Chilli Con Carne – The Plains Fish Bar, Mapperley

I see the process of searching for Tribudishional dishes to be the ultimate treasure hunt; it’s not often you get lucky when scouring menus for food-tributes, but when you do, the reward is worth it. It’s hard to describe the feeling of euphoria, excitement (and occasional pang of doubt) that hits you when you find what you’re looking for. A Chilli Con Carne in a fish and chip shop, after all, raises many questions: what’s this doing on the menu?, what’s it served with?, is it…. battered?

Well I’m here to answer all of those questions, and more, as we dive into the chilli con carne (£6.10) at Nottingham’s Plains Fish Bar.

Evidently, it wasn’t battered (thank goodness), and instead assumed the form that most people expect with chilli con carne: ladled onto a plate with rice. I’ve brought up the power of garnish many times on the Tribudishional Food Blog before, and discussed its ability to elevate any dish from visual mediocrity, to restaurant-grade looks. A few thin slices of fresh jalapeño or green onion would have done the job here – something vibrant and green to counteract the homogeneity of the chilli’s deep red colour. Sadly, nothing of the sort was present.

That being said, all the main elements of the chilli itself were there, which was surprising to say the least, as I can’t imagine the chip shop has much use for red kidney beans or jalapeños elsewhere on its menu.

Another recurring talking point on the Tribudishional Food Blog is the widely varying (and often conflicting) array of backstories claiming to unveil the origins of traditional dishes. Chilli, alas, is no different. From gruesome tales of Aztec cannibalism, to eyebrow-raising narratives of a telepathic nun, there’s no shortage of stories detailing the dish’s birthplace. One of the more believable accounts is that chilli was first created in San Antonio, Texas, when the so-called ‘Chilli Queens’ of the city’s Mexican community began serving bowls of the stuff in their restaurants, colloquially known as ‘chilli-joints’.

The meal has since become a firm favourite of the Tex-Mex cuisine, and has spread to much of the Western world – which is why I found it here of all places, hiding in plains site.

Aside from the lack of garnish, I was pretty impressed with my chilli; both pinto and dark red kidney beans accompanied a generous portion of beef, along with red and green pepper, sliced jalapeños, and onion. The tomato sauce was deliciously thick and perfectly emulsified, something that can be hard to achieve in homemade chilli (or indeed beef stroganoff). The level of chilli heat was also about right; sitting comfortably in the goldilocks region of hot enough to taste, but not so hot that you can’t taste anything else. In fact, I found it hard to pick out anything wrong with the chilli at all… which got me thinking.

Just like tribute acts in music, out-of-place traditional dishes aren’t always perfect. Often there’s an ingredient missing, or a questionable substitution made, an issue with flavour, texture or appearance. But that’s the very reason why I think this blog works; it’s about celebrating the complexity behind each dish, exploring its intriguing history and having some fun along the way… but most importantly, appreciating the efforts of chefs who push themselves out of their comfort zone and try something new. It’s safe to say then, that my suspicions were raised here. Did the fish and chip shop really have a big pot of chilli simmering away in the back? I had to ask.

With as innocent a tone of voice as I could muster, I approached the nearby waitress and enquired: “this chilli is lovely, is it made fresh in your kitchen?”

She drew near, and in a hushed tone replied: “ever heard of Stagg?”

I hadn’t, but a quick bit of Googling got me the answer. Turns out the extent of the cooking here had been the use of a tin opener. That, and putting a pre-cooked pouch of rice in the microwave.

It turns out then, that this post is more a review of Stagg Chilli than The Plains Fish Bar. The perfect consistency of the sauce now made sense to me, as did its robust flavour – the chilli had quite literally been engineered to taste the way it did. I was understandably disappointed, if not a bit amused by the whole situation. It was, after all, the most expensive ready-meal I’d ever had.

It’s usually at this stage in the review that I give my meal a Tribudishional Score out of ten. In this case however, I feel it would be unfair to compare my chilli to the other handmade dishes I’ve had. Instead I will sign off here, and hope that my next Tribudishional meal, whatever it may be, doesn’t come off a conveyer belt.