Every August in La Bufadora Gordo’s Restaurant hosts its annual Chili Cook-off.
I entered the second year with my Fifteen Bean Chili. Only problem was,
I forgot to soak all those fifteen different kinds of beans overnight.
When I got up the morning of the event and realized my mistake, I dumped
the beans in a pan of water and started praying for them to soften. My
prayers weren’t answered however—chemistry being what chemistry is—and
my chili ended up with very crunchy, inedible beans. I came in last place,
needless to say—me who wrote a cookbook. Talk about one of life’s more
embarrassing moments....
Since then I’ve entered the Salsa Contest, but stayed the heck away from the chili. This year’s Cook-off fell on August 12th. Like I did two years ago, I invited my good friend and former neighbor, Chuck to come down and cook. He used to be an Executive Chef at the Chart House, so his cooking credentials are impeccable. He’s my “ringer” and I know he’d never forget to soak his beans. Of course, I have learned since that fateful experience four years ago that “real chili-heads” do not even use beans in their chili. Go figure....
The day of the cook-off was followed by the night we had 15 people sleeping in and around our house, so suffice it say, things were a little on the hectic side. No way was I going to make salsa this year. I was too busy cooking breakfast, lunch and dinner, washing dishes, dumping the bucket under the sink, flushing the toilets with a bucket and a hose (our plumbing is a little on the rustic side yet) and making runs into town for more provisions. Chuck had two assistants, however, my Terry (called UT or Uncle Terry) and his dad Terry (called PT or Papa Terry). My sister Nina, her friend Paula and I got to judge the salsas. While some people might complain about this, we were in salsa heaven. After all, we had cerveza with which to cool our palates!
Chuck didn’t win this year, but our neighbors from both Cardiff and La Bufadora, Kathy and John did. Their chili was called Survivor Chili. On the tropically decorated stand where they were serving it was a big plastic rat in a trap. Kathy asked me to push a button next to it. I did. The rat started jumping and thrashing like crazy, straining against the trap. Was there rat meat in her prize-winning chili? I sure hope not!
The next morning I went on strike and all 15 of the campers at our house decided to go out for a $1.50 breakfast. Get this. Gayle was driving my VW camper van down the dirt road to the El Dorado which is called Fred’s by all the locals. On the roof were Bragg, Chelsea, Joey, Derek and Harry—hooting and hollering all the way to breakfast. We followed behind in Mark and Terry’s trucks—the truck beds loaded with people too. Fred’s had been without a breakfast cook for a week or so, and this was the first morning they were open for business. The place was packed, as Gordo’s (which is only open from Friday afternoon through Sunday noon) had closed early, having run out of food and booze after the chili cook-off. We unloaded ourselves onto the patio at Fred’s and proceeded to settle in for what we knew would be a long wait.
About a half hour later, Chuck and Papa Terry had bailed, deciding they’d go into Ensenada for fish tacos. This guy shows up—one of those characters you see sometimes in a bar in Baja with a couple of metal cylinders attached to a battery-powered box. He sells shocks for a buck. Everyone was grossed out, except Bragg, who had to try it—and who loved it, by the way. Then his brother, Page succumbed to sibling rivalry and tried too. Then all the kids got into it. They joined hands in a big circle, with Bragg holding one cylinder and Page holding the other. The guy turned on the juice and they all had a group shock. I couldn’t look. It was one of those fingernails on the chalkboard (or cracking knuckles) moments for me. Major yuck.
Okay. So ... welcome to Teenage Summer Camp.
When I was relating some of our (mis)adventures to the cashier at Trader Joe’s the day I got back, the guy who was packing our groceries started laughing out loud. “Hey,” he said. “You should’ve charged those kids (of all ages) about $1000 apiece for their camping experience.”
Hey. Maybe that’s why I got so burned out. I fed, cleaned up after and entertained those hoards for free. The teenagers anyway. Our older guests may have slid back into adolescence for at least a portion of their stay with us, but at least they had their own money and didn’t expect their allowance every Friday!