After about a year of semi-sickness and impudent strife, I took a break from my enforced solitude and, finally, took a trip up to Tulsa one sunny afternoon—great strides, I know.
After record-shopping at the indomitable Josey Records and before a lengthy excursion to the Bob Dylan Center, I decided on lunch at Ike’s Chili, 1503 E 11th St., which my friend suggested.
While I have emptied many pots of chili over the course of my life, one of the most meaty remembrances I have was a steaming vat in Cincinnati, Ohio. As part of the supposed “chili belt” that helped keep my pants up, it was a truly remarkable meal.
I was looking to recreate that experience when I went to Ike's, and I have to admit, I think they can stand toe-to-toe.
After I took a seat, Ike's cauldrons of chili were immediately speaking to me, serenading my nose with aromatic notes of savory meats and chili powders.