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.