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San Miguel de Allende

Moxi Omakase: The Taco Edition Nine Thousand Years in a Tortilla

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By Kat Sparks

Chef Juan Carlos Hernandez recently turned Moxi, the restaurant inside Hotel Matilda, into a stage for one of Mexico’s oldest and most personal foods, the taco. Moxi Omakase: The Taco Edition, a curated dining event from ExperienceSMA, sold out within days. It was a chef’s-table tasting in which each course arrived one at a time. Every plate carried the kind of intention usually reserved for fine dining, built entirely around masa, salsa, and fire. It was a small, intimate evening—and a good excuse to explore why San Miguel de Allende takes its corn so seriously.

Why Hotel Matilda Is the Perfect Stage
Hotel Matilda has always stood a little apart from the rest of San Miguel. Most of the city leans into its 500-year-old colonial bones, but Matilda opened in 2010 with sleek white Cubist lines and a gallery’s worth of contemporary Mexican art tucked into every courtyard. The hotel takes its name from a 1940s Diego Rivera portrait of Matilda Stream, the owner’s mother, which still hangs in the collection today. Sculptures by Javier Marín greet guests near the entrance, and pieces by artists like Bosco Sodi and Aldo Chaparro fill the interiors, a place built on the idea that Mexican tradition and Mexican innovation belong in the same room, a fitting home for a menu that does exactly that with corn.

Moxi, the hotel’s restaurant, has built its own reputation around globally minded Mexican cuisine that respects tradition without being trapped by it. An omakase-style taco tasting was a natural next step. Omakase, borrowed from Japanese dining, means leaving the choices to the chef and trusting them to walk you through a story course by course. Chef Hernandez used that format to tell a very old story indeed.

Nine Thousand Years in a Tortilla
The story behind the taco begins roughly 9,000 years ago in the Balsas River Valley, where early farmers began domesticating a wild grass called teosinte. Over countless generations of careful selection, that tough, barely edible grass became maize, the crop that would go on to define an entire culinary civilization. Over time, Mesoamerican cultures combined corn with beans, creating a nutritionally complementary pairing that remains central to Mexican cooking.

By the time the Aztecs were building their empire, tortillas already had a name, tlaxcalli. They filled them with beans, chile stews, moles, and proteins ranging from turkey to deer, creating an early form of what we now recognize as the taco. A crucial technique called nixtamalization unlocked nutrients the grain had been hiding all along. Dried corn is soaked and cooked in an alkaline solution, and the process gives masa its distinctive flavor and pliability, still exactly how tortillas are made today, by hand in small kitchens and by machine in tortillerías alike.

The taco kept evolving after the Spanish arrived, absorbing new ingredients like pork, beef, and dairy. Centuries later, Lebanese immigrants brought the vertical rotisserie to Mexico, and that collision of cultures produced tacos al pastor, now one of the country’s most beloved styles. The taco has never stopped adapting, from Aztec markets to food trucks worldwide, exactly the spirit Chef Hernandez channeled at Moxi.

The Many Faces of Mexican Corn
What makes Mexican corn so extraordinary is not just its age, but its diversity. More than 60 recognized criollo, or native, varieties of maize grow across the country, each shaped by centuries of local farming and suited to a different dish. A few of them explain why a taco in Oaxaca can taste worlds apart from a taco in Mexico City, even when both start with nothing more than corn, water, and fire.

Cacahuazintle is a large, hard-kerneled white corn grown around Puebla, Tlaxcala, and Mexico City, prized above all for pozole, where its chewy texture is the whole point. Chapalote, believed to be one of the oldest cultivated corns in the Americas, produces small conical ears and connects modern kitchens to Mexico’s earliest farmers. Olotillo, a delicate white corn from Oaxaca, shows up in tlayudas and tostadas, while Chalqueño, a robust yellow variety from the State of Mexico region, leans into soups and stews. Oaxaca’s iconic blue corn gives tlayudas and many tortillas their striking color and earthier flavor, and chefs across Mexico have been rediscovering it as part of a broader movement back toward heirloom grains.

Broadly speaking, Mexican corn falls into two big families. Dent corn is usually yellow or white and high in starch, the workhorse behind hominy and masa harina, the foundation of tortillas and tamales. Sweet corn, by contrast, is what shows up grilled on a stick as elote, sold by street vendors slathered in crema, cheese, and chile. Every taco is a decision about which corn to use, and chefs like Hernandez are increasingly making that decision purposefully rather than by default.

A Story Told Course by Course
Chef Hernandez leaned into that history rather than around it. An omakase format built entirely on tacos gave him room to move through different corn varieties, salsas, and techniques course by course, the way a sushi chef might move through cuts of fish. Guests were not just eating a meal. They were tasting nine millennia of agricultural history, reinterpreted inside one of San Miguel’s most design-forward spaces.

What stayed with me after the last plate was cleared was not any single dish, but the sense of eating a timeline. A tortilla is never just a tortilla. It is a choice, made by a farmer, a chef, or a grandmother, about which corn tells the story best. If you have ever wanted to understand why Mexicans take their corn so seriously, an evening like Moxi Omakase: The Taco Edition explains it, one exquisite bite at a time.

Kat Sparks is the founder and curator of University of Expats and ExperienceSMA.

http://www.universityofexpats.com

San Miguel de Allende

How I Became the Empress of Cheese

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By Tonya Harmon—

When we arrived in San Miguel de Allende in June 2022, there was one thing I truly missed: good, locally made, European-style artisan cheese.

I resigned myself to buying imported cheeses at La Comer and City Market, supplemented by the occasional treasures I carried home from the United States, France, or Italy. At the time, I knew very little about Mexican cheese. I knew only that I did not particularly enjoy the commercial varieties I had encountered in grocery stores.
Cheese, however, had already been part of my life for decades. After leaving my software company in 2008, I began a journey to learn as much about it as I could. It was the natural continuation of a long love affair with cheese that had begun in France, a country where my family and I have spent a month or more nearly every year for decades.

I studied the science and technology of cheesemaking at the University of Guelph. Later, I travelled through Tuscany, learning to make cheese with shepherdesses across the region. I consumed countless books on the subject and eventually decided that our next great venture should be to buy a dairy in Ontario, Canada, and make cheese ourselves.

