Whenever you tell anyone from D.C. that you're going there, they almost always say the same thing: "You gotta go to Ben's Chili Bowl." Not the Lincoln memorial, not The National Archives, but Ben's Chili Bow. So I got Phil to drive me over there.

Oh Phil.

Ben's looked like the epicenter of a riot, cordoned off with yellow police tape, surrounded by a thick mass of people and at least fifteen cops.

The line stretched around the corner, through the alley, as far as the eye could see:

I asked one of the cops what they were doing there. He didn't appreciate the question. Let's just say he was enforcing the peace and leave it at that.

I asked a girl near the front how long she'd been waiting:

Girl: Two and a half hours.

Me: Two and a half hours?

Girl: Yup.

Me: For a bowl of Chili/

Girl: Yup.

Me: Is it worth it?

Girl: Uh-huh.

Me: Wait, how do you know.

Girl: Cause this is my third time here. 

There you have it. As for me, I decided two and a half hours was a bit two long to wait for a bowl of chili.