My Hero's Chili

I don’t know Ben, but I respect him. Around 50 years ago, this fellow opened what is now a legendary black-owned restaurant in Washington, DC called “Ben’s Chili Bowl.” It’s a can’t miss late-night stop in the nation’s capital, so I absolutely had to go back on my recent visit.

Imagine walking into a narrow diner at three in the morning. You see a single row of vinyl booths on the left, a half dozen fry cooks on the right, and a line of 30 customers in various states of sobriety and alertness. 1970s funk music is blasting. Mirrors and signed publicity photos of African-American celebrities line the walls, and a collection of homeless people wait outside for change and extra food.

The workers are fast and efficient, and nothing like Seinfeld’s Soup Nazi, but still I didn’t want to mess up, so I rehearsed my order silently as I advanced in the line. Chili-cheeseburger, chili-cheese fries, vanilla milkshake. Chili-cheeseburger, chili-cheese fries, vanilla milkshake. When my turn came, I ordered well. When my food came, I didn’t leave a scrap. When the heartburn came at sunrise, I took it like a man. Just like Ben would have wanted.