I went to the 7-Mile Fair and all I got was this lousy chili.

  


Other than a t-shirt of an eagle ripping through an American Flag, there’s really nothing more American than spending your Saturday afternoon in a dumpy, dimly lit, glorified overhang and just waiting for that perfect opportunity to empty your wallet on the first piece of crap that you just can’t live without.  That, my friend, is what greases the wheels of this country.  It’s what our founding fathers did.  And it’s how the bright future of this nation will continue to spend their Saturday’s doing.

In case you’re overflowing with American pride, allow me to unembellish this.  I spent my Saturday afternoon at the 7-Mile Fair, bought some crap, saw some strange people and of course, ate a bowl of chili.

After milling about the filthy corridors for about an hour, it was clear that I had burned too many calories and needed to replenish my food energy. There were many options available for the acute palette.  I, however, decided as a representative of Chili Chat that it was my obligation to have the famous 7-Mile Fair chili.

Now, I’m not a tough guy to please. And I knew damn well what I was getting myself into.  So heed my warning on this bummer review:

Beginning on a positive note. The sour cream was applied with a caulk gun. That’s cool in my book.

Poop brown coloring, check. Over processed cheese, check. Dirty plastic spoon, check. Child laborer, check.

My initial impressions tell me this is going to tear my duodenum a new one. I don’t think the devil himself could have gotten that cheese to melt. It remained in its shredded form throughout the meal, never even showing the slightest hint of transforming itself. The consistency of this beast seemed like something out of a Jules Vern (Happy Birthday by the way) novel.  I reluctantly forged ahead.  Washing down bite after bite with a room temperature swig of 30 year old “Billy Beer” which I purchased from one of the Midwest gypsies at the fair.  The highlight of my meal was the mysterious 1 small piece raw onion waiting for me about ¾ of the way down the bowl. I don’t recall the 12 year old girl behind the counter putting onions on my chili. How did it get in there and how was it still raw?

I shouldn’t complain. Ordering chili at a flea market is the equivalent of shooting yourself in the foot and thinking it might not hurt that much. 7-Mile Fair, I’m sorry to inform you, but you will not be receiving the Official Chili Chat spoon of approval. That chili should have been served in one of the 250,000 pairs of tube socks or padded bras that were for sale. My plumbing is pissed.

Side note: I believe Breadbowl Jones enjoyed his sour cream go-gurt.