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Then I visited the dairies that were for sale and spoke with the cheesemakers who operated them. It did not take long to realize that the supposedly Zen-like life of stirring curds and whey seven days a week was not for me. Still, I loved the subject. I continued studying cheese without knowing where that knowledge might lead—and, honestly, without caring very much. I simply loved learning everything I could about it.

An Unlikely Cheese Pilgrimage
The following May, I saw a flyer advertising a National Wine and Cheese Festival in Tequisquiapan. The information was remarkably vague. There were no clear dates, no reliable schedule, and little indication of precisely where or when the festival would take place. The admission price was not listed. Online, the information was even less helpful and appeared to have been left over from the previous year.

On a warm Saturday morning, my husband and I decided to take our chances. We drove approximately two hours, past the Querétaro airport, expecting to find a small local festival featuring the same Mexican cheeses I had already decided I was never going to appreciate.

I was wrong.
We arrived around eleven in the morning, parked, and began walking. Our route took us past a long indoor Mexican market packed with people and overflowing with baskets, dolls, brooms, hardware, fresh produce, and almost anything else one could imagine.

A few blocks later, we emerged into the picturesque central square, surrounded by an imposing parish church and lovely boutiques selling jewelry, pottery, clothing, and local crafts. Then we began noticing the cheese shops. They appeared one after another along the side streets, their windows and counters filled with cheeses in an extraordinary variety of shapes, sizes, colors, and textures. Most were completely unfamiliar to me, but they were clearly not the standard commercial cheeses I had seen at La Comer.

My curiosity took over. I fell for the beautiful displays, photographed everything, and tried desperately to understand what the shopkeepers were telling me. My Spanish was limited, my knowledge of Mexican cheese was even more limited, and our phones could not find an internet connection.

This was not San Miguel. We were on our own. Eventually, after wandering around town, we located the festival grounds in a large park several blocks from the center. The entire park was surrounded by a high stone wall, and we could not find an open entrance. After walking almost all the way around it, we finally learned that the festival would not begin until one o’clock.

When the gates eventually opened, we paid the 300-peso admission charge and were each handed a wineglass for the tastings.
We could hear the festival before we entered. Loud music vibrated through the park, which was rapidly filling with stylish young Mexicans enjoying the live performances. Around its perimeter, vendors offered tastings and sold wine, beer, food—and, most importantly, cheese.

We spent the afternoon moving from booth to booth and buying as much cheese as we could carry back to the car. The producers were knowledgeable, professional, and extraordinarily generous. They offered tastings, pairings, and demonstrations, despite our very limited ability to understand their explanations. The greatest surprise was the cheese itself.

Much of it was made in recognizable European traditions: fresh chèvres, creamy Camembert- and Brie-style wheels, smooth aged cheeses reminiscent of Comté, and beautiful cheeses made from goat’s and sheep’s milk.

It was heaven. I bought hundreds of dollars’ worth—not out of restraint or reason, but from curiosity, desire, and the fear that I might never find any of it again in San Miguel. That fear was not entirely misplaced. To this day, I have not found many of those particular cheeses for sale here.

A Gold Mine Hiding in Plain Sight
During the week following the festival, I tried to contact the cheesemakers. I emailed them. I sent messages in Spanish through Facebook and WhatsApp. I explained that I loved their cheeses and wanted to find a way to buy them in San Miguel.

I did not receive a single response. So I began investigating on my own. I searched their websites, learned everything I could about the producers and their cheeses, and began researching the larger history of cheesemaking in Mexico. It felt as though I had discovered a gold mine hiding in plain sight: a remarkable artisan-cheese culture that many people in San Miguel did not seem to know existed.
Meanwhile, I still had a cooler filled with marvelous cheese. What was I going to do with all of it?

I posted on Facebook, inviting people to come taste the cheeses and hear what I had learned about Mexico’s fascinating history of European-style cheesemaking. Within hours, more than one hundred people had responded. And so my “cheese classes” began. I assumed I would teach one or two classes, satisfy everyone’s curiosity, and be finished with it. Instead, three years later, requests for new classes continue to arrive almost daily.

Perhaps that should not surprise me. Cheese combines fat, salt, aroma, texture, fermentation, history, memory, and pleasure in a way few other foods can. It brings people to the table before they have even decided to sit down.

Discovering Mexican Cheese
Since that first festival, I have learned an enormous amount about the cheeses made in Mexico. I have also developed a much deeper appreciation for traditional Mexican cheeses as well as their European-style counterparts.

I had initially dismissed Mexican cheese based on a handful of commercial products. What I discovered was an astonishingly varied world of small dairies, family farms, dedicated cheesemakers, regional traditions, native recipes, European influences, and new experimentation.

I have now found many exceptional cheeses made much closer to home. Some follow French, Italian, or Spanish traditions; others are unmistakably Mexican. The best reflect the milk, animals, climate, landscape, and personality of the people who make them.
Mexican artisan cheese is delicious, distinctive, and still woefully underrepresented in a community with an apparently insatiable appetite for it. The subject is endless, which is precisely what I love about it. There is always another history to uncover, another farm to visit, another cheesemaker to meet, another wheel to taste, and another way to serve it.

My goal has always been to connect cheese lovers with these extraordinary products and introduce them to the tireless farmers, shepherds, and cheesemakers behind them.

I never did buy that dairy in Ontario. Instead, cheese found another use for me.

To book your cheese experience:
Empress of Cheese EmpressofCheese.com

Cheeses to try:
La Estrella’s creamy, rich fresh goat cheese, made at the highly acclaimed artisanal urban farm.

On Stirling Dickinson:
La Factoría’s Criollo – A smooth, semi-mature cow’s milk cheese with a consistency made for slicing and melting.

You can find these at Luna se Queso:
Del Rebaño OVNI — A sheep’s-milk cheese with a creamy interior and a white-mold rind. It was created by Gaby, the master cheesemaker and a former gold-medal winner at the International Cheese Awards.

Banon-style cheese — An artisanal goat’s-milk cheese inspired by the classic cheese from Provence. Made in Jalisco, it is wrapped in grapevine leaves and tied with string.

Del Rebaño Padua — A sheep’s-milk cheese with a creamy consistency and qualities similar to French camembert.

Huatulco, San Miguel de Allende

Carnitas: The Monarch of the Copper Cauldron

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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.

