Last Judges at the Chili Cook-Off
When life gives you hungover botched plans in rural Texas, make (or at least judge) chili.
The morning after a long, fun night at the 04 Lounge dive bar in Austin, it took our hungover minds a beat too long to process the “RESERVATIONS ONLY” sign at the entrance at Pedernalis State Park. The Texas sun seemed especially bright hanging over our attempt to visit the state park my boyfriend Sam had such fond childhood memories of. When he was growing up, reservations were never required to see the waterfalls and swim at Pedernalis—that’s only come about since COVID, the ranger explained to us.
Head pounding, slightly nauseous—normally in such a state the bright, hilly drive would have felt hellish. But on this particular day, still reveling in the giddiness of being together on vacation and appreciative of the rolling pastures dotted with cacti and wildflowers and darting jackrabbits, everything seemed alright. Even if we couldn’t get into the park, which was why we drove the hour from Austin in the first place.
Happily, Sam then remembered another place from his trove of memories of driving with his parents around the Hill Country: The Blue Bonnet Café in Marble Falls, which wasn’t too far. The blue bonnets that grow wild along the highways and dot the grass with bright swaths of indigo might have been out of season by that point in early May, but if his memory was correct, the pie and chicken fried steak at that café were year-round, and equally worth the drive. We had a new destination.
Before she approached the car with the two hefty Styrofoam boxes, we’d spotted the “Chili Cook-Off” flier staked into the grass at the edge of the lot. We looked at each other in instant agreement—we knew a sign when we saw one, offered from the cowboy-hat-clad chili gods up above.
Upon pulling up to the local institution, our anticipation shifted back to disappointment: a line of at least twenty people stretched out of the front door, and they closed within the hour. Sam pulled into a parking spot to determine a new plan, but I hadn’t given up on the prospect of pie; before he finished parking I pulled out my phone, and placed a to-go order with a girl who was surprisingly chipper on the phone, considering how slammed they were. “One slice of peach pie, please, one of coconut cream.”
Before she approached the car with the two hefty Styrofoam boxes, we’d spotted the “Chili Cook-Off” flier staked into the grass at the edge of the lot. We looked at each other in instant agreement—we knew a sign when we saw one, offered from the cowboy-hat-clad chili gods up above. We were still shoveling hardy bites of the thick-crusted, almost cloyingly-sweet pies into our mouths as we pealed back out of the lot, hot on the trail of the “Chili Cook-Off” signs.
When we arrived at the park where the cook-off was taking place, we weren’t initially sure what to make of it, or even if there was really a cook-off happening at all. The scene didn’t look like any Louisiana festival we’d ever been to, that was certain. A more understated affair, we eventually spotted a cluster of something like a half dozen motor homes; kids running around and large stainless steel cooking pots set up outside. Near this portable chili compound was a large event tent, with uniformed Boy Scouts setting up tables and chairs beneath it. Surely, they knew something about the chili.
Amidst the bustle of the Boy Scouts was an older gentleman with a U.S. Marines Veteran baseball cap atop his grey hair, seated stoically at a plastic table, with a somewhat official-looking stack of papers before him. “Excuse me, sir, do you know where we could … buy some chili?” I asked him hesitantly, not quite sure how this worked. “Y’all wanna judge?” He shot back, without skipping a beat. “Are there any qualifications?” Sam asked him. “Y’all both over eighteen?” The man asked. We confirmed. “How much does it cost, to judge?” I asked, still unsure of how any of this worked. “Nothin’. You get a free lunch and free beer.” And as one should almost always reply to such an offer, we enthusiastically agreed.
She then hovered protectively over a cardboard box containing several numbered Styrofoam containers, their translucent lids stained with deep red oil, as she explained the extensive list of judging rules to us.
When the setup (which we offered to help with, but the Boy Scouts had covered) was complete, we were directed to sit at a table for four with the Troop Leader (in full beige, badged regalia and navy ascot) and a retired lady who couldn’t have been a day younger than eighty named Mrs. Hope. I later learned that when I stepped away to use the restroom, Mrs. Hope told Sam all about her long-ago plans to convert an old grain silo into bedrooms for her now-grown sons, an idea her late husband told her was stupid, at the time. “I think that’s a great idea,” Sam told her. “Maybe you can be my next husband!” She replied flirtatiously. In her defense, a chili cook-off seems as good a place as any for a widow to find love in Marble Falls.
After meeting and briefly chatting with our two fellow judges, a brunette woman with a serious demeanor brought us our judging sheets, pencils, cold Budweisers, and several packets of saltine crackers. She then hovered protectively over a cardboard box containing several numbered Styrofoam containers, their translucent lids stained with deep red oil, as she explained the extensive list of judging rules to us.
Judging a chili cook-off, it turns out, is much more serious than the ease with which we were drafted for the job implied. The judging sheet included a thorough and lengthy list of rules, each marked by tiny chili pepper symbols, with “OFFICIAL CHILI JUDGING SHEET” across the top. We were to award each chili we tasted a score between one and ten, based on five criteria: aroma, red color, consistency, taste, and aftertaste. We were to judge each chili on its own merit, without comparing it to the other chilis—which I found to be one of the trickier of the many rules. We were not to discuss any of the chilis or compare scores with our fellow judges, and it was made clear that if we did, we would be asked to leave the judging area and our sheets would be disregarded. As I said: chili in Texas is quite serious business.
When we were all thoroughly debriefed, with saltine palate-cleansers and plastic spoons at the ready, the brunette officiant somberly handed us each a numbered container. Using a clean spoon, we were to open the container, stir the chili inside, and taste a single, heaping bite before deliberating silently, marking our score by the corresponding number, closing the chili, and passing it to the judge on our right before cleansing our palates with a cracker or sip of beer. This was Texas, so it probably doesn’t need to be said that there were no beans involved in any of the competitors—that would be an instant disqualifier, I assumed.
Each chili was meaty, spicy, and flavorful in its own distinct way—some were heavier on cumin or red pepper than others, some were oilier, some had larger chunks of beef, some contained more gristle; but they all embraced the Texas chili tradition, each clearly a loving, time-perfected interpretation of the local staple. By the time I tasted my tenth and final chili, it was frankly becoming hard to distinguish the subtle differences—I could see why they were so eager for judges with fresh palates. When we finished and turned in our signed judging sheets, the officiant thanked us several times, as did a note at the bottom of the paper that preceded the send-off, “May Chiligula Bless Your Day and Your Journey Home!” We bid goodbye to our new chili comrades, and wandered back into the sunny Marble Falls afternoon.
Walking to our car, we noticed a babbling creek running over smooth, grey stones beneath a bridge. “Let’s take off our shoes and put our feet in the water,” Sam suggested. “It’s not Pedernalis, but hey, it’s a creek.” Still embracing the spontaneous energy of the day, we teetered on bare feet down to the creek bed and dangled our soles in the cold, swiftly rushing water, cars driving past above. And sure, it wasn’t Pedernalis—but with bellies full of chili, bare feet in a creek bed, and a funny story to tell from so far off of our itinerary, it certainly felt like a day well-spent in Texas.
This chili cook-off was hosted by Chili Appreciation Society International, or C.A.S.I., who we learned hosts cook-offs throughout the country, and is always looking for judges. Judging is free, and the entry fee for competing chili cooks always goes towards a local charity—in the case of this Marble Falls event, proceeds went to the local Boy Scouts. Find a cook-off near you at casichili.net.