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Skyline Chili: Cincinnati’s Claim to Fame or Place of Blame? Payton Oliver
A city glorified not for its regality, nor its accessibility, but rather its weight in shredded gold, finds itself seeking the inquiries of insiders, outsiders, and inbetweeners. The byproducts of Greek heritage define this community’s insatiable hunger for its authenticity and will seek out such homely cuisine more than is advisable. As demand persists, the documenting of your verdicts on our establishment will enable us to move forward in amelioration. Fill out a suggestion card and place it in this box to be entered into a drawing for a week of free Skyline Chili! The Daily Indulger I pull up to the same spot, two to the right of the handicap space, with expert grace to not nudge the curb in front of my trusty pickup. I could do it with my eyes closed, and I’ve tried that a few more times than I’m proud to admit after a late night. It’s 12:17--I’m two minutes late for my date with a royal blue barstool at the Skyline counter. It’s Wednesday, so Dorothy is working until 2:00, but oh wait, why’s Tim serving? Oh right, Dorothy’s mom just passed away. I’ll have to get her a card. I cop a squat at the usual spot, and Tim divvys out my 3 cheese-coneys (mustard, no onion) with a heap of oyster crackers on the side. I rip open the straw wrapper (despite the stares from the so-called environmentalists) to quench my hankering for pink lemonade. A luxury if I’ve ever heard of one. From my perch, I yell at Freddie Benavides and Zac Taylor on the 16-inch TV because they’re