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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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Huatulco, San Miguel de Allende

The Gourmet Triangle: Eats in Roma Norte, Roma Sur, and Condesa

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By Carole Reedy—

Surely you’ve heard about the variety and quality of the restaurants in this charming historic area of Mexico City. What you may not realize is that you don’t have to empty your wallet to enjoy a memorable meal.

The recommendations listed here won’t be found in the many articles naming the “Top Ten” places to eat in Mexico City, but they do promise authentic flavors, a warm Mexican welcome, and a meal you’ll still feel good about when the credit card bill arrives.

The Colonias
The neighborhoods (colonias) of Roma Norte, Roma Sur, and Condesa form a triangle just southwest of the city center. It’s an easy area to explore on foot, with tree-lined streets, beautiful parks, and striking Art Deco architecture.

You’ll find everything here—from taco stands and neighborhood cafés to some of the city’s most celebrated restaurants. The good news is that there are excellent choices at every price point.

Each neighborhood has its own personality. Roma Sur feels more residential and relaxed, with more families than tourists. Roma Norte is livelier, filled with cafés, boutiques, and nightlife. Condesa is the most polished of the three, known for its parks, outdoor dining, and stylish atmosphere.

Roma Sur
Let’s begin at the heart of the neighborhood food scene: Mercado Medellín, on the corner of Medellín and Campeche. Named for the street on which it stands, the market is especially known for its Colombian, Cuban, Venezuelan, and Peruvian vendors, making it one of the best places in the city to experience the flavors of Latin America.

Aisle after aisle offers fresh produce, meats, seafood, flowers, spices, cheeses, baked goods, and specialty ingredients. In the back, you’ll even find household goods and hardware.

Several small restaurants are scattered throughout the market, serving fresh, inexpensive Mexican dishes. Grab a seat among the locals and enjoy one of the city’s most authentic dining experiences.

A block or two north on Calle Medellín you’ll find several neighborhood eateries. One local favorite is Pollos Mario, best known for its rotisserie chicken and Colombian specialties. It’s affordable, lively, and consistently popular.

Also on Medellín, between Campeche and Nayarit, is El Compita, a bustling taquería where the steady stream of local diners is usually a good indication you’ve found something worth trying.

After your tacos, stroll a couple of doors down to Dulce Refugio for dessert and coffee.

If you’re craving pizza or Italian food, DoppioZero Pizza Romana, just around the corner on Coahuila, is a dependable choice. Across the street, Aburger serves Angus burgers that satisfy those occasional comfort-food cravings.

The variety, quality, and reasonable prices make this neighborhood an ideal place to combine sightseeing with a leisurely lunch or dinner.

The Bistros of Roma Norte and Condesa
One of the pleasures of these neighborhoods is dining outdoors, surrounded by elegant Art Deco buildings and the leafy parks that give the area so much of its charm.

Start with coffee and a milhojas—a delicate pastry layered with cream and fruit—at Rosetta Bakery on Colima. The bakery is almost always busy, but the pastries are well worth the wait.

Across from Parque México, at the corner of Michoacán and Avenida México, Toscana is the perfect place to linger over breakfast or lunch. The menu ranges from huevos mexicanos to Reuben sandwiches, and the relaxed atmosphere invites you to stay awhile.

Just down the street is Nonna, one of my favorite places to take visitors. The menu features classic Italian dishes, an excellent wine list, and a welcoming atmosphere that makes it easy to settle in for the evening.

Continue toward Insurgentes and you’ll come to La Naval, a combination gourmet grocery, wine shop, and liquor store. It’s an excellent place to stock up if you’re entertaining, with a wonderful selection of cheeses, deli items, wines, beers, and specialty spirits.

Better yet, stay for tapas at the restaurant attached to the store, where you can enjoy Spanish-inspired small plates in either the indoor dining room or on the terrace.

Asian cuisine has become increasingly popular in the area, and two restaurants stand out.

Sesame, next to Rosetta Bakery, has been serving creative Asian-inspired dishes for years. Its inventive cocktails and consistently good food have helped it remain a neighborhood favorite. Don’t miss the lamb samosas or the pad Thai.

A newer addition is Kiin Viet Thai Eatery on Orizaba. The prices are a bit higher than many of the other restaurants mentioned here, but the fresh Vietnamese and Thai flavors make it worth the splurge. Just be prepared—the spice level can rival even the hottest Mexican dishes.

One of the joys of exploring Roma Norte, Roma Sur, and Condesa is discovering that some of the city’s best meals aren’t found in the trendiest dining rooms. They’re tucked into neighborhood markets, family-run cafés, bustling taquerías, and bakeries where locals gather every day. Come hungry, wander a little, and you’ll eat remarkably well—without breaking the bank.

Huatulco

Poultry in Mexico

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By Marcia Chaiken and Jan Chaiken—

When we are in Mexico, we rely on poultry as our primary source of land-based protein, as do most Mexican nationals. Although living in coastal Oaxaca is virtually synonymous with having delicious fish dinners, many traditional dishes use poultry – especially chicken (pollo) as a primary ingredient. Others require turkey, quail, duck, or other domesticated birds for regional or holiday treats.

Chickens are not indigenous to Mexico but were introduced by the Spanish settlers in the early 16th century. Some of the varieties farmed in Mexico today are related to the earliest chickens introduced to the Aztecs and Mayans. Today Mexicans consume, on average, 35 kilograms (77 pounds) of chicken each year. Given the relatively large number of chickens one sees running around Mexican villages or hears clucking away in city backyard coops, one might mistakenly assume that preparation of most chicken dinners here begins with chasing down a free-range fowl on the fly. Perhaps that once was so, but today most chickens and eggs are produced by three large corporations on large-scale farms strategically located around the country. So a chicken meal preparation most often begins with a trip to a supermarket or local store.

Whether at home or in restaurants, you have a choice of a myriad of chicken preparations. The favorite of millions of people is caldo—a rich, hearty chicken soup. There are restaurants all over Mexico that specialize in caldo, and although we frequently prepare large batches at home and freeze portions for emergency meals when we or friends are under the weather, in Mexico it is easier to swing by a caldo take-out restaurant for freshly made soup. Another ubiquitous type of chicken is pollo asado, grilled chicken. Mexican restaurants lure in patrons by grilling chicken right outside their entrance; one’s nose takes in the delicious smell of garlic, onions, chiles and other spices cooking in chicken fat, and the rest of their body follows their nose and watering mouth indoors. At home, the easiest preparation requires only a chicken, spices that are family favorites, and an asador (grill).

