No Ski Day Should End Without Nachos

Wings? Fondue? Please. There's nothing finer than post-ski 'chos.

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The best nachos I have ever had are at The Red Lion in Vail, Colorado. I have had them many times, most recently last month, when I devoured a plate while seated at the bar. Nachos, like anything in my life, are best enjoyed when paired with skiing. Or following skiing, to be more precise. Nachos at a ballgame? At the movie theater? Please, I won’t even deign to acknowledge that such subpar experiences (aka gas station-coded nachos) could possibly compete with the perfect culinary collab that is nachos x skiing.

In fact, I’ll go one step further: nachos are America’s greatest contribution to the sport of skiing. There, I’ve said it so you don’t have to. Like all things great in America, we of course got nachos from somewhere else. As legend has it, nachos were invented in Mexico as border food made to appeal to the palates of U.S. military families (in truth, they were invented by the dish’s namesake, restaurateur Ignacio “Nacho” Anaya, who served them to American military wives who’d that night come over the Texas border in search of a snack). How nachos migrated to the ski slopes is anyone’s guess, but I can tell you that—as counter intuitive as this might sound—there is no superior food in skiing. Bratwurst? Fondue? Spaghetti bolognese? Nein. Non. Non se ne parla! Such “traditional” alpine foods pale in comparison.

But! But! But! But… America contributed plenty to the sport of skiing. I hear your protestations, dear patriotic powder hound, and I anticipate your counterpoints, many of them valid. Sure, we invented freestyle skiing—or hot dogging, as it was referred to back then—and snowboarding, too. Plastic ski boots and aluminum skis? You betcha, both innovations hail from the grand ol’ US of A, baby. Did the 10th Mountain Division play a part in liberating Europe during WWII? Yup. And let’s not forget our contributions to the world of ski cinema, from directors like Dick Barrymore and Warren Miller to flicks like “Aspen Extreme” and the early George Lopez-vehicle “Ski Patrol.” “Lindsey Vonn!” you shout. “Bode Miller! Mikaela Shiffrin! Ted Liggety! The Mahre Brothers!'“ Also: hot tubs. Still, nachos, in all their culinary simplicity and cheese-laden perfection, trump each and every one of those examples. One could even argue that nachos are the hot tub of appetizers. Had nachos attempted an Olympic comeback in Cortina this week, they would’ve won the gold medal.

“Nooooo,” you scream, as petulant as a one-handed Luke Skywalker dangling over the reactor shaft of Cloud City. “That’s impossible!”

(Why am I weaving Star Wars analogies into this thoughtful, deeply-researched essay about après-ski nachos? Who knows. Just go with it).

To which I—towering over you in that aforementioned reactor shaft in the bowels of Cloud City on the gas planet of Bespin—reply, with all the dispassionate wisdom of a Sith Lord: “Search your feelings, you know it to be true.”

Yes, if you’ve ever snapped into a triangular tortilla chip whose structural integrity is being tested by the layered slop of chili, melted cheese, guac, salsa, and sour cream somewhere on the side of a mountain, or even better at the base of one (meaning you’re already drunk), then it is right now—at this very moment—dawning on you that I am right. Let that realization wash over you, my child. Feel it tickle your nerve-endings. Welcome to the ‘Cho Club™️.

When I am skiing in Europe, which I often do and highly recommend (don’t call me some bougie elitist — it’s cheaper than skiing in America, flight included, and lightyears more charming), I invariably think: this couldn’t get any better. This thought usually occurs to me at après-ski, when most happy thoughts hit me, just as the sun is setting and my buzz is building and everything feels right with the world. And then I remember that I can’t order a heaping plate of nachos to share with my fellow après-ski devotees, and I am crestfallen.

Blackbird is now live in the Colorado mountains.

This is not entirely true. One can technically find nachos at some ski bars in Europe, and all of them are equally terrible. If you ever find yourself in St. Anton, Austria, and are struck by a hankering for nachos, preferably of the supreme variety (is there any other kind?), do yourself a favor and don’t bother. The lederhosen-bedecked waiter will serve you a plate of Doritos, with a side of melted cheese not even the most shameless 7-Eleven franchise would deign to sell their customers. Said Doritos won’t even be Nacho Cheese flavored, but rather Cool Ranch. Except they don’t call them Cool Ranch in Austria or anywhere else in Europe. They call them: Cool American, which I’ll admit is a fucking fantastic name. But nachos, they are not.

Sadly, last month when I dined at The Red Lion in Vail, I hadn’t been skiing that day, and so the nachos didn’t feel earned. This diminished them, but only by a bit. Like all bars that pride themselves on their nachos, The Red Lion takes the extra effort of layering the cheese over the Jenga-like layers of tortilla chips, so that once you’ve dusted the top tier of chips, you aren’t left with some booby prize of an appetizer consisting of dry tortilla chips and not much else (what do they have back there, nacho sous-chefs? They must). Like any self-respecting plate of ‘chos, the ones found at The Red Lion come with quac, salsa, and sour cream all appropriately centered at the top of the pile, like a crown rather than pushed to the side in separate bowls like condiments. Because calling such essential ingredients condiments would be blasphemy. As with everything comprising a plate of nachos—the cheese and the chips and the chili (should you go for that)—the trinity of guac, salsa, and sour cream are fundamental, creating a whole greater than the sum of its parts.

Some other great things about nachos: they are perhaps the only food in which the vegetarian option is as good (or, I would argue, better) than the meat options. They are messy, but not as messy as wings, nor are they conceited like wings, always boasting to be the best around no matter where you get them. They require effort and reward that effort with delightful surprises the deeper you dig. “By jove, a chip three layers deep yet absolutely lousy with blended cheese!” Yes, king. Related: nachos inspire competition considering that all partaking in the dish vie for the best bites, yet—silly thing that they are—they keep things convivial, not cut-throated. Nachos are the proverbial campfire around which we spin stories of a day on the slopes. And then, of course, there are margaritas, undoubtedly the best post-ski beverage, and perhaps the subject of a future essay. Is there a cocktail that pairs better with a dish than margaritas do with nachos? Like the plate of nachos, margs should come big, preferably in a pitcher. Shy of that, or if you’re committed to consuming them single-serving style, a proper pint glass will do, which is exactly how The Red Lion serves their ‘ritas.

I could go on and on. But if you’ve made it this far and still don’t believe me, well, may God have mercy on your soul. Word of warning, however: don’t ever disparage nachos as a simple dish, as anyone who has ever attempted to make them at home can tell you. This past Super Bowl Sunday, I threw my hat into the ring, and the resulting nachos—if you can call them that—we’re not even a cheap imitation of what I’ve enjoyed at ski areas across America.

Or maybe that was the real problem: I hadn’t skied before I ate them.