Falling in Love at Chili’s

“That’s the benefit of Chili’s, my soon-to-be husband explained to me: You never expect too much, and you’re never disappointed.”

I recently asked my husband what we should cook for dinner during the week. The cold weather had me feeling ambitious: Should we make something hearty—a beef stroganoff, curried stew, or veggie stir fry?

“No way,” he said, shaking his head. Our 2-month-old daughter drooled in his arms. With a baby in the house, cooking something interesting for dinner has become a luxury, one we usually can’t afford. “Too complicated,” he said. “If it’s not on the menu at Chili’s, I don’t want it.”

He wasn’t kidding. Chili’s Grill & Bar—home to all manner of burgers, chicken fingers, and quesadillas—holds a special place in our marriage. A reference to Chili’s is like our version of the U.S. Navy’s famous slogan: “Keep it simple, stupid!” It’s a reminder to relax, settle down, and return to the basics.

The first time we ate a meal at Chili’s together was the first time we ate any meal together. It was our first date. Our relationship started unconventionally (or perhaps as conventionally as possible.) We argued a lot, then became friends, then became awkward companions, walking loops around Austin’s Town Lake, all sweaty hands and shifty eyes. Then he asked me on a date, and I said no, and then a month passed, and he asked me on another date, and I said fine. He suggested brunch, a cafe with foamy lattes and wood-fired artichokes. I said no, again. This was at the tail-end of the pandemic, and brunching felt somehow inappropriate: too extravagant, too frilly. Alright, he countered, we’ll go somewhere with no frills at all. We’ll go to Chili’s.

"This is the magic of a global franchised food chain: consistency"

I hadn’t eaten at a Chili’s in years—maybe decades. Texas has no shortage of chain restaurants, but I’d spent my early adulthood rejecting neon signage and cultivating a taste for organic vegetables, chia seed smoothies, and fat-free crackers. The last memory I had at a Chili’s was as a pre-teen sitting with my grandparents, slurping baked potato soup. I’d been to the dentist to have teeth pulled. I remember the soup dripping from my Novocain-numb lips. I also remember that the soup, full of bacon bits and creamy, melting cheese, was delicious. That’s the benefit of Chili’s, my soon-to-be husband explained to me: You never expect too much, and you’re never disappointed.

On our date, we sat across from each other in a vinyl booth. We played tic-tac-toe with crayons on the kids’ paper menus. The weather outside was sweltering, even by Texas’ standards, and the air conditioning inside raised goosebumps on our dampened arms. When our waiter came, we both ordered the same thing, the thing you must order if you go to Chili’s: The Triple Dipper Platter. I chose to build my Triple Dipper Platter with one order of crispy Southwestern Eggrolls, one order of spicy, vinegary buffalo wings, and one order of Big Mouth Bites—three beef sliders topped with caramelized onions, bacon, and cheddar cheese. The best part of this combination is that each item is served with its own variation of ranch dressing: avocado ranch (slightly green) for the Southwestern eggrolls, blue cheese (slightly clumpy) for the buffalo wings, and classic ranch (white with green flecks) for the sliders. I’m a girl who enjoys dipping sauces, and I appreciate that Chili’s does not skimp in this regard. Three dishes, three sauces. Perfection.

But more important than the food is the intimacy involved in this kind of eating. You don’t eat at Chili’s with a fork, you eat with your hands. Buffalo sauce smears on your cheeks. Burger grease glistens on your chin. You can’t uphold false pretenses at Chili’s. You can’t pretend to be smarter, or fancier, or better read than you really are. There is no ego involved in the decision to order a Triple Dipper Platter—only pleasure. That’s what stood out to me most in the early days of our relationship: I wasn’t pretending. Neither was he. If it was a shameful thing to have ranch dressing dripped down my shirt as we stepped out from the cold restaurant into the warm sunlight, I didn’t know it, because for once it didn’t matter. It was the best, and last, first date I ever had.

"There is no ego involved in the decision to order a Triple Dipper Platter—only pleasure."

Fast forward one year and we were standing together at the altar, exchanging rings and repeating vows, knees shaking under the pressure of it all—the blizzard of finances, family, and floral arrangements. Unlike so many of our peers, we raced toward matrimony, getting engaged three months after that first date at Chili’s. The commitment wasn’t scary: we had no expectation that every day of a romantic relationship would go smoothly. We knew it wouldn’t. But we weren’t prepared for the complexities of re-organizing two adult lives into one. Engagement expedited the questions it would usually take years to answer: Where were we going to live? Whose mattress would we use? What, exactly, were we going to do for health insurance? A conversation about booking plane tickets for the pastor would be followed by a conversation about filing our taxes, turning on the electricity at our new house, and remembering to pay the water bills at our separate apartments, all before looping back to the airline’s website. Neither of us were eating well, neither of us were sleeping well, and both of us were worried about fitting into our wedding day clothes. Dinner was usually plain chicken and broccoli. (Not the happy, wellness-y kind of chicken and broccoli, but the sad, retributive punishment kind.)

Then, suddenly, it was over. The crowds were all gone, the flower petals were cleaned up, and we were left to shake off the adrenaline in an empty Airbnb, staying in town for one night before going on our honeymoon the next day. We looked at each other in the strange stillness. We were starving. The idea came to us at the same time: Chili’s.

Again, we ordered a Triple Dipper Platter (wings, eggrolls, sliders) along with skillet Queso, an order of nachos, and two Strawberry Lemonades. We ate with our hands, laughing and licking queso off our fingertips. It was all exactly the same. The sliders had just the same amount of bacon and onions, the dipping sauces had the exact colors and textures. This is the magic of a global franchised food chain: consistency. Food that is never exceptionally good, nor exceptionally bad—just reliably the same. In some ways, this is the magic of marriage, too.

Fast forward another nine months, and I was enormously pregnant, cranky and squawking from the passenger seat of our car. We’d spent weeks touring houses in the suburbs, searching for a place to bring the baby home to from the hospital. Finally, that afternoon, we found it. And what restaurant should sit just at the entrance to our subdivision, next to the Target, the Home Depot, and the Chick-fil-A? Chili’s Grill & Bar. (Welcome to the suburbs, baby.) We sat down and ordered a Triple Dipper Platter to celebrate, clinking our plastic glasses of water. When the waiter heard our news he brought us an order of Molten Chocolate Cake, dripping with caramel sauce and melting ice cream—on the house.

In Austin, Texas there is no shortage of exceptional restaurants to dine at. So why return to Chili’s again and again? For us, if sharing a meal together is about spending time together, Chili’s reminds us to hurry up and get to that part—the togetherness part. It’s not about fancy ingredients or jazzy dishes, it's just about enjoying each other’s company. It’s a reminder to spend less time thinking how to best live our lives, and more time living them.

Read the original article on All Recipes.