Joe Gearin said:
No names from me (bah humbug), but a little insight.
I know with the chili cookoffs around here, the quality of the chili is secondary. The most important thing in winning the chili cookoff is how much $$ you are donating to the charity. If there is a cash prize, and you win----- donate it all to the charity holding the "cook-off". Otherwise, that will be the last time you win. Chili cookoffs can get very political, and the best chili rarely wins. The company producing "OK" chili who understands the "spirit of the event" is usually the winner.
I have an anecdote about that, actually. I found out the hard way, chili contests are extremely political.
Years ago, when I worked for a certain insurance concern in Minnesota they hosted a chili contest. I've been told before, and even requested by several, to make them batches of chili, so i figured I had some mojo and would be able to bag this thing.
Day of the contest, several batches came in, mostly mediocre. There was one in particular thatlooked like, and tasted as though they came straight out of a can. Judging comes and goes,.and I have all of the judges asking me what was in it and what my recipe was and stuff. I'll be honest, I don't know my own recipe. I just eyeball it.
I didn't win. The garbage that I mentioned earlier? That garbage won. I was mad as E36 M3, and vowed revenge. I even made it well known to the people that ran the contest I knew it was rigged. Buncha office biddies trying to hold me down. The thing was, I also knew their greed. They would not pass up an opportunity to get a bunch of free chow via a potluck or food challenge. So I waited.
Months later another contest was announced. I of course, threw my hat into the ring. And went to the store, and cleaned them out of peppers. And bought a thing of wasabi. I probably had 50 bucks into one batch of chili, and the protein was chicken. A test confirmed that my theory on the wasabi worked. You got the first pop of the wasabi, and falsely assumed you were past the burn. Nope. No sooner than the wasabi died, the real party began. And didn't stop.
Day of the contest. Everyone is eyeballing my crock pot, knowing what I did the last time. Judging time happens, all the biddies load up. I go about my business, content to know I've done my job. Once again the judges come up and ask questions. Except this time, They be gone all bright red, sweating profusely. I know at least two of the biddies cried.
I won that contest, and they never had another one. You don't berkeley with me
