My dad was a great storyteller. Even though he was a little shy with strangers, he loved to spin a good yarn from time to time with his family. His best tales were stories about Chicago.

He moved there in the 1960s, which must have been a fascinating decade to be in any big American city, but particularly Chicago. The Blackhawks were in the Stanley Cup finals twice (and lost both times to different Canadian teams). Richard J. Daley won two new terms as Mayor, and The Machine was in its prime. The 1968 Democratic National Convention put Chicago on infamous center stage during a year of protest and civil unrest throughout the nation.

During this tumultuous era, my father worked in downtown Chicago and pursued a business degree at DePaul at night. He was in his 20s, with the boundless energy and gusto for life that we have in that decade of our lives.

He loved all the hustle and opportunity of the city and spent some of his free time on Rush Street. Dad claimed to know Joey Meyer (son of Blue Demons basketball coach Ray Meyer who would also coach the team) and a ‘Ritchie’ M. Daley, who followed in his own father’s footsteps as a multi-term mayor through the 1990s.

But my favorite story from that time was how he came into his chili recipe.

On Saturday and Sunday evenings, famed Chicago watering hole Butch McGuire’s served hot dogs and chili to patrons who would pay via an honor-system at the bar. As the story goes, one weekend Dad was hanging out and having a drink and a bowl of chili with the usual suspects, among them, Butch himself. He and Mr. McGuire began talking, and according to my father, Butch told him the ‘secret’ recipe to his chili, which Dad wrote on a cocktail napkin. He took it back to his small apartment and cooked up a batch for his roommates. It was a hit.

Sadly, that napkin is lost to history: I think of it as the lost ‘Bartlett for America’ relic of our family culinary past.

Over the next few years, big changes were in store for Dad: He met and married my Mom, they had their first daughter (me), bought a house in Wheaton, and moved out of the city, but the chili remained his signature dish. He made it for every potluck in the suburbs and as a New Year’s Day hangover cure. He made it for Super Bowl parties and birthdays and blizzards. When we moved to Pennsylvania and later to Florida, he kept cooking up big, fragrant pots of the delicious, molten stuff for friends and family. I often served as his sous chef, chopping onions and peppers and occasionally stirring the pot while the chili cooked for hours. I loved hearing the stories he told as we worked. He made many dishes well, but chili remained a specialty. It was also a litmus test of sorts: Can you handle this five-alarm chili? Then you were automatically family. If not, well, you’ll learn.

When I left home for college, I missed cooking with him as much as the food itself. One gloomy Midwest weekend I was grocery shopping and it struck me that I needed to make a batch. Even though I’d assisted for years, I had only the vaguest idea about how to begin. I gathered the ingredients as well as my memory permitted, headed home, and called him immediately. OK, I said. I’m making your chili. What do I do first?

Over the next hour on an expensive long-distance call (remember those?), he walked me through nuances in the recipe: Exactly how long to sauté the onions, how to toast the spices, the perfect size to cut the peppers. As I cooked, he told me how proud he was of me and that I should enjoy every moment of school and being young. I'm sure I didn't follow that advice as closely as I should have over the next few years, but on that day, when the chili was done, it filled me with the warmth of home. Exactly what I needed.

Every fall when the temperature in Chicago drops, I get the same craving. I gather the ingredients with muscle memory after all these years, creating a chili that’s spicy and complex and also simple and comforting and perfect. My sons chop onions and peppers. My husband has become a fan and has built up his tolerance for the spice over the years, officially earning family status. The boys are coming along. They’ll learn.

My Mom and I sharing some Butch McGuire’s culture with my sons. (January 2020) — My Mom and I sharing some Butch McGuire’s culture with my sons. *(January 2020)*

Butch McGuire passed away in 2006, and over the years I've been tempted to contact his son Bobby, who still runs the establishment to see if Dad’s story pans out. I’ve been to this bar many times, but I’ve never can bring myself to order the chili, which is still on the menu. There’s something about the inherited memory of this recipe that I never wanted to examine too closely. I like to think of Dad, young and handsome, laughing in his contagious way at the bar, full of the hope and optimism at the energy that was in the air of the 1960s, enjoying a bowl of chili on a dreary Chicago afternoon. He was on the cusp of changes he could never have imagined for his life and the world.

Instead, I choose to believe the story.

My sister won her neighborhood chili cook-off twice with what she called Big Dave’s Chili recipe. As with most family recipes, amounts are approximate and I’m sure my siblings have their own variations, but this one is closest to the way I do it. I present it to you here with the hope you will make it your own and cook it with and for your family, filling them with this warm concoction as well as the story of your life.

That’s the most important ingredient of all.

Big Dave’s Chili (also quite possibly Butch McGuire’s Chili Recipe)

Ingredients:

2 lbs ground beef (75/25 or 80/20)
2 large onions, diced medium
¼ - ½ c hot chili powder, to taste
4-8 T cumin
3 bay leaves
1 28 oz can tomato puree
2 14 oz cans diced tomatoes
2 cans hot chili beans (or mild if you prefer)
2 green bell peppers, medium chop (1” pieces)

Olive oil

Sharp cheddar cheese (grated), sour cream, oyster crackers for topping (optional)

In a large Dutch oven, heat 2 T olive oil and sauté onions on medium-low heat until translucent, not browned. Add ground beef and brown well. Drain off some of the fat so the mixture is slightly dry and reserve the fat separately. Add chili powder and cumin (to taste) to the beef and onion mixture, stirring until spices are well-toasted and fragrant. Put reserved fat back into the beef and onion mixture with tomato puree, tomatoes, bay leaves, and chili beans (do not drain any of the canned ingredients). Simmer, covered, stirring occasionally, for 2-4 hours, and then remove from heat and refrigerate overnight or at least 6-8 hours. An hour or two before serving, return to the stove and reheat on low. Add peppers about 30/45 minutes before serving. Serve with optional toppings and a healthy dose of family stories. Freezes well.

Notes: Chipotle chili powder is also good, if slightly untraditional, and adds a smoky flavor if that’s your thing. You can mix up the beans to add black and/or white beans if you prefer. The overnight chill is a critical step to blend the flavors, but it’s also good right away. Corn chips make an excellent addition, and it’s also good for chili dogs.

This essay also appeared in the November issue of Fete Lifestyle Magazine.