More chicken dishes we’ve relished over the past decades include chicken in tacos, tostadas, enchiladas, tamales, tlayudas, sopes, omelets and quesadillas. But our very favorites are the many types of moles with chicken. Whether mole negro (black), amarillo (yellow), coloradito (red) or verde (green), small pieces of chicken are primarily eaten as a vehicle for carrying the rich mole sauce from the plate to the tongue and slowly savored to enjoy the mix of multiple ingredients in the mole.

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Turkeys (pavo or guajolote), unlike chickens, are indigenous to Mexico. Both Mayans and Aztecs domesticated and raised turkeys long before the Spanish invaded. The Spanish, who had never seen a turkey since there were none on the European continent, were quickly converted to eating turkey. In addition to tomatoes, which also weren’t known in Europe, turkeys were crated and traveled to Spain on returning ships. The European turkey market flourished, and the breeders produced a line that was introduced back in the “New World” and became the forebears of the turkey found in U.S. and Canadian supermarkets today.

The first time we tasted turkey in Mexico was in centro (downtown) Cancun in a restaurant frequented by the workers who provided services in the affluent hotels on the isle just off the coast. The restaurant was noted by the locals for its turkey dishes – prepared in the same ways the Mayans had used for centuries. These included pavo pibil (turkey marinated in citrus sauce and achiote paste and wrapped and roasted in banana leaves) and pavo relleno negro (turkey simmered in a jet-black broth seasoned with fired chiles and other local spices).

We greatly enjoyed the rich gamey taste of the bird and found out that these turkeys were closely related to those originally domesticated by the Mayans. Although they are still raised on the Yucatan peninsula, the very few turkey farms throughout the country are more likely to raise turkeys introduced from the U.S. via Europe. Most of the year, Mexicans do not consume a lot of turkey. For the past 10 years, turkey farms in Mexico have steadily produced a total of 8,461 metric tons of turkey meat, compared to 3.8 million metric tons of chicken. Except in the Yucatan peninsula where turkey is a year-round treat, turkey in the rest of Mexico is generally a part of holiday meals. Since the demand soars at holiday time beyond the capability of the Mexican turkey farms to meet the need, turkeys are largely imported from the United States.

Other Birds Eaten in Mexico: Quail, Duck, and Chachalaca

Three other birds—quail, duck, and chachalaca—are consumed in Mexico in much smaller quantities than chicken. Mexico has more varieties of quail than any other country in the world. Although they have long been hunted and used in Mexican cuisine, quail farms are now an emerging industry in the Yucatan Peninsula. These tiny succulent birds, codorniz, are often found as starter dishes in the most expensive and loudly lauded restaurants in Mexico City, including Pujol and Maximo, and as delicious but pricey add-ons in barbecue restaurants in tourist areas around the country. We first sampled codorniz many years ago at Finca de Vaqueros in Pochutla and were glad when the restaurant opened a branch serving it in Huatulco.

Duck (pato) is raised in small numbers in the state of Jalisco. It is far from a common dish and is presented as gourmet offerings such as pato en mole and pato carnitas. Most of the restaurants in Mexico offering duck are Asian restaurants or fusion Mexican-Asian restaurants (using tortillas instead of Asian pancakes). Of course the top French restaurants in Mexico City include duck a l’orange on their menus. But if you’re from north of the border, you might just wait until you’re home to order duck, since most of the duck served in restaurants in Mexico is imported from there anyway.

Chachalacas are those extremely noisy birds that look like turkeys and parade past your seaside windows early in the morning. To our knowledge they are never served in restaurants nor are they available in markets. In some communities, chachalacas have traditionally been hunted or raised for food, subject to wildlife regulations. Supposedly they taste like turkey. If you are invited by a friend for a chachalaca meal, please do send us a post reviewing your experience. If you, like us, never have that experience, please enjoy the rest of the poultry in Mexico.

Drs. Marcia and Jan Chaiken have been married for 62 years and have published many justice system research reports together.

 

Huatulco

Nothing Wasted: The Beauty of Leftovers

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By Jane Bauer

I once met someone who told me their least favorite food was leftovers. When you hear the word leftovers, you might picture day-old pizza or a casserole that has overstayed its welcome. But leftovers can be the start of something delicious—far beyond simply heating them up for another round of the same old, same old.
Here are a few dishes that are enhanced by leftovers:

Leftover: Stale Bread
Solution: French Toast
In French, it’s called Pain Perdu—“Lost Bread.” I’ve always found the name poetic. It conjures an image of a piece of stale bread sitting on the counter of a Parisian apartment. This isn’t bread for the birds or the trash, it’s magic waiting to happen.

Crack an egg into a bowl, pour in a little milk, and add a dash of cinnamon or vanilla. Beat with a fork until blended. Slice your bread, then heat a frying pan and add just enough fat—butter or oil—to keep things from sticking.

Dredge the bread in the milk mixture until the outer layer absorbs some of the liquid—don’t let it get soggy. Fry until the slices turn a beautiful golden brown. Plate and drizzle with syrup.

Super hack: Have a jar of jam that’s been sitting in your fridge forever? Add the jam to a small saucepan with a bit of water. Simmer slowly, stirring until you have a warm jam sauce. Add more water as needed to reach your desired texture.

Leftover: Corn tortillas
Solution: Chilaquiles (a.k.a. Nachos for Breakfast)

One of the best Mexican breakfasts is, in essence, a celebration of leftovers. Tortillas are typically sold by the kilo—a lot for just a couple of people. You can wrap them in a dishtowel and place them in a plastic bag to stretch their life another day, but really, tortillas are best eaten fresh.

So what to do with the extras? Make totopos—corn chips. Cut the tortillas into quarters. Heat about an inch of vegetable oil in a saucepan. When it’s hot, drop in a few pieces and fry until firm, but not brown. They’ll continue cooking after you remove them, so if they’re already brown in the pan, they’ll end up overdone. Place on paper towels to drain.

Now you’re ready for chilaquiles. Heat about half a cup of your house salsa (because of course, you always have one). When it’s hot, toss in a handful or two of totopos, stirring gently until they’re coated in the sauce. Plate immediately—don’t let them linger or they’ll get soggy. Top with cheese, sliced onions, avocado, and a dollop of cream.

