THE VIRGINIAN-PILOT
Copyright (c) 1995, Landmark Communications, Inc.
DATE: Wednesday, October 18, 1995 TAG: 9510170317
SECTION: MILITARY NEWS PAGE: A12 EDITION: FINAL
SOURCE: KERRY DEROCHI
LENGTH: Medium: 75 lines
Looking back, the thick haze of Tabasco and chiles that hung like a storm cloud over the Nauticus pavilion should have been a clue.
The tables covered with chopped red and green peppers, the steam that rose from giant steel pots and the long lines at a Budweiser beer truck should have told me what I was in for.
It had seemed like such a simple task - judge the Atlantic Fleet's chili cook off. Go to Nauticus, eat a little lunch, schmooze with the sources, maybe have a beer.
All in all, not a bad assignment. And, I get paid for it, too.
But as I stood surveying the pavilion Saturday afternoon, I realized there was not enough money in the world to ease the pain of what was about to happen.
My colleageus had warned me. There are two rules to surviving military life, they said.
Don't drink Navy coffee - that black, thick liquid they call coffee, unless you want to stay up for the next three years.
And don't eat Navy chili - that steaming reddish brown glop they call chili, unless you want to stay up for the next three years.
I should have made a run for it.
Instead, I stood with about 20 other judges, an odd assortment of chili cookers and eaters. There was the president of the Virginia Beach pepper club, who was a little too excited about the prospect of losing acquaintance with his taste buds.
There was Rear Adm. Robert S. Cole, commander of Norfolk Naval Base, who was very pumped about the Navy's 220th birthday party and seemed, well, a little too chipper about the upcoming onslaught.
Only Fleet Master Chief David Borne, in my view, correctly reflected the proper mood.
``I only eat pasta and fish,'' he said, shaking his head.
Well, not on this day.
For an hour, we judges walked from booth to booth, surveying the scene: The crew from the carrier Dwight D. Eisenhower who served their chili on sterling silver pieces and wore crisp white chef hats and uniforms. The doctors from the Sewells Point branch clinic who had on their green scrubs and were hooked to IVs of their chili.
My personal favorites were the members of an E-2C Hawkeye Squadron who ordered a pizza, midway through the entire thing.
``You think we eat this stuff?'' one said, smirking.
``I'm with you, buddy,'' I thought.
At 1:30 p.m., each of the 27 entries (get that? 27 entries) spooned their chili into white cups that were then carried to a table on a platform above the crowd.
The judges assembled and one by one, walked around the table, taking spoonfuls of the 27 entries. (Yes, we used separate spoons.)
There were crackers and celery sticks as palate cleansers. I would have preferred an ice cold sorbet.
Slowly, we rounded the table, breaking, I am told, all the official chili cookoff rules by yelling out our favorites.
There were all types of chili. Chili with sausage. Chili with pork. Chili with what looked like chicken but may have been pork. Chili with steak. Chili with chocolate.
Halfway through, most judges were grimacing. Some had sweat pouring down their faces.
But in the end, there was a clear winner. The Fleet Training Center team called ``The Burnt Texans and the Ohio Snake.'' Second place went to Naval Air Forces Atlantic Fleet, ``Underway on Nuclear Pepper.'' Third place went to a team from the submarine Cheyenne.
With the scores totaled, most of the judges milled through the crowd and socialized.
Except for Borne, who sat in a chair, grimacing in pain.
``That hurt,'' he said.
Still does. by CNB