Chile con Frontation

Well before Columbus had dared the deep blue, the chile pepper was firing up the bellies of the Americas. These little firecrackers were staples among the indigenous folk. The word is from Nahuatl (Aztecan) chilli, the native name for the peppers. Almost as soon as the Europeans caught wind and sail, the chiles took to the seas, spreading like wildfire across the continents and stirring up culinary revolutions at almost every port they touched. Nowadays they are indispensable parts of Thai, Indian, Nigerian, Ethiopian, and other cuisines that can already show off long lineages that date from well before this newcomer was inducted into the family.

With great heat comes great responsibility — the kind that spins the heads of linguists and chefs alike. Reading this very article, you might already have started up the email to me: "HA HA ITS CHILI STUPID! HOW U WORK FOR ENTOMOLOGY DICTIONARY WHEN U NOT KNOW HOW 2 SPELL? I BET U R FRENCH." 

But as the Bard said, "What? in a names that which we call a Rose, By any other word would smell as sweete." (Yes, look it up.) So — what’s in a name? Quite a bit, it turns out, when that name can ignite a debate heated enough to rival the peppers themselves. This is where the logophiles, chefs, and pedantic schoolmarms all draw their pistols and listen to Ennio Morricone.

There are three generally accepted spellings:

Chile: Straight out of the Spanish dictionary and packing as much tradition as a mariachi spotting La Llorona*. Attested in English by 1640.

Chili: The American cousin. Attested in English by 1655.

Chilli: Commonwealth code. It mirrors other double-l consonants in Brit-speak, such as “travelled” or “cancelled,” and applies broadly to both the pepper and the dishes made from it. Attested in English by 1662.

The truth is, what you take for the "correct" spelling hinges on your locale. In the cayenne-stained pages of usual American recipe books, "chili" admittedly reigns supreme, and can designate the pepper, the ground spice, and the hodgepodge that gets made from it. Venture, however, into a London kitchen, and "chilli" with two L’s will be there, possibly beside a steaming pot of chilli con carne. And if you aren’t too surprised to hear that there’s also a New Mexico, you might not be surprised that in that region "chile" is the preferred spelling for both the vegetable and the sauces made from it.

Now you might have some more questions about another other kind of Chile – the one on the map. It’s got to have some kind of connection to the pepper, doesn’t it? Well, funny about that: while the words originate from entirely different indigenous languages, the original spelling of the nation was Chili, which seems to have changed over time by influence of the word for the pepper. Meanwhile the pepper, in English, appears to have modified its spelling based on the influence of the country’s old name.

Just goes to show that language, like a good bowl of New Mexico chile (not that hot dog stuff with the chunks in it) is fluid. It morphs, adapts, gets poured on burritos and Thanksgiving turkey. The many mixed spellings of our piquant pal mirror centuries of cultural swapping, colonial shenanigans, and personal whims.

So, who wins the prize? The answer might just depend on where your kitchen table is located. Whether you’re a fan of the old-school "chile," the popular "chili," or the distinguished "chilli," there’s no denying that these peppers do more than just up the heat — they spark conversations, ignite debates, and continue to be a beloved part of cuisines across the globe. 

*I, too, have seen La Llorona.