HOW THAT WONDERFUL NEW MEXICO CHILI GOT THAT WAY, OR

TALES OF OLD ROUTE 66

 

An uncle recited to me an unsavory incident occurring in the 1950s when he and his family got the hungries around noonish while traveling Route 66 back to California after a Midwest vacation. He pulled off the two-lane and into the parking lot of a small Mexican café in New Mexico. Looking at the menu, and especially liking his wife’s home style chili,  he ordered a bowl for himself to see if it matched the glory his taste buds received from his wife’s enticing blend of meat and spices. It was delicious he marveled as he kiddingly scolded the rest of his family for ordering something different. The meat was the real winner. Its texture was just right. When the Mexican lady waitress with the flowery apron reappeared to check on their progress he couldn’t help but praise the cook in glowing words to the hostess but also ask how the meat was prepared. “Chawed,” she said. “Chawed,” my uncle replied back in astonishment. He said he quickly and immediately rounded up the bunch, hastily paid the tab and hustled out the door and back on the road. “Did she mean charred?” I asked.  With mean, squinting eyes now my uncle replied, “Chawed,” as if there was no mistake “…Chawed.”

 

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