Hi Friends!

I’ve been away for awhile conducting research for a new direction I plan on taking my blogs. I enjoy some of the finer things in life, especially when properly cooked and displayed on my plate. Today I offer you my first restaurant review. The research was extensive and it required me to pull the cloak off an urban myth.

One of my favorite movies is The man who shot Liberty Valance. I’ll try not to ruin the ending for those of you that haven’t seen it, but the movie's two stars, Jimmy Steward and John Wayne, find themselves caught in a plot where a legend is confronted by the facts. The movie’s grizzled old newspaper editor finally summarizes the situation with this profound statement: “when legend becomes fact, print the legend.”

That statement came back to haunt me following a recent trip to Green Bay. Every region has something it's famous for. Visit Kansas City and it has to be barbeque. The East Coast: something in a shell served with drawn butter. Texas: steak. I think you get my drift.

Well, for years, the Green Bay region has been famous for three things: Chicken Booyah, Friday Night Perch Fish Fry and a bowl of chili from the legendary Chili Johns.

“Booyah” was a word coined in Green Bay back around the early 1900s. It’s a variation of the word “bouillon” and refers to a thick chicken stew that was (still is) served in the back of community centers and church kitchens. Good homemade Booyah is thick and rich and gets even better when left in a pot on the back burner. I’ll save my Booyah review for another day.

Most of Wisconsin, not just the Green Bay region is known for its traditional Friday Night Fish Fry tradition. It was originally marketed for German Catholics who observed “meatless” Friday and made up the majority of the population. With prohibition, Friday Night Fish Fry offered the struggling taverns an opportunity to bring customers into their alcohol-less bar now turned into eateries. Back in those days, the yellow perch from the Green Bay of Lake Michigan were abundant and the serving of yellow perch on Fridays became tradition.

Through the years, over-fishing reduced the amount of bars serving perch and the tradition expanded to include other species of fish like cod, haddock and pollock. Outside the greater Green Bay and Fox River Valley this is what you’ll get on a typical Friday Night Fish Fry.

But in Green Bay, the Yellow Perch is still the fish you serve on Friday nights if you want anyone to come to your restaurant. Throw in some French fries, a bucket of cole slaw, a slab of rye bread and you’re talking some good eating.

Despite its significance, I’ll save my review of a good fish fry for another day too.

Today’s blog and review has been saved for the last remaining gastronomical legend Green Bay is famous for: the holy grail of cooked meats, a bowl of chili from Chili Johns.

When I learned that I would be in Green Bay, I immediately made plans to include a visit to Chili Johns. It’s been a Green Bay institution for more than 80 years. Legend has it the original recipe came from the Old World and has never been changed. Being a “foodie,” I make it a point to know of such regional delicacies.

Although I’ve never had the opportunity to sample this purported “nectar of the Gods,” I’ve read many detailed, rave reviews from others that had gone before me and somehow felt I’d experienced this pleasure in a bowl, even if only vicariously.

I knew I had to add a bowl of Chili Johns chili to my “bucket list” after listening to football commentator and foodie-legend John Madden mention during a pre-game show that a bowl of chili from Chili Johns was always his first stop whenever the network sent him to Green Bay to call a game.

It was about three weeks ago that we drove into Green Bay, and like the faithful heading towards Mecca, I felt pulled to Chili Johns. Decades of planning and anticipation about this legendary bowl of chili were about to come to an end. But first I had to find it. You’d think a place making magic in a bowl would be tucked away in some obscure, hole-in-the-wall location. Used to be. Now,

Chili Johns occupies a slot in a strip mall on the city’s west side. As soon as I walked into Chili Johns I felt transformed back into the 1960s. It’s as simple and down to earth as a plastic menu, a soda fountain and checkered vinyl table cloths. The counter was shoulder to shoulder with flocks of the faithful all slurping from the chili bowls in front of them. I knew I was home.

I didn’t even need a menu. I knew what I wanted: I ordered the “super bowl” sized chili, spicy, with a bed of spaghetti and red beans. Like a pig before Easter, I couldn’t sit still with anticipation. I kept straining my neck to ogle the kitchen, waiting for my super bowl of chili to be served.

Finally, I heard the service cart approach and when my waitress set my place and delivered my chili I was speechless. Speechless in a bad sort of way. Like when Toto pulled back the curtain hiding the Wizard of Oz, or the day you figured out Santa Claus was mom and dad or the time your sister pulled down G.I. Joe’s pants. My dream had become reality. Talk about a disappointment!

I’d put Chili Johns chili on a pedestal for nearly 30 years and now, staring face-to-face with my hero I realized I had fallen victim to years of the hype surrounding this urban legend.

My legendary bowl of chili started out with a worn, medium-sized soup bowl probably as old as I was. Certainly this couldn’t be the “super bowl” I had just ordered. The waitress confirmed it was and offered some oyster crackers.

In my soup bowl was a “plop” of over-boiled spaghetti noodles. Sitting on top of those tired, old noodles was a ladle of inauspicious, pedestrian red beans. On top of the spaghetti and read beans was suppose to be the chili that made Green Bay famous. Except this glop looked nothing like any chili I’d ever seen. It was thick and brown and looked more like the sloppy Joes I used to get during junior high school hot lunch.

So this was it? Thirty years of anticipation and all I had to show for it was a big greasy blob of seasoned chili meat resting on pile of spaghetti noodles and red beans? All that was left was hope. Hope that this mess tasted better than it looked. My first bite confirmed that it didn’t. It was the mildest “spicy” I’d ever eaten. No smoke poured from my nose or flames from my mouth and my taste buds demanded to know what all the fuss was about.

I spotted a salt shaker at the next booth and made a dive for it.   It would be similar to the dive I made for the Tums bottle two hours later.

Just like the the man who shot Liberty Valance, I too, had learned that legend is usually far greater than fact. And if I had learned anything from that movie, it was to print the legend when faced with the facts. Sorry, not in this column.

Until next time,

I’ll remain, Red Beans (hold the chili) and ricely yours,

Jeff