By Ben Indi—
Porchetta, confit of goose, rillettes, confit de canard… it would seem that the great kitchens of the Old World have always found something inherently noble about cooking an animal in its own fat. To the uninitiated, or to those who see gastronomy as little more than fuel, the idea may sound excessive, even ironic. Yet history has proven, time and again, that few techniques reward patience more generously. Fat, after all, is not merely indulgence—it is one of the oldest vessels of flavor mankind has ever discovered.
Mexico embraced that lesson in its own unmistakable way. Blessed with an extraordinarily rich culinary heritage, introduced to the pig after the arrival of the Spanish, and armed with the practical ingenuity that has long defined its people, the country forged one of the true giants of its national cuisine: carnitas.
Travel through almost any region of Mexico and you will discover how indispensable they have become. From bustling city markets to roadside stands and sleepy village plazas, carnitas are woven into everyday life with such ease that one could almost mistake them for something eternal. They are not, of course. Historical records place their consumption as early as the seventeenth century, and tradition consistently points toward the state of Michoacán as their spiritual birthplace. There, the town of Quiroga proudly claims to serve the most authentic—and, according to many devoted pilgrims, the finest version of them all.
Like many great dishes, carnitas possess a deceptive simplicity. At their core they require only four things: pork, pork fat, salt, and a cazo set over the fire.
A cazo is no ordinary pot. It is an enormous vessel devoted almost exclusively to the preparation of carnitas, traditionally hammered from copper. That choice was never accidental. Copper distributes heat with remarkable consistency, allowing enormous quantities of meat to cook evenly over many hours. Considering that a single batch may require an entire pig, it is difficult to imagine a working carnitas cauldron holding fewer than forty liters. Many hold several times that amount, quietly standing at the center of family businesses that have survived for generations.
Spend enough time around carnitas and you will eventually collect a small anthology of sayings.
“Good carnitas need no disguise.”
“The best carnitas are eaten standing up.”
“The secret is in the cauldron.”
“Carnitas cannot be rushed.”
“You can smell a good cazo from a block away.”
Whether or not every one of these sayings is genuinely traditional hardly matters. Together they reveal the reverence surrounding the craft. Yet perhaps no sentence captures its philosophy more completely than this:
“Carnitas don’t have a recipe; they have a master.”
Every respectable maestro develops an instinct that cannot be measured with thermometers or timers alone. Temperature, color, aroma, the sound of bubbling fat, the feel of the meat as it yields beneath a wooden paddle—these become the true language of the craft. Observation and patience outweigh written instructions, while repetition gradually evolves into intuition.
That knowledge is rarely given away freely. Each master protects subtle details of technique with quiet pride, not out of arrogance, but out of respect for a lifetime spent beside the cauldron. It is therefore no surprise that carnitas are so often a family trade, passed from parents to children until the methods become less like formulas and more like inherited instincts. In many establishments, the copper cazo itself becomes a family heirloom, blackened by decades of fire yet polished by thousands upon thousands of unforgettable meals.
So what, then, is the definitive recipe? The answer is almost certainly that there isn’t one. To understand Mexican cooking is to understand something deeper about Mexico itself. Scarcity has often demanded creativity, and broken circumstances have repeatedly forced ordinary people to become extraordinary problem-solvers. More often than not, those improvisations have given birth to dishes that later generations came to regard as timeless classics. Carnitas are no exception.
Orthodoxy certainly exists, but so does freedom. One cook may add only pork, fat, salt, and water. Another may quietly introduce milk for color, oranges for fragrance, pineapple for sweetness, bay leaves, cloves, piloncillo, cola, or even beer. Every addition has its defenders. Every omission has its purists.
Limit your imagination if you wish; Mexican cooks rarely will. Still, complexity has always had a minimalist rival, and thankfully so.
Should fortune lead you to a humble stand where the only additions to the cauldron are water and salt, do not mistake simplicity for compromise. Quite the opposite. Some of the most unforgettable carnitas you will ever taste owe their greatness precisely to that restraint. They remind us that extraordinary cooking is not always about adding more, but about understanding when nothing else is needed.
When the time finally comes to eat, the ritual is refreshingly uncomplicated. Fresh tortillas are non-negotiable. Salsa is expected. You will almost certainly find sliced radishes, chopped onion, and cilantro waiting nearby. Yet if I were asked to name one ingredient that deserves to stand beside the carnitas themselves, my answer would be simple: lime.
There is an old joke that squeezing lime over a carnitas taco magically turns it into diet food. Let us not insult one another’s intelligence. This is hardly the sort of meal one chooses while counting calories. Save your remorse for tomorrow’s workout and devote today’s attention to the pleasures of the table. Some indulgences deserve to be enjoyed without apology.
Ordering carnitas, however, is an education all its own. You are not merely choosing meat; you are choosing a particular expression of the pig. Lean maciza, juicy ribs, liver, tongue, chamorro (the shank), silky cuerito (skin), buche (stomach), nana (uterus), nenepil (uterus and stomach connective tissue), snout, cheek, or the celebrated surtida, a glorious mixture of several cuts working together in perfect harmony.
If you wish to impress the person behind the chopping block, confidently ask for a taco de nana. There is a fair chance they may not even have it that day, but the mere request is often enough to earn a knowing smile. It tells them you have wandered beyond the safety of the tourist’s order.
Once your credentials have been established, you may elevate the conversation further by asking for chamorro con cuero, a combination many consider a timeless classic. As for me, I remain unconvinced. Magnificent though it may be, I believe it ultimately surrenders its crown to the humble taco de surtida, which I gladly proclaim the undisputed monarch of the copper cauldron. Rich, textured, unapologetically imperfect, it embodies everything carnitas aspire to be in a single tortilla.
I could happily devote several more pages to explaining the finer distinctions between these cuts, but I would much rather leave you with a reason to continue exploring on your own. Curiosity has always been one of the finest seasonings any meal can possess.
My brief stay in San Miguel de Allende has not afforded me enough time to visit every carnitas stand the city has to offer. I do have a favorite, naturally, and I admit I have been tempted to tell you exactly where it is. Then again, I suspect I would be robbing you of one of the greatest pleasures this country offers. Finding your own favorite taco is a journey.
It is the excuse to wander unfamiliar streets, to follow an irresistible aroma drifting through the afternoon air, to trust the longest line of locals, or simply to stop wherever the copper cauldron catches your eye. More often than not, those small detours become the memories that endure long after the meal itself has faded.
Every memorable city deserves to be discovered twice: once through its monuments, and once through its kitchens. Mexico, perhaps more than anywhere else, understands this truth.
So wherever your travels may take you, approach the copper cauldron with both appetite and curiosity. Listen to the crackle of the bubbling fat, watch the practiced rhythm of the master’s knife, accept the taco with both hands, and remember that you are tasting far more than pork cooked in lard. You are sharing in centuries of craftsmanship, family tradition, patience, and quiet pride.
Eat well. Eat slowly. And above all, enjoy every bite.
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