
According to the Clifton Chilli Club, whose leaders visited our 2019 Fiery Foods and Barbecue Show, there are about six chilli festivals in the UK, one in the Netherlands, and four in Australia. There are hundreds of chile festivals and chili con carne events in the US. In 2017, through online searching, I found about 300 retail-store locations that have “Hatch Green Chile Roasting” events.
The latest US chile-contest craze has Southwestern cities competing for the title of “Mexican Food Capital” by way of a cookoff challenge. In 1987, Tucson mayor Lew Murphy proclaimed his city to be the “Mexican Food Capital of the World and Elsewhere.” In a blistering letter to the mayors of San Antonio, El Paso, Los Angeles, Dallas, San Diego, Phoenix, Santa Fe, and Albuquerque, Murphy challenged those cities to a chile-cooking contest in Tucson. “It’s time to put your Mexican menu where our mouth is,” Murphy dared them.
Such a cavalier attitude produced fumes from Santa Fe’s mayor, Sam Pick, who retorted: “We’ve been eating chile here in Santa Fe before Tucson was even thought of.” Pick was alluding to the fact that Santa Fe was founded 165 years before Tucson, and he added: “Everyone knows that Santa Feans are bred on red and weaned on green.” Eventually, the cities of Phoenix, El Paso, Albuquerque, and Santa Fe collided with Tucson in early December 1987, to give a heated response to the chile challenge. The event was called, improbably enough, the Great American Mexican Food Cook-Off. The judges of the contest were all Mexicans—not Hispanics, mind you, but real Mexican chile aficionados imported from Tijuana. One of them was the president of the Tijuana restaurant owners’ association.
The results of the contest proved that Tucson’s claim to be the capital of Mexican food was invalid. Overall winners were, in order, Santa Fe, Phoenix, and Albuquerque. The following year, Santa Fe chefs and c
ooks again seized control of the title of “Mexican Food Capital of the World and Elsewhere” at the 1988 Mayor’s Chile Challenge held in Santa Fe.
Such contests inevitably bring up questions. What city is America’s spiciest? Which state offers the greatest wealth of fiery food? In 1988, the Whole Chile Pepper magazine (with me as the editor) conducted a study based upon a compilation of nationwide Yellow Page classifications. The listings of over 2,800 Mexican-food restaurants and Mexican-food retail-product producers were analyzed. Since Mexican food contains one of the highest percentages of chile peppers of any cuisine, it was regarded as a prime indicator for the popularity of fiery foods in general.
The data were examined on a state-by-state and city-by-city basis, then compared to the population of each area to determine the number of people per Mexican-food retailer, thus giving a good indication of the demand for fiery foods in each region. The study of the states indicated—not unexpectedly—that New Mexico and Texas ranked at the top of per capita consumption of Mexican food. New Mexico was the hottest state with one retailer per 11,900 residents. Texas was close behind with one outlet for every 13,700 Texans. California, despite its proximity to Mexico, ranked a weak eleventh, with only one retailer for every 53,000 residents. The southern area of that state was stronger than the northern part, as might be expected. Surprisingly, Kansas ranked third, with one retailer for every 17,200 people.
