Ben’s Chili Bowl Sucks

Ben’s Chili Bowl is a Washington, DC institution. For over 50 years it has served chili dogs, chili fries and all other kinds of deliciously vile crap that will lead to searing anal leakage to greats like Bill Cosby, President Obama and, most importantly, Godfather of Go-Go Chuck Brown. So it is with a heavy heart, given my affinity for all things that are high fat and/or loved by black people, that I speak the following words: Ben’s Chili Bowl sucks.

Now before its faithful regulars stop reading in disgust, allow me to confess I have only eaten their twice. Perhaps I’ve just had a bad string of luck when it comes to eating at the place: But I doubt it. I mean, call me crazy, but I don’t think there’s much of a science to frying a hot dog and smearing it in chili that looks like something you’d be find in a sick child’s diaper.


The first time I ate at Ben’s was last year after attending an improv class (might I just add, that was money very well spent. All the hard work I poured into that class definitely translated into my being discovered by a talent agency which managed to parlay my gifts into a nice little “Saturday Night Live” career ala Tina Fey. Ah, sarcasm.) A bunch of my fellow students decided after things had wrapped up to head over to Ben’s for a bite to eat, and, as soon as they mentioned the place, I was practically sexually aroused. I had heard much of this mythical fast food Mecca, and to be able to pass off eating there as due to wanting to socialize rather than the fact that I climax if I consume over 100 grams of fat in one sitting was too good to pass up. Crossing my arms over my chest to hide my erect nipples, I told them I was ready to join them in this high-fat Hajj.


Upon arriving at Ben’s, I thought I was in for a real treat. Sure, there were a lot of scenester white guys that looked like Rivers Cuomo in the crowd, but the place was brimming with fried meat and cheese fries. I felt like a suicide bomber who had gone to paradise. I still remember ordering my first chili dog then watching it tantalize me from the counter, smeared in mustard and onions, and how enraged I was that I had to wait for the rest of their class to also get their orders filled before I could touch it. The moment the last person got their food, I grabbed my chili dog and almost ran into the bathroom so I could eat it alone and in peace. Instead, my self-control held long enough for me to sit and eat at the table like a civilized human being, and I’m glad it did, for this was certainly not food worthy of the savoring that comes with bathroom privacy. The chili was incredibly bland, the hot dog plain and insubstantial. That moment was like learning there was no Santa Claus all over again. I had to fight the tears as I drove home.


Well, tears and urge to defecate in my very seat. You see, while Ben’s cooking had delivered the insult, the injury was just getting started. I had two passengers in my car upon leaving: An attractive Latin broad from my class that I had taken out a few times (don’t get too worked up: She was rather petite and didn’t look Latin in the least. The day I finally crush some ass that looks like a Univision weather girl, believe me, I’ll invent html code that will let you click a link to smell my fingers) and my good friend Brian Carr. As I tried to charm the girl, a horrible realization crept upon me: I was getting a violently upset stomach and needed to crap my brains out immediately. Thankfully, she only lived a few blocks away, and I was able to honk my horn at the drivers in front of me to mask any audible farts. The moment she got out of the car, Brian turned to me and said something along the lines of, “Dude, if you don’t get me home within 20 minutes, I will shit in your car.” We gunned it down Route-66, and, the instant we entered my house, ran to separate bathrooms which we both defiled with aplomb. I was up the rest of the night with heartburn, and vowed never to eat at Ben’s again.

Never is a long time for someone with a short memory and love of bad food, though. A few weeks ago, I was sick with the flu but needed to get to the site of one of my locksmith jobs. Rather than drive over dogs and small children in a medicated haze, I enlisted my friend, Rich Harmon, to act as the Morgan Freeman to my Miss Daisy. Part of the deal was that we would eat at Ben’s Chili Bowl after the job was complete. I figured if anyone would be able to give an objective opinion of the place, it would be Rich (because he’s black and the food there is prepared by black people. That’s just science.) As we sat and ate our chili friends and chili half smokes, I could tell that he, too, was disappointed. Although neither of us got crippling diarrhea this time around, Rich expertly summarized the Ben’s experience with, “It was okay, but my food wasn’t any different from a 7-11 chili dog.”


So there you have it. Though it’s a fun slice of DC history, and it’s cool to eat a chili dog in the same spot that Barack Obama ate (and, 20 minutes later, probably shat out) a chili dog, do yourself a favor and avoid Ben’s Chili Bowl. If you want a real DC dining experience, find one of the city’s countless Chinese restaurants that also serve fried chicken and smear an order of wings in mumbo sauce. Because nothing says “DC cuisine” like a deep fryer bucket stuffed with chicken wings, catfish and egg rolls being sweated over by an Asian.

Tagged as: Chuck Brown,  President Barack Obama,  Virginia Ali,  Washington DC.