Nostalgia Cooked
July 14, 2026
No. 6

“Hands, please”

Why I almost never give my dishes a name anymore, and what we lose when a plate never gets to become the next Caesar or Eggs Benedict; the one question about chili that can get you politely asked to leave Texas; and three things worth your time this week, including a San Francisco bar serving WWE-inspired cocktails.

Coffee, then read on.

— Chef Tim

When I sit down to name a new dish, I usually don't.

It ends up being something like "Rockfish, Sweet Corn, Basil" or "Lamb, Eggplant, Yogurt." If you look at enough restaurant menus today, that's become pretty normal. The title tells you what's on the plate, but not necessarily what the dish is.

That wasn't always the case.

There was a time when restaurants built their reputations around dishes with names. Caesar Salad. Eggs Benedict. Oysters Rockefeller. Lobster Thermidor. You didn't need a description underneath because people already knew what to expect. The dish had an identity of its own.

Somewhere along the way, we shifted from naming dishes to describing ingredients. That's not a criticism. I do it too. Seasonal cooking changes constantly, and menus need the flexibility to change with them. Listing ingredients also tells guests what they're actually getting, which is important.

But it made me wonder whether we've also changed the way we remember restaurants. Years ago, people might have told you to visit a restaurant because it served the best prime rib or the original Hot Brown. Today, we tend to recommend the restaurant itself. We talk about the chef, the tasting menu, or how often the menu changes. The experience has become the attraction more than any single plate.

I'm not sure that's a bad thing. Restaurants are more creative than they've ever been, and seasonal cooking has pushed chefs to keep evolving. At the same time, I wonder if we're giving great dishes enough time to become classics. If a plate only exists for six weeks before asparagus gives way to tomatoes, and tomatoes give way to squash, can it ever become the kind of dish people remember twenty years later? I think yes, I have countless memories of dishes that are based around seasonality rather than creativity. But we then have to commit to a restaurant year after year for the same dish and I just am unsure if we all have the patience anymore for that.

Maybe that's just the nature of cooking today. Or maybe there are dishes being served right now that will still be on menus fifty years from now. We just don't know it yet.

Would you be interested in discovering new dishes from service staff? Maybe it doesn’t need to be the whole menu…one at a time? Let me know in Buell’s booth this week.

Before service, the whole crew huddles up and somebody tells the story behind the food. Pull up a crate. You're on the line tonight.

Few foods can start an argument faster than chili.

Mention pineapple on pizza and people will roll their eyes. Mention beans in chili and someone from Texas might ask you to leave.

The funny part is that the history of chili is just as messy as the debate itself.

Most food historians agree that chili con carne has its roots in Texas, with San Antonio serving as its first true home. While no one can point to the exact person who invented it, the city's blend of Mexican, Spanish, and frontier cooking created the perfect conditions for the dish to emerge. Beef simmered with dried chile peppers and spices became a hearty, inexpensive meal that reflected the flavors of South Texas. By the late nineteenth century, chili wasn't just a local specialty. It had become one of San Antonio's defining foods.

No one did more to spread chili than the famous Chili Queens of San Antonio. Beginning in the late 1800s, these women wheeled colorful food carts into Military Plaza each evening, serving bowls of spicy chili to soldiers, travelers, laborers, and curious tourists under the glow of lanterns. By the time visitors tasted their chili at the 1893 World's Columbian Exposition in Chicago, the dish had become one of Texas' greatest culinary exports. Chili parlors soon began appearing across the country.

Then came the question that still divides dinner tables today. Should chili have beans?

If you ask a Texan, probably not. Traditional Texas chili, often called a "bowl of red," focuses almost entirely on beef and dried chiles. Purists argue that the name says it all. Chili con carne simply means "chiles with meat." Beans, they say, belong on the side, not in the pot. Texas even declared chili its official state dish in 1977, reinforcing the state's bean-free tradition. Outside of Texas, the answer is usually different.

As chili spread across the Midwest and Great Plains during the early twentieth century, home cooks stretched expensive beef with inexpensive beans. They added tomatoes, served it over spaghetti in Cincinnati, ladled it onto hot dogs, and made it their own. By the 1920s, recipes with beans were already appearing in American cookbooks, making the argument less about authenticity and more about regional identity.

Chili has never had a single recipe. It has always been shaped by the people making it, whether that was the Chili Queens of San Antonio, a chuckwagon cook on a cattle drive, or someone's grandmother trying to feed a family on a tight budget.

The only thing everyone seems to agree on is that whatever's in your pot, someone else is convinced you're making it wrong.

Top Tip

Everyone reaches for a beer with chili. That's a perfectly respectable trick if you're just chasing your tail.

But if you've spent all day building a proper pot of chile con carne, uncork a dry hard cider instead. The bright apple, crisp acidity, and lively bubbles cut through the rich beef without getting into a barking match with the chiles. Every spoonful tastes like the first one, which is exactly what you want when you've somehow wandered back for another bowl.

I've sniffed out a lot of good pairings in my day. This one's best in show.

Buell's Booth
Slide in, grab a seat. Every week, one question and one comment straight from the counter. Feel free to shoot me questions anytime!

"You've got me paranoid about tomatoes now. Am I ruining mine by keeping them in the fridge?"^"

Yes. Full stop. The fridge is where tomato flavor goes to die. Cold air breaks down the compounds that make a tomato taste like anything, and the texture goes mealy right along with it.

"Did my usual market run Saturday but tried to buy from the farm stands first like you said. Ended up with a bag of green beans and some turnips I didn't have a plan for. Still figuring out the turnips but the beans were the best I've had in a while."

That's a win, plan or no plan. Slice the turnips thin, hit it with olive oil and salt, and roast it hot until the edges go brown, works every time. Add some rendered bacon and breadcrumbs. Boom. Go back next week and grab whatever looks good. Nice work, pal.

The Nostalgia Table

The second Monday of every month · 7 o’clock · Eight seats. Location shared by post the week of. Subscribers receive first word. Write for a seat