Skyline Chili: Cincinnati’s Claim to Fame or Place of Blame? Payton Oliver

105

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

106

almost asking Cincinnatians to not be hometown fans. How can I support such god-awful records?! Anyways, that’s what I do at Skyline, for exactly 25 minutes, until my meal is put on my tab to be paid on Friday. 5 days a week, Patty Blessing’s “Skyline Time” rings from my alarm to make my way home. All of that goes to show that I’m here. You’ve never failed me Skyline, you’ve been my rock. See you tomorrow!

The Frequent Flyer Ugh. I land in CVG only to be bombarded with texts from my client. “Welcome to Cincy! I hope your flight went well.” “We booked your usual room in The Hilton and will have our first meeting with the investors at Skyline at 1 o’clock, sharp.” “See you then, Chief!” “A driver will be waiting for you at 12:40 tomorrow for pickup.” Why is it always wicked disgusting Skyline? Down on the Cape, we have lobster rolls, mussels, and every foodie’s delight, but they ship me off to the Midwest to eat chili for a week out of every month. I’m over it. You’d think a CFO, like myself, would be going to the city’s finest steakhouses and rooftop cocktail lounges. Everything I do is comped, yet they give me $5 bowls of chili and neon yellow cheese. I’m better than this. Let me just tell you Skyline, your food may work for the simpleton suburban families living in Ohio, but quit marketing it to everybody. A line needs to be drawn somewhere when it comes to greasy guilty pleasures and formal business negotiations. Don’t keep subjecting me to pressed-particle tables and shiny-from-the-spilled-grease chairs. They say that everyone here is so friendly, but it seems a bit too comfortable to me. Come on, I spent four years at the Ivy League Wharton School at the University of Pennsylvania to buy the finest suits to be worn beside the prettiest women at the most exclusive establishments. At least this hotel has a TV. Cincinnati is doing one thing right. I pick up the clicker to drown out the misery ahead.

107

The First Timer I’ve heard so many things about the glorious chili served up at Skyline--it’s liquidy, it’s cinnamony or chocolatey (no one knows for sure), and it’s surely cheesy. I am trying to visit all of the states and their defining restaurants with my wife Sue. We’ve been driving in our Airstream for over 2 weeks now, from munching on Seattle’s salmon to Denver’s rocky mountain oysters to Omaha’s Runzas. And here we are! With my brown leather Moleskine in hand, we venture into the restaurant, seat ourselves, and are greeted with a plastic white ramekin of oyster crackers, hot sauce, and a solo fork placed atop a napkin. Let me tell you, it’s nothing fancy. The grub is cheap. The hot sauce is pretty much just Tabasco. But, the place is hopping! I look about to see teenagers, families, sports teams--the works. The funny thing? They didn’t even give us a menu. The people here just know exactly what to order. When we asked for one, the locals gave us side-eye, blowing our cover as the newbies, the Skylinevirgins. But anyways, we got the signature cheese coney and 3-way. And let me tell you, it was divine! I understand the hype now. Skyline, you do it right. I reached for my journal, bubbled in 5/5 stars and wrote 3 words: simple, homely, satisfying. After we try Montgomery Inn for dinner tonight, I’m sure we’ll be back for some late-night cheese fries. At least that’s what we’ve heard everybody does on a Saturday night.

The Overworked Employee I stumble into my apartment at 2 am. 2 am. I reek of cinnamon from the vats of chili I stir for my entire shift as if my actual role is the witch of the restaurant, preparing potions in my caldron. At least they travel via broomstick. I am left to my 1995 Corolla. I make it to my three jobs on a wing and a prayer. But, who else is gonna be there to see Mr. Wright’s dentured

108

smile and matching “Hi honey” every day at noon, the extra 25 cents added to the customer’s bill just to buy me a York Mint at the counter. I do it because, yes, I totally need the money to pay rent (I can’t piss off my landlord again this month). And yes, at the end of the day, it’s nice to not worry about having to go to Kroger’s, see everyone in the town I’ve known since birth, and come home to prepare a meal for 30 minutes, only to eat it in 5. But, Skyline has been an institution--a safe haven. After 9 innings in Great American, 1 am keg parties, 3 breakups with the same ex, I came here. So did my grandparents and parents. Maybe my kids will one day, too, if I can ever get my act together. But hey, keep doing what you’re doing Skyline, but for the love of God, please raise the wages. I’m tired of wearing the same red Chucks I’ve had since high school.

The Local Hypocrite Yeah, yeah, I am from Cincy, but that doesn’t mean I’m like every other mainstream local that’s obsessed with Skyline, or even Goldstar for the people who like to go against the grain. Don’t get me wrong, the flying pig statues all over the city, the Purple People bridge connecting Ohio and Kentucky, and the Coney Island sunlite pool across town are all fine and dandy, but chili? Count me out. It looks like straight diarrhea, not to create a vivid picture or anything, but if you’ve seen it, you know what I mean. Skyline is a stain on the Cincinnati food scene. We have Graeter’s, LaRosa’s, Aglamesis’s, Quatmans’s, Zipp’s...the repetition of restaurants after family names goes on. But, Skyline? First, that doesn’t fit the last name trend we have going on, and how could I support such a rebellious entity? Second, gross, just gross. It’s not like you’ll never catch me at the Kenwood location. I’ve been known to order some cheese fries after my boyfriend’s soccer games, late night homecoming dances, and hectic times babysitting the brats down the street,

109

but it’s not called “Skyline Cheese Fries.” It’s called “Skyline Chili.” And that’s blasphemous. Yes, I know I’m an oddity and blah blah blah, but that’s just me. I fully support those who patronize our local businesses and I’m always known to leave a decent tip and all that jazz. But, it’s my taste buds that just cannot get behind the sweet tanginess of something that should be hearty and savory. Skyline may be an enigma, but so am I. And I won’t be cracked.