Salsa Roja
8 Roma Tomatoes
1 jalapeño
3 garlic cloves
½ teaspoon of salt
Roast or boil ingredients. Blend. Season to taste. For extra heat add a couple of chile de arbol (small dried chiles).

Leftover: Boiled or roasted potatoes
Solution: Bauernfrühstück (Farmer’s Breakfast)

My last name is Bauer and as a girl my father would often make this dish on Sunday mornings. This German dish is all about turning yesterday’s potatoes into today’s comfort food. —it’s a rustic skillet of fried potatoes, eggs, and whatever else is on hand.

Slice up your leftover boiled or roasted potatoes. Heat a generous spoonful of butter or oil in a frying pan, and toss in the potatoes until they start to crisp and brown at the edges. Add chopped onions, peppers, or bits of ham if you have them.When everything smells irresistible, pour in a few beaten eggs and let them set slightly before stirring. You want a balance between soft and crisp, not scrambled.

Season with salt and a generous amount of pepper, maybe a sprinkle of fresh herbs if you have some around.

Each of these dishes celebrates the beauty of using what’s left—transforming the forgotten and the stale into something comforting and new. A reminder that good food doesn’t begin with perfection. It begins with creativity, care, and respect for what we already have. In the kitchen, as in life, nothing needs to go to waste.

Jane Bauer is the owner/operator of Café Juanita and the Chiles & Chocolate Cooking School.

Huatulco

Atole y más

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By Julie Etra

Atole is a prehispanic corn-based beverage consumed throughout Mesoamerica and South America, albeit in different forms and with varying ingredients. The word atole is derived from the náhuatl word atolli , which means “watered down” or watery, due to its root of “atl” = water. It is synonymous with atol as it is also called in Mexico, Spain, and Venezuela.

The Purépecha, indigenous people of the northwestern Mexican state of Michoacan, call it kamata. In Mayan it is known as sa’, in Costa Rica it is called chicheme and champurrado in Peru and Argentina. Its basic ingredient is milled corn or corn flour. In prehispanic times it was likely prepared with water, and perhaps honey, but with the conquering Spaniards came sugar, added as a sweetener. Of moderate viscosity from cornstarch, atole was historically prepared as hot as possible.

Ingredients
Other contemporary additions to the basic beverage include milk, honey, piloncillo (see below) cinnamon, vanilla and other sweeteners, such as fruit juice or fruit pulp. There are dozens of ‘recipes’ with additional ingredients as variable in flavor and texture as chiles, epazote, blackberry, plum, mango, coconut, walnut, and cheese. In Colombia eggs are added.

Piloncillo
As an interesting aside, Mexico produces a type of sugar called piloncillo. With its origins in Asia, sugar cane crossed the Mediterranean, landing in the Iberian Peninsula, and from there brought from Spain to the Island of Hispaniola, (modern day Haiti and the Dominican Republic), by Christopher Columbus; sugar mills and refineries were operating on Hispaniola by 1516.

Piloncillo is commonly found in the produce section. It is brown, cone-shaped unprocessed raw sugarcane. The canes are crushed, the juice extracted and boiled to create a thick syrup which is then poured into molds where it hardens. Currently (and historically), the largest producer of piloncillo in Mexico is San Luis Potosí where it was originally cultivated by the Spaniards, although the states of Veracruz, Quintana Roo, Nayarit, Jalisco, Hidalgo and Colima are also producers.

Pinole
Atole should not be confused with pinole although they rhyme. Pinole is a grain mixture, made predominantly of heirloom blue and purple maize that’s roasted with raw cacao beans, then ground into a fine mixture (yes, cacao is native to Mexico). It’s most commonly combined with milk to form a thick, warm porridge. In addition to cacao it is mixed with a combination of cinnamon, chia seeds, vanilla, or other spices, to make a beverage called pinolillo.

Champurrado
In Mexico, Champurrado is atole with chocolate, although masa (the same dough used for tortillas) is used instead of harina.

Chilate, Arroz, and Horchata
Atole should not be confused with another beverage, chilate, from Costa Chica, Guerrero. This beverage is prepared with cocoa, rice, cinnamon, and sugar, and is served cold. It is not to be confused with chilate in Central American countries such as Guatemala, where its base is corn. Rice, a component of this and other beverages like horchata, arrived after the Spanish conquest. Rice, of Asian origin, arrived in Mexico via the port of Acapulco, Guerrero, shortly after the Spanish conquest of the Philippines in 1565 by Miguel Lopez de Legazpi (Spain ruled the Philippines for over 333 years). Approximately forty years later Spanish ships known as the Manila Galleons brought rice to Mexico from the Philippines. Remember, dear readers, the fall of Mexico occurred in 1521.

Mexico does grow some of its own rice for domestic consumption, but the majority is imported from the United States. The popular beverage horchata comes from North Africa which was brought to the Iberian Peninsula with the Moorish conquest of Spain in the eighth century.

Pox
Pox (pronounced “posh”), comes from the Mayan people of the Chiapas Highlands. It is a distilled, but weakly alcoholic beverage whose ingredients include water, sugar cane, corn, piloncillo and wheat bran, as well as a variety of herbs, such as mint, lemon grass, rosemary, and bay leaf, or the pulp of seasonal fruits. It is known for its silky consistency.

In addition to previously mentioned ingredients, anise, orange blossoms, orange leaves, and pineapple can be added to the basic recipe.

Here is a popular recipe for Atole de Piña:

Ingredients
·5 oz masa
11 oz pineapple pulp
·2 cups cubed pineapple

Preparation
·Stir the masa in 4 cups of water. Let stand for 15 minutes, then strain the water and set it aside. In a blender puree the pineapple in 1 ½ cups of water. Strain and set the pineapple water aside.

In a saucepan combine the strained masa water and the pineapple water and set over medium heat. Boil, stirring constantly for 15 minutes or until thickened.
Remove from heat, add the pineapple cubes, and stir for another 5 minutes. Serve hot.

What about those pineapples? Not imported by the Spaniards, pineapples most likely originated in the wild in the Paraná–Paraguay River drainages between southern Brazil and Paraguay and are thought to have been domesticated over 6,000 years ago. Archaeological evidence of pineapple use dates back to 1200–800 BCE in Peru and 200 BCE – 700 CE in Mexico, where it was cultivated by the Mayans and the Mexica (Aztecs) By the late 1400s, pineapples were a staple food of indigenous populations throughout Mesoamerica.

