I came to the weird world of chili cookoffs rather late in life—last year on the first Saturday of November, to be exact. I’d been invited to judge the twenty-fifth annual Terlingua International Chili Championship, and having heard many a wanton tale about this annual debauch, which is the granddaddy of all chili cookoffs, I immediately accepted. If nothing else, I might better understand why otherwise mature middle-class adults, most of them males, journey hundreds of miles to a ghost town in the Chihuahua Desert just to dress up like Gabby Hayes, go loco, and cook chili.
I phoned my friend Kirby Warnock, the publisher of the Big Bend Quarterly , to ask if he was going too. Yes, he had been invited to judge at Terlingua, he said. He then proceeded to burst my bubble by asking which cookoff I would be judging.
“Which cookoff?” Kirby repeated. “There are two cookoffs. Didn’t you know?” At that point I learned that although there is only one Terlingua, the community hosts two “original Terlingua international championship” cookoffs on the first Saturday in November within nine miles of each other.
As it turned out, Kirby was judging the Official Terlingua International Championship Chili Cookoff, conducted by what is known in chilidom as the Fowler-Tolbert faction, in honor of Wick Fowler and Frank X. Tolbert, two of the godfathers of the chili phenomenon. I was one of one hundred judges at the Chili Appreciation Society International (CASI) cookoff. Kirby voiced the opinion that the Behind the Store cookoff was far superior to the CASI cookoff. Otherwise, he wouldn’t be judging it.
Determined to decide for myself which cookoff was best, I accompanied Kirby to the Behind the Store cookoff before going on to the CASI cookoff. In due course, I got a perspective of the most ridiculous, overblown, and irreconcilable political squabble this side of the Legislature.
As we motored in from Fort Stockton, Kirby gave me brief history of the split. In the beginning, or 1939 at least, there was George Haddaway, the Dallas publisher of Flight Magazine , who used the name Chili Appreciation Society International in the unsolicited critiques he gave restaurants that served chili. One of Haddaways’s chili reviews, delivered at the Baker Hotel in Dallas, was observed by a loose confederation of journalists, media mavens, public relations executives, and other idlers who gathered at the hotel’s bar. They embraced Haddaway’s ideals, especially his appreciation of chili, and informally adopted the Chili Appreciation Society International as their own.
In 1967 Frank X. Tolbert, a columnist for the Dallas Morning News and the noted author of the chili tome A Bowl of Red , was shooting the bull with other members of the Baker Hotel gang over bowls of chili cooked up by Wick Fowler, who they regarded as the best chili cook in all of Texas. Fired up by Fowler’s chili and an inflammatory article in Holiday magazine titled “Nobody Knows More About Chili Than I Do,” written by New York humorist H. Allen Smith, the Texans issued a challenge to Smith: They would put Wick Fowler up against him in a cookoff to be held in the ghost town of Terlingua in Big Bend. The Great Chili Confrontation, as it came to be known, was as much a test to see if the Dallas group could attract a crowd to the middle of nowhere as it was a culinary showdown. Tolbert, via his position with the newspaper, took the lead in hyping the event.
The first Terlingua cookoff attracted more than a thousand people to what amounted to a lost weekend for overgrown boys. Copious quantities of alcohol were consumed. All sorts of tomfoolery were not only tolerated but encouraged. Somewhere in the midst of it all, Smith and Fowler even cooked chili. The contest was declared moot after the tie-breaking judge allegedly gagged on a spoonful of Smith’s chili. Still, the event was so much fun that everyone resolved to do it again the next year.
The PR was almost too effective. The first event had received so much coverage—including articles in Sports Illustrated and other national publications—that by the time November rolled around again, the organizers were greeted by an even larger crowd.
By 1970 the Terlingua cookoff had grown into an adult version of spring break, creating a cult of devotees big enough to justify other chili cookoffs around Texas and the nation. In short order there was even a monthly newspaper, the Goat Gap Gazette , devoted exclusively to cookoffs and the chili lifestyle.
And so it continued, well into the eighties—until the Great Terlingua Schism.
If you believe the CASI version of history, the split was a cooks’ rebellion against the old guard, specifically Tolbert. If you believe the Tolbert faction, the breakup of the chili world was caused by showoffs, Johny-come-latelies, and minor league coots with absolutely no sense of chili history, much less respect for pioneers such as Tolbert, Smith, and Fowler and their Baker Hotel compadres Tom Tierney, Davie Witts, and Bill Neale. In truth, though, the answer boils down to something as simple (and complex) as blending coarse ground meat, spices, and seasonings into a bowl of red: It comes down to egos.
Tolbert, it seems, showed up at the 1982 cookoff with two Europeans whom he wanted to enter the competition. He was challenged by cooks who protested that they, unlike the foreigners, had earned their place at Terlingua by qualifying at other cookoffs. Since most of the cooks had invested thousands of dollars and dozens of weekends in hopes of earning a trophy, they wanted everyone to observe the same rules and regulations.
These complaints struck Tolbert as being so pissant that he organized his own cookoff in Terlingua the next year. After a series of legal maneuverings and dirty tricks that thoroughly divided the two groups into the cooks versus the Tobert faction, two cookoffs were held on the same day in 1983. Tolbert