Within two bites it became clear that I had never eaten real chili
before. Up to that point, I’d eaten from cans labeled “chili” that
contained pasty maroon Alpo. But this luscious meat porridge—rich
like a consommé and opaque like cocoa—had texture.
Cumin-infused sirloin melted like a pork rib. A crumbly sponge of
cornbread wicked up the broth, turning the edges orange with chili oil.
But I will never have that chili again, and neither will anyone.
Under a sprawling copper squid in the Pike Place Market atrium, a
neon sign has gone dark: “World Class Chili,” it used to glow. Dozens
of customers lined up outside the door on a frigid Friday
afternoon—one day before the lights went out on December
20—for a farewell cup.
Elena Maldonado stood behind the counter ladling out the famous
mahogany brew of meat and spices. She was the shop’s last employee. The
owner’s recent fatal snorkeling expedition, culinary pessimism, and an
unintended consequence of the Pike Place Market levy all conspired to
sound this chili counter’s death knell. Maldonado was left as the last
person who knows the famous chili recipe—committed to
memory—but she loves the dead owner too much to share it.
“A lot of people want to buy the recipe,” says Maldonado, 27, who
speaks softly and gives out smiles like gold stars. “No, that is Joe’s
recipe,” she says. “He never wanted to give it out. It’s a secret.”
In the 18 years since Joe Canavan opened the shop, he developed a
legion of fans who came in as much for him and Maldonado as they did
for the chili. Bruce Phipps had driven through the snow from Shoreline
to buy a gift certificate for his wife’s Christmas stocking—as he
has every year for over a decade—only to find the shop would
close the next day.
“He was the most unique individual I have ever been around,” Phipps
said. “This was his domain.” If you were a customer, Canavan wanted to
know your life story, he said; if not, what the hell were you doing
there? “You better not be coming in here to take a napkin or sit in one
of those booths that are his,” Phipps said, “or he would chase you
out.”
Maldonado worked side by side with Canavan for eight
years—less a few months in 2006 when the shop closed for her to
have a baby and Canavan to recover from hip-surgery complications.
“When he came back, he showed me the recipe,” she says. She has
mastered it, regulars say. After Canavan died in November—at the
age of 78, he was snorkeling for the first time on Maui and apparently
suffered a stroke or heart attack—Maldonado flew solo for five
weeks. She would arrive at 7:30 a.m. six
days a week to begin the
three-hour process to make the four types of chili, and she served it
until the shop closed at 3:00 p.m.
But his widow, Dorothy Canavan, won’t let Maldonado keep the shop
open. “She said she can’t run the business,” Maldonado says. But others
in the Market say Maldonado could run the business on her own—she
practically already does.
“Everybody thought she”—Maldonado—”was going to take
over,” Phipps says. Bob Kerschner, an employee of Undercover Quilts,
says, “I have heard that his wife was afraid that if it were left open,
it may harm Joe’s reputation if the chili wasn’t as good.” (Dorothy
Canavan didn’t return calls by press time.)
Kerschner also joins widespread speculation that renovations to the
Market—which Canavan fought to block—will irreparably harm
all the businesses in the Pike Place Market’s atrium. According to a
new design, approved in the recently passed Pike Place Market levy, a
ramp leading down from the main level of the Market to the atrium’s
lower floor will be demolished and a bank of public restrooms will be
placed directly in front of the chili shop. “That was probably going to
hurt the business,” says Kerschner. But it’s bountifully evident that
regulars’ appetites would not be suppressed by a mere less-than-savory
view.
I asked Maldonado to serve her favorite, and she gave me a bowl of
the Cincinnati-style chili: ground beef and pork, seasoned with
cinnamon and ground chocolate. She served it over—who knew this
would be heaven in a cup?—macaroni.
“All I know is that this is the best damn bowl of chili I’ve ever
had,” said Jonathan Prive, hunkered over a bowl at the counter.
Now the recipe leaves with Maldonado, who is left unemployed. She
harbors no grudges against the Canavan family for closing the store,
nor the Market for threatening to put toilets out front, nor does she
pine to open a new store with the recipe. “I want to use the recipe,
but for family or Canavan’s wife. I want sometime I can cook for her,”
she says. 
that’s really sad. i’ve been going there for 7 years and really loved that place. R.I.P., Joe and thanks for the great chili.
