In our first year of living overseas, of all the places I expected to feel an exceptional gravitational pull towards, the answer was not Chili’s. And yet, inexplicably, it was.
Of all the things to want from the United States of America in 2007, Chicken Crispers® was probably the wrong answer. I missed friends and family, roads I knew, cultures and languages I could understand, but for a temporary fix, sitting down for an hour at Chili’s seemed to get the job done in a way nothing else could. Somehow, Chili’s became sort of an American Embassy to me, a neutral location where things made sense.
In the chaos of moving to the United Arab Emirates in late 2007, I didn’t want to be an expat who failed to try different cuisines and turned down offers to dine at restaurants I’d never heard of. I always said yes to these new experiences, but if I was feeling particularly homesick or in need of comfort food, Chili’s was the only solution to my problem. Sometimes poor planning on my slightly hypoglycemic nature (hangry be thy name), other times entirely intentional, the call of the red and green sign singled me out. The lure of the familiar ingredients of the Santa Fe Chicken Salad, the unique consistency of the Skillet Queso, the desserts you could more or less dive into – this was my home away from home. With the variety of venues in my new city, there were countless options I could choose from: some American standards, others comfort food from other parts of the world. And still, my default option was always Chili’s.
As a child of the suburbs, I grew up going to a standalone Chili’s. And maybe all kids of the 1990’s middle class have a Chili’s they identify with, a Chili’s that is ‘theirs.’ ‘My’ location had the ubiquitous interior with tchotchkes from the local high schools (go Broncos!). I had more or less memorized the menu and it was a geographically mutually accessible location for my best friends and me. ‘Our’ Chili’s was a place where I gossiped and studied and spent my hard-earned money. When my metabolism was still high enough not to understand or question caloric intake, and before I could drink (or even fathom a fake ID), I took my new driver’s license and drove the five or so miles to this location.
In the earlier days of our expatriate experience, the Chili’s (Chilis’?) of Dubai were mostly found in the ‘nicer’ parts of a mall where ‘higher end’ restaurants were located. This area was not a food court, per se, but also not a stand-alone facility (the tchotchke level was woefully lacking). They had no alcohol, but this did not stop them from having an enhanced ‘mocktail’ menu, which was generally depressing and colorful. The servers were mostly upbeat individuals from the Philippines. The food selections were the same, barring any pork, of course.
When we moved within the city during our second year, we were close enough to have a Chili’s that would deliver to our seventh floor apartment. During the summer of 2008, we ordered with relative frequency from the location on Sheikh Zayed Road. I think my inability to commit to dining in was equal parts shame, regret, and desire for the consistent. After all, in a city where nearly every cuisine is represented, why Chili’s? Was it the honey mustard? The crispy fries? The generous portions? Or, was it more involved? With a trip home to the States costing over one thousand dollars (not to mention 14 hours one way on a flight), was paying $40 for the familiarity of Chili’s simply the most comfortable option? Was I somehow transported – just for a moment – to the sunny locations of my youth through a bite of Boneless Buffalo Chicken Salad? I’m not sure, but perhaps an answer was at the bottom of
that brown branded bag.
Should you believe the enjoyment of Chili’s is only an American thing, I can assure you, it is not. The love of the restaurant extends to many other nationalities and cultures. When my husband, a project manager, wanted to treat his multi-national team to anywhere for lunch – they would more often than not choose Chili’s, delighted with its ‘amazing Tex Mex’ options (the sound of those fajitas still lingers). A Chili’s location close to my work in 2011 was an easy spot to get away from the drama of the office and chat over salads. My co-workers raved over the amount of selections in the menu, while I smiled smugly to myself, as I knew exactly what I wanted.
My husband and I are tickled to understand why some American restaurants do so well in the region (IHOP and P.F. Chang’s, ‘American Favorite Chinese Bistro,’ have always stumped us) while others die off quickly (Taco Bell, we barely knew you).
However, all good things must come to an end. The last time I can remember dining at a Chili’s in the Middle East was at the Mall of the Emirates in early 2015. In the burst of New Year’s resolutions, I was looking for healthier options. Or maybe it was that, having lived in Dubai for nearly a decade, I understood the market and where I could dine that was not only better for me, but also cheaper. The decline of Chili’s in my life was not on purpose, nor forced, nor intentional, but merely a gradual change. I’m far less homesick today than I was those many years ago. I’ve learned to (somewhat) combat my hypoglycemia. For the most part, I care about what calories go in my body. When I spend money on fast food, I try to look for venues that do a little bit more to ensure ethical or more natural sourcing and purchasing (as much as that is possible in this city). And when I seek out comfort food now, it belongs to a Lebanese chain that used to be below our apartment on Sheikh Zayed Road.
The expat relationship with food is a strange one, and in a city like Dubai, one that is ever changing. With more restaurants opening than we know what to do with, a part of me is glad when I walk by Chili’s and see it crowded – families enjoying the brightly colored menus and consistent staple dishes of my youth. While my days eating at the restaurant are diminished, it’s good to know that ‘When You’re Here, You’re Family.’
