No Beans About It – It’s Hatch Chile Chili

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Hello, friends.

As promised, this week we made New Mexico–Style Beef Chili. Depending on how you like your chili, this might be the perfect recipe—or it might spark a small domestic debate. Because here’s the thing: not a single bean makes an appearance. None. Zero. Zilch. If you’re a die-hard believer that chili must contain beans, this recipe might feel like culinary heresy. But if you’d rather avoid the ahem digestive symphony that beans sometimes bring to the night, then this version will feel like divine intervention.

No beans, just peppers. And beef. Glorious, unapologetic beef.

Now, if you live outside the Southwest, you may not be familiar with Hatch Chile Roasting Season. Yes, it’s capitalized—because it’s a holy season in New Mexico and neighboring states. Every year, from late summer into early fall, roasters pop up in parking lots like traveling carnivals. They toss green Hatch chiles into spinning metal drums over open flame, and the whole street smells like smoke and sunshine. Embers fly, the skins blister, and humans gather like moths around a neon sign. It’s magic. Fire meets chile, and the chile always wins.

Of course, you can buy Hatch chiles in cans (and I won’t judge), but there’s something about it that makes you feel alive. I included a little clip in this week’s newsletter so you can see the hypnotic dance of the roasting cage. It’s practically kitchen theater.

But Hatch chiles are only half the story here. The recipe also calls for roasted poblanos—earthy, rich, with a touch of sweetness. These are less theatrical but still satisfying. I set them under the broiler and rotated every five minutes until the skins were blackened and blistered. Then came the sauna treatment: pop them in a bag, let them sweat, and peel the skins off with either a paper towel or your bare fingers, depending on how feral you’re feeling. Personally, I find it meditative, like scratching off a winning lottery ticket.

That’s the hardest part of the recipe. Really. After that, the rest is straightforward Bourdain: irreverent instructions, no-nonsense flavor. He even throws in a curveball that made me smile:

Classic Anthony—part chef, part instigator.

When shopping, I gambled a little. I didn’t buy tomato paste or harissa paste, because I was convinced there was at least one hiding in the fridge. Turns out, I had both. (Miracle of miracles.) Naturally, I went with harissa. Because when the ghost dares me to rebel, I listen.

So here’s the rundown: pan-seared chunks of beef (and yes, Julia Child also lives rent-free in my head—“Don’t crowd the pan or they won’t brown!”). Then toss in onion, garlic, cumin, coriander, Mexican oregano. Pour in a bottle of beer, let it reduce to two-thirds, and add stock and those glorious peppers and the seared beef. Simmer for 60 to 90 minutes, depending on your beef. Mine was cut smaller, so it finished in an hour.

And yet dinner didn’t hit the table until 8 p.m. Why? Because life, of course.

Earlier that afternoon, I’d listed our dining set for sale online. Within a couple of hours, a buyer materialized, ready to haul it away. Perfect timing—except she arrived smack in the middle of my poblano roasting session. I turned off the broiler and tried to play the role of friendly furniture sales person. We unscrewed the table legs together while I attempted small talk.

Here’s the thing: she seemed…terrified of me. Like, visibly nervous. She gave short, careful answers to my very normal questions about refinishing the set. It was like trying to interview a witness in a crime show. I couldn’t figure it out—until I glanced in the mirror afterward. Let’s just say I had bits of charred chile in my hair, sweat streaks down my face, and the general aura of a woman who had just wrestled with fire…and I was wearing the apron.

No wonder she was skittish.

The ghost, of course, found this hilarious. So did my husband. And naturally, so did I. If you’re reading this, Ashley: sorry for scaring you. I promise I’m only dangerous with a chef’s knife. (I probably need the t-shirt, too.)

Back to the chili. By the time we finally sat down, the house smelled like heaven: smoky chiles, slow-simmered beef, cumin’s earthy perfume. One bite in, and all was forgiven. Spicy, rich, slightly tangy from the harissa—it was the kind of chili that doesn’t just warm your stomach, it warms your soul.

So yes, you should make it. Especially now, when Hatch season is in full swing. Roast some peppers, scare a stranger, embrace a little chaos, and simmer your way to joy.

In reverence and rebellion,
Michelle

Affiliate Disclaimer: Some of the links in this newsletter are affiliate links. That means if you click through and make a purchase, I may receive a small commission at no additional cost to you. Thank you for supporting my messy kitchen adventures (and the occasional ghost-approved splurge).

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