Plunge weekend’s Chili Crawl triggers spicy memories – and tastes

Every year I look forward to the downtown Rehoboth Chili Crawl that’s part of Polar Plunge weekend. Around noon, I get to do my part judging the Fire & Ice competition, then, fortified with hot wings and ice cream, I join the crawl about town. This year’s contestants included comfort-food mavens such as The Pond, Cooter Brown’s, Rehoboth Ale House and Café Azafrán ... just to name a few. As an aside, congrats to Azafrán for winning this year’s award for Best Overall Chili. Plop, plop, fizz, fizz became my afternoon mantra.

My mother was born close enough to the Tex-Mex border to develop a taste for anything that bears that name – especially chili. She loved everything Texas (especially if it was edible), and one rule was sacrosanct: Never utter the words “chili” and “beans” in the same sentence. Those were fightin’ words, you see, because traditional Texas chili is made without beans. And my outspoken, spice-loving mother never missed a chance to make that point perfectly clear. Every so often she would issue an all-points bulletin. “I’m making chili,” she would announce, peering solemnly overtop of her glasses. That proclamation was the Yesbek household equivalent of yellow police tape: Cross at your own peril!

The process began with the ceremonial rendering of the suet. Suet is the hard, internal fat of beef – the stuff that used to give McDonald’s fries that wonderful taste. (Stand down, food police: We didn’t eat it every day. And besides, it’s none of your business.) I will admit that nowadays I use olive oil, and I’ll also admit that my chili never tastes quite as good as my mother’s. After simmering in that big 12-qt. stockpot for what seemed an eternity, the dark mixture of ground beef, spices and onions was ready to be used for all sorts of things. And one of those things was tamales.

The process of making tamales is simple but tedious. Masa harina (corn flour with slaked lime) is mixed with chicken broth and the savory liquid from the chili. Purists use lard to get a smooth and creamy texture, and her chili oil was pretty much the same thing. The rest is easy: Slather the masa/oil mixture onto a square of corn husk, fill with a spoonful of drained chili (or shredded chicken, or braised pork ... you get the idea), fold the husks and stack them in a steamer. Top the finished cylinders with diced red onion, a polite dollop of chili, and (as dictated by my upbringing) an enthusiastic splash of Tabasco sauce. Ahhh, the nectar of the gods.

There are a few places in downtown Rehoboth where you can get good tamales. Yolanda Pineda at Mariachi has them on the menu as an appetizer, and they are simply delicious. You can also get those handmade gems at the tiny, almost-impossible-to-find Nuevo Taco (formerly Leo Cabrera’s Modern Mixture) on Rehoboth Avenue.

A few years ago I wrote a column about a restaurant crawl I organized for Southern Delaware Tourism and a Virginia food critic who dared question the quality of Rehoboth dining (more fightin’ words). I took him to five of our finest eateries – and what does he still talk about? Leo’s tamales! In fact, he didn’t believe proprietor (microbiologist and professional fitness trainer) Leo when he revealed that he didn’t use lard in the tamale shell. This food critic/trained chef disappeared into the kitchen with Cabrera to unravel the Mystery of the Masa while I cooled my heels over guacamole and a Diet Coke.

Though Nuevo Taco is currently closed (it will reopen on Valentine’s Day), Cabrera and his tamale maker have the perfect system: He thinks up new tamale fillings, and she makes them happen. “It’s all in the hands,” says Cabrera, as they caress the warm masa around the fillings. Some of them are rather nontraditional, like sofrito, cheese and jalapenos. (Sofrito is a combination of bell peppers, spices, onions, vinegar, cilantro and tomatoes. Regional differences always prevail, of course.) By the way, tamale preparation is time intensive, and when they run out, they run out. So always call first if you have tamales on your mind.

I shudder to think of my mother’s reaction to these newfangled fillings (given how the simple mention of beans set her off), but Yolanda and Leo’s little care packages swaddled in corn husks have attracted a loyal base of tamale fans. Even the food police love ‘em.