That guy was a fucker. Hard working market folks couldn’t get a place to sit for peace and quiet to eat their food away from the crowds without that old bastard laying claim to the tables and chairs in the common area. And the chili sucked too.
See you in hell Joe!
P.S. Get fucked!!!
People like Joe made the Market great…People like Winston we’ll continue to move along to keep the Market great…If Winston had half a brain he’d realize that some of the seating did belong to the chili shop and some was common area seating…Wake up Winnie and move along, we’ll all be better off here in the Market…
Winston, whoever you are, I would like to get my hands on you for five minutes.
No!! Not the Chili! Nowhere else would fill you up so very well and for so little! I shudder to think what will go in its place. No.
As a 12-year customer, this is a terrible development. I have no reason to go out for lunch any more- this was the only place I spent my eating-out dollars… Joe was a great guy and was a part of the lore of the market. Blessings on the Canavan family and Elena.
Oh yes, Winston: Choke and die. Fast.
While I’m glad you named him, I doubt that “Bob at undercover quilts” is an objective or even informed expert on Mrs. Canavan’s reasoning for not continuing the business.
Overall its nice that you celebrate the greatness that was WCC, but printing of vaguely sourced rumors (smears) about the motivations of an elderly widow isn’t exactly sterling journalism on the Stranger’s part, even if there was a snowstorm.
maybe the widowed lady just wants to close an era – and that is her choice
you all need to get together and cook some chili – I have eaten there, and my mothers – and mine – is better
cumin and just right chili powders are the not so secret VERY important spices of better chili – good onions added at the beginning and both tomato paste and actual tomato, canned is fine
also, less fat = lean beef ground from high flavor cuts (remember garlic and use chicken broth for liquid)
put it in the refrig. for a day before eating
Jesus Gomez
Praise Jesus and his wise comments.
It is telling that the paper sent a reporter who’s sole experience of chili was canned. Of course their chili tasted world class to him.
Seattle is far from anywhere with a tradition of good chili and, while a charming addition to the market, “World Class Chili” wasn’t actually world class.
The chili was good, but his BBQ sucked.
As for the clowns from Texas and the thin skin of the testosterone challenged Seattle don’t have many chili joints or anything save for coffee joints and Democrats thus it was world class when I got to eat it and I’m sure the old woman don’t need the headache of dealing with the city with higher rent and renovation problems? You can expect more casualties of the city clown circus.
I met Joe once. I would remember him because he looked me in the eye and it made me feel better that day.
Gee, I’m sorry the old man died, but that was a corny place. What I’d really like to see at the Market is a good restaurant, like a TGI Fridays, or maybe an Chilis. Places where regular folks can eat without having to get all fancy, and are kid-friendly.
TGI Fuckin-Friday’s, Chili’s ? Stay wherever you are…I hope that was a joke.
WCC took me through my years as a vegan with the vegetarian, a reluctant carnivore with with the california (alaska size,hot,over shells with chips) to full blown unapologetic meat eater (alaska size, cincinatti, medium over shells, no chips) This was a long 10 year process and it took 5 of those years to order with confusing the states and cities. Was it the best chili in the world? Dunno, I haven’t had every recipe ever made and Jesus has yet to invite me to his house, but I do know that I always looked forward to the days I stayed at work long enough to go there for lunch. I hope Joe’s hip is pain free wherever he is.
Oh and Winston eat a bowl of dicks, I bet you never worked a single hour as hard as he did every goddamned day of his life.
Mom of four: You’re the cancer that’s killing Seattle.
If you want TGI Fridays or Chilis, stay in Bellevue or someplace “nice”.
I prefer my food locally made, not made by mega corporations like Sysco.
Um, this may be totally irrelevant, but didn’t he open in the summer of 1986? I was out here from college then and remember he was looking for staff.
Special K, you’re right. I was one of the first employees for Joe and Keith when they opened WCC. My aunt who owned a latin market there set me up. I ended up working there for about 2 years. Both Joe and Keith were good men and knew their chili. The chili they served at the restaurant paled in comparison to their competition chili. I had the pleasure of tasting it and it was awesome. I’m so sad to hear (over a year later) that Joe had died. He had a kind soul.