Atole in Religious Ritual.
Atole is considered indispensable in many religious events and Catholic ceremonies, including baptisms, first communion, wakes, patron saint celebrations, and posadas (see EYE archives December 2014 for a good description of a posada:
https://theeyehuatulco.com/2014/12/01/christmas-in-mexico-city-how-to-celebrate-it-like-a-chilango). In many indigenous communities it is an offering in prayer for a good corn harvest or one of thanks following a good one. Of course, corn, a staple and essential component of Mexican diets, has been worshiped for thousands of years, and atole is its liquid manifestation (see EYE archives for multiple articles on corn).

Today, the types of flavors that accompany atole are varied and regional, but it remains an original Mexican concoction.

Huatulco

In Search of Diana Kennedy’s Huachinango Veracruzana

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By Deborah Van Hoewyk

In 1979, seven years after British-born Diana Kennedy published The Cuisines of Mexico, I went to Veracruz, both the city and the state. I thought the food was extraordinary.

The culinary website Serious Eats describes “Jarocho” (the colloquial term for being native to Veracruz) cuisine as “one of Mexico’s simplest,” but “one of its richest.” It was on the shore of Veracruz where Hernán Cortés first set foot, and Spanish cooking – already Mediterranean and Moroccan in its heritage – was quickly adopted and adapted to Jarocho ingredients and techniques, followed by West African influences. (Cortés brought the first six African slaves to Mexico; eventually, over 200,000 Africans came through the port of Veracruz, to be sold in the town of Antigua, about 28 km [±17 miles] west of the port).

The food of coastal Veracruz thus offers all kinds of fish and seafood, cooked in all kinds of ways, served with all kinds of sauces – and Huachinango Veracruzana – Red Snapper a la Veracruz – was the queen of all the dishes I tasted there.

On returning to the States, I went out and bought the Sunset Mexican Cookbook. My copy was from 1977, and was subtitled Simplifed Techniques, 155 Classic Recipes. The American palate of the 1970s was not yet familiar with Mexican cooking, but the Sunset Mexican cookbook sold over a million copies, through 20 printings, with at least five updates between 1969 and 1983.

And one of its recipes, from Diana Kennedy but adapted to American ingredients, was “Snapper Veracruz (Huachinango a la Veracruzana).”

Loved that recipe. Loved especially the green olives, orange juice, golden raisins, cinnamon, and capers. After six moves to three states, I lost my Sunset Mexican cookbook – not that I don’t have others, but none has that exact recipe. That, according to Diana Kennedy, is because the recipe is anything but exact!

The Woman Who Wrote My Remembered Recipe

Culinary anthropologist, cookbook author, chef by default, Diana Southwood was born a hundred years ago (March 3, 1923), in the town of Loughton, England, about 20 miles north of London. The daughter of a kindergarten teacher and a salesman, she lived to be 99, dying at her home in Heroica Zitácuaro, Michoacán, on July 24, 2022. In her twenties, she was a “Lumber Jill” with the Women’s Timber Corps, replacing the men who had gone to fight in WW II, and a housing manager in Scotland, working with mining families. When she was 30, she emigrated to Canada and worked in a film library and sold Wedgewood fine china. She loved to travel, and loved to explore new cuisines; from Canada she started visiting the Caribbean.

On a 1956 trip to the Caribbean, she stopped over in Port-au-Prince, Haiti, on her way home. Staying in the same hotel was American journalist Paul P. Kennedy, the New York Times chief correspondent for Latin America. Kennedy was covering civil unrest in Haiti, where the people were using strikes and demonstrations to force their dictatorial president, Paul Magloire, out of office. She was 33, he was 51 – apparently the attraction was instantaneous; Diana described it as un flechazo, an arrow “shot straight to the heart.” She followed Paul and his “half-promise of matrimony” to his home base, Mexico City; they were married within the year.

The ever-versatile Diana Kennedy took up Spanish and worked as a typist at the British consulate in Mexico City. The Kennedys were popular in the English-speaking community in Mexico City, entertaining and being entertained on a frequent basis; when they ate dinner at the homes of friends, Kennedy as usual was taken with foods they were served. When she asked her hostess (this was the 1950s, people) about a dish, they usually replied that the maid or the cook knew about it.

When she asked the maid or the cook, they replied they made it the way they did it back home in their village. Off Kennedy would go to find out just how they did it back home in the village. This was the process that became Diana Kennedy’s hallmark in researching Mexican cuisine in all its regional variations: ask about the recipe, go to where it came from, ask questions, and learn how to make it with authenticity. All her recipes identified who made them and where they made them.

Her trekking about the rural villages also led her to the cookbooks of Josefina Velásquez de Léon (1899-1968), who had visited church groups in the countryside to document regional cooking. (One might call Velásquez de Léon the first celebrity chef – she cooked on radio in the 1940s and television in the 1950s, published cookbooks, opened a cooking school, and set up her own cookbook publishing house; her papers are in several archive collections, but one of them is the Special Collections of the University of Texas at San Antonio, alongside those of Diana Kennedy.)

One of the Kennedys’ guests in Mexico City was Craig Claiborne, who had joined the New York Times in 1957 as its food editor and off-and-on restaurant critic. When Diana offered to buy him a Mexican cookbook, he is supposed to have said “Not until you have written one!”

Diana Kennedy in New York

But the cookbooks came later, and Craig Claiborne would have a hand in that. Paul Kennedy fell victim to cancer, aggressive prostate cancer. In 1966, the couple drove North to New York City for his treatment. In Nothing Fancy, one of Kennedy’s most personal cookbooks (1984) and a 2019 documentary of the same title by filmmaker Elizabeth Carroll, Kennedy tells a story of that last trip. Eating takeout in some motel somewhere in Texas, “Paul laid his knife and fork down soon after he had started his meal. ‘I don’t know whether to thank you or not,’ he bellowed. ‘Most of my life I could eat anything anywhere, but now look what you have done to me. This damned rubbish!’ and pushed his plate back in disgust.”

