Ohio has a lot of iconic foods: buckeyes, pierogis, smoked ribs that drip onto your plate in sticky, sweet glory. All fine, all good. But when I think of Ohio and food in the same breath, the first thing I taste is chili… Cincinnati chili, specifically. This isn’t your backyard chili, or a pot of beans simmered into something respectable; it’s a syrupy, spiced, almost perfumed sauce that laces itself over spaghetti, hugs hot dogs in coney boats, and begs for mountains of shredded cheddar. There are debates about beans. Yes, some purists say “never,” others insist they’re essential—but that tension is part of the dish’s charm. In fact, this chili is so iconic that someone once wrote a poem about it:
Red sauce kisses noodles tight,
Cheese drifts down like late-night snow,
Onions or beans? You decide,
Cincinnati waits below.
(Spoiler alert: the food poet was me)
It’s a dish that inspires art, after all. Cincinnati chili has turned up in songs, TV shows, and even the occasional quirky foodie memoir. It’s local enough to feel like a secret, universal enough to make strangers curious.
Pleasant Ridge Chili (officially the Pleasant Ridge Chili Parlor, which somehow makes ordering a bowl feel ceremonious) doesn’t mess around when it comes to chili. It’s tucked into the middle of Pleasant Ridge, a neighborhood of red-brick houses, tree-lined streets, and sidewalks where people actually nod, wave, and stop to chat like neighbors used to. It’s lively but unhurried, a place where someone will wave at you as you cross the street. Take a walk through Burnet Woods, only a few blocks away, or wander to the artsy installations scattered through the neighborhood—it’s the kind of town that rewards curiosity.
Step inside, and the diner is unapologetically old school: Cash only. Vinyl booths, a ceiling…
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