Paul Kennedy died on February 2, 1967. Diana was left alone in their apartment on the upper west side of Manhattan. Although all the apartment offered was a galley kitchen, Claiborne had featured Diana’s work on regional Mexican cuisine in the New York Times, and suggested that she could teach authentic Mexican cooking classes. Word got out that Diana’s classes were great, and when Frances McCullough, a poetry editor at Harper & Row, took a class, she told Kennedy that a cookbook was in order. Not that Diana Kennedy knew how to write, but McCullough shepherded her through the process and Kennedy’s first cookbook, The Cuisines of Mexico, came to life in 1972.

It was a struggle to get it published as a quality cookbook, however – Harper & Row thought it would never sell, said they had no money to print it with pictures, and sent a cover design that featured a sombrero sitting on a cactus. Kennedy was furious but McCullough said, “OK, Diana, let’s invite them to lunch. We’ll give them a great meal and lots of margaritas.” It worked. After the publishing executive finished, they started looking at Diana’s slides of the dishes they’d been served, and started saying, “Well, we have to have THAT one … and THAT one,” and so on. “I ended up with a great designer,” Diana recalled.

McCullough would edit the next five cookbooks Kennedy wrote, and remained a friend for life.

Diana Kennedy Moves to Michoacán

Diana went back to Mexico repeatedly to gather the recipes in Cuisines of Mexico, but continued working professionally in the various cooking schools popping up in the U.S., returning to Mexico to hunt up more authentic recipes and culinary techniques in the summer. It took until 1976 to leave New York permanently. According to Kennedy, she told herself, “My God, I’ve got to get out. What am I doing with all these smells, the doggie odors, the exhaust from the restaurants in my face? It’s all so artificial.”

The contrast of authentic and artificial would epitomize the rest of Diana Kennedy’s life. When she went back to Mexico in 1976, she stayed; in 1980, she bought three hectares (just under 7½ acres) about 130 km (about 80 miles) west of Mexico City in Michoacán. There she designed and built Quinta (country house) Diana, her Mexican home and culinary research center. Quinta Diana was supposed to be just a little food museum for Diana’s collection of cooking tools, but the idea that museums were of “dead things” was anathema to Kennedy. She hired an architect and ecological engineer and started a house that incorporated large boulders on the site, rambling up and down a steep hillside, amply graced with perforated walls to encourage fresh breezes through the house. Down the slope is her eco-garden full of local Mexican herbs and vegetables and home to a motley collection of livestock and bees. Quinta Diana is mostly off the grid; Kennedy eventually used it to establish the Diana Kennedy Center, a place for research, teaching, and sustainable living – with sustainable native foods at its heart.

For fifty years or so, Kennedy led a busy professional life from Quinta Diana. She wrote more cookbooks; before leaving New York, she produced her second, The Tortilla Book, in 1975. The rest included Recipes from the Regional Cooks of Mexico (1978), Nothing Fancy: Recipes and Recollections of Soul-Satisfying Food (1984), The Art of Mexican Cooking (1989), My Mexico (1998), From My Mexican Kitchen: Techniques and Ingredients (2003), and Oaxaca al Gusto: An Infinite Gastronomy (2010).

She taught cooking classes and participated in events devoted to international cuisine. She won awards – from the James Beard Foundation, from Mexico (Order of the Aztec Eagle), from Britain (Member of the Most Excellent Order of the British Empire).

The Perils of Authenticity

Always a stickler for doing things in just the right way, all the time, Diana Kennedy has had her detractors. There are those who think that cuisine changes and adapts over time, that it was not a “fly preserved in amber.” Kennedy has even castigated the Mexican cooks who took her recipes and evolved them.

There were those who feel her insistence on using lard and lots of crema is unhealthy, and her notion that you should read all the explanations and notes before attempting a recipe – a recipe that might take five days to make all the salsas and bases – is antiquated. Kennedy, on the other hand, says “It’s difficult to educate a whole public … Americans were raised to expect that horrible combination plate – the quick cheap fix.”

Tejal Rao, a New York Times restaurant critic and food writer, believes that Diana Kennedy “changed the way millions of people perceived Mexican Food.” On the other hand, when Kennedy taught Martha Stewart to make Oaxacan tamales de frijol on television, “Wasn’t something lost?” Kennedy would say no, but Tejal Rao pointed out that perhaps a Zapotec cook should have been serving as the expert on her own tamales. Rao also faulted Kennedy for never backing down “from her ludicrous position of dismissing Tex-Mex, California Mexican food and all of the rich, regional cuisines that grew from the Mexican diaspora.”

Nonetheless, after spending more than half her lifetime in grass-roots scholarship across the kitchens of rural Mexico, bouncing around in a beat-up pickup truck with a revolver in the glove compartment, Diana Kennedy made an immeasurable contribution to our understanding of and appreciation for Mexican gastronomy. With her attention to regional differences in Mexican dishes, she laid much of the foundation for the United Nations’ designation of Mexican cuisine as an Intangible Cultural Heritage of Humanity.

Will I still look for the “right” recipe for Huachinango Veracruzana? Even though Diana Kennedy told me that it’s more likely made with orange juice and raisins in the mountains of Veracruz, maybe in Jalapa? Of course I will.

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The Six Most Renowned Unique Foods in Oaxaca

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By Alvin Starkman, M.A., J.D.

The state of Oaxaca is acclaimed for its gastronomic greatness, boasting some of the most distinct and delectable cuisine in all Mexico. In addition to the region’s famed moles, food stuffs range from grasshoppers to gusanos, tejate to tlayudas, and Oaxaca’s signature quesillo. While other parts of Mexico are noted for distinguishing dishes, Oaxaca stands apart from the rest for the sheer number of inimitable culinary innovations. The variety of inventive ingredients and their combinations produce unique flavors, and an opportunity to embrace the non-traditional.

Mole Much More than Negro

The phrase “seven moles of Oaxaca” is a misnomer, though the initial suggestion of a fixed number undoubtedly did bring notoriety to the breadth of these thick sauces. Mole negro is the most renowned because of the unique combination of chiles and chocolate, the sheer number of ingredients used to make it (generally between 30 and 35), and the labor intensity of its preparation, taking at least a couple of days if made true to tradition. But there are innumerable other moles, varying in flavor depending on the region (ready availability of ingredients) and family tradition, though they are typically broadly categorized as one of the seven.

A key feature of Oaxacan moles is that in most cases they are made independent of the chicken, turkey, pork, seafood or beef; a contrast with stews. Some moles keep well refrigerated for a few days or even months if frozen (i.e., mole negro), while others are best eaten the day they are prepared so that the flavors of the herbs and spices maintain their individuality on the palate (i.e., mole verde). Still others lose their distinctiveness if prepared without a signature component (chile chilhuacle in the case of mole chichilo).

Oaxacan Chapulines and Gusanos del Maguey

Chapulines, or grasshoppers, are the best known Oaxacan food next to mole. They are sold on the street and in the markets. They are most frequently eaten as a snack food, just like a bag of potato chips. However, they are also served as part of a mixed appetizer plate, in addition to being incorporated into recipes for salsas and dips, adding a unique essence. While chapulines are available year-round, discerning Oaxacans, mainly in the villages and towns, will only eat them when they are fresh, meaning harvested throughout or at the end of the rainy season. Otherwise, most of these high hoppers are imported from outside of Oaxaca’s central valleys, often from the state of Puebla. They’re a uniquely flavored high protein snack worthy of at least sampling.

Gusanos are actually larvae, an infestation of the maguey (agave) plant used to make mezcal. The gusano is best known as “the worm” that is at times encountered at the bottom of a bottle of mezcal, by design of course. However, like chapulines, they constitute an ingredient in some salsas, and are also used in other recipes. One purchases gusanos either dried or as live crawlers. In both cases they are usually crushed before use in recipes. Sal de gusano (worm salt) is used to rim glasses for cocktails, sprinkled on fresh fruit to bring out flavor and sweetness, and served alongside lime or orange wedges to chase shots of mezcal.

Tejate, Tlayudas and Quesillo

While technically a beverage rather than a food, tejate is worthy of comment because it’s virtually always encountered in markets, both indoor markets in the city and nearby towns, and outdoor weekly marketplaces. Women dish out the drink from oversized green glazed clay basins to passersby electing to have it ladled into plastic drinking cups “to go,” or into large half gourds known as jícaras. The drink is usually beige in color with a foamy film, having the appearance of a sink of water with spent shaving cream floating atop. But don’t let the look dissuade. Consider tejate a pre-Hispanic mocha frappe. The high-energy drink is made with corn, cacao, the flower of an aromatic plant, the seed of the tropical fruit mamey, yes, a bit of ash, and sometimes small amounts of a seasonal nut, with sugary water added for the asking. Its arduous preparation yields a truly distinguishing taste.

For Mexicans, tlayudas are synonymous with Oaxaca, and only Oaxaca. They’re prepared and eaten both on street corners (usually at night) and in restaurants. A tlayuda is an oversized semi-crispy corn tortilla, served either open faced or folded over into a half moon. The super-sized tortilla is filled with a thin layer of asiento (rendered pork fat), bean paste, lettuce, tomato, cheese, and either tasajo (thinly sliced beef), cecina (thinly sliced pork with a crushed chile mix dusting) or chorizo (Mexican sausage). The meat is sometimes served alongside the tlayuda rather than inside or on top. A unique feature of the tlayuda is that it’s often grilled directly over hot coals. Snacking on a tlayuda with friends and family late at night is as ritualistic as it gets in Oaxaca. For the asking, eateries will prepare a vegetarian or even a vegan tlayuda.

Queso is Spanish for cheese. But in Oaxaca queso connotes a fresh cheese much like cottage cheese (compacted dry as distinguished from the commercial loose curd product) or feta. But quesillo is totally different. It’s string cheese, eaten most often by the small piece when a component of a mixed appetizer platter, or melted as an ingredient in another dish, after being thinly shredded. Hence it’s the key ingredient in quesadillas and queso fundido (cheese fondue), and usually an integral part of a tlayuda.

Embrace the Opportunity to Sample It All When Visiting, Even If Only for a Day

Spending just 24 hours in the city of Oaxaca provides ample opportunity to pry loose an otherwise uninspired palate. Walk through any marketplace, certainly the famed Benito Juárez downtown market, nibbling on crunchy chapulines, then stop for a refreshing drink of tejate. After strolling, lunch at a local eatery, making sure to order the comida corrida (inexpensive complete meal with a selection of local cuisine from which to choose, served uncharacteristically fast), invariably including the restaurant’s best mole. Consider starting the meal as Oaxacans often do, with a shot of house mezcal served with lime or orange, and yes, sal de gusano. After sightseeing, followed by a well-deserved rest for body, soul and culinary constitution, head out for a late night tlayuda laden with quesillo.

Whether in the city or a coastal town, imagine the breadth of deliciously different gastronomic delights awaiting you with a whole week (or lifetime) to spend indulging in Oaxaca’s exquisite cuisine.

Alvin Starkman operates Mezcal Educational Excursions of Oaxaca (www.mezcaleducationaltours.com).

2020

Al Pastor and the Lebanese Influence on Mexican food

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By Julie Etra

Yum! One of my favorite Mexican dishes is Tacos al Pastor, layers of marinated meat, slow-cooked on a spit with a vertical flame, slivered up and served on a warm corn tortilla with all the side fixings. The spit, called a trompo (“spinning top”) in Spanish, slowly rotates as it cooks the al pastor, which in Mexico is usually pork. Marinades vary, but can mostly be classified as “adobo,” which includes achiote and ground red guajillo chilies, resulting in the reddish colored meat. The pastor part, which means “shepherd,” is derived from the verb pastorear (“to herd”), as this fixture in Mexican street food is actually Lebanese in origin and the corresponding meat was lamb (pigs are not herded). In the Middle East, the dish is called “shawarma,” and originally consisted of spiced lamb roasting on the slow-turning spit and served on pita bread; when it arrived in Mexico, the pita eventually became a wheat flour tortilla (as in tacos árabe). This method of cooking on a rotating spit is also customary in Greek food, e.g., the gyro (think gyroscope), a meat sandwich of beef, veal (oh no, not a fatted calf), lamb, pork, or chicken.

Lebanese Food Comes to Mexico

Records show that the first Lebanese arrived Mexico in 1892, initially concentrating around Puebla and to a lesser extent Mexico City and the Baja. At the time, Lebanon was not a distinct country but part of the immense Ottoman empire. The immigrants were largely Christians fleeing political persecution, and they rapidly assimilated in Mexico.

The first Middle Eastern restaurant in Mexico was opened in Puebla by Yerbagues Tabe Mena y Galeana in Puebla in 1933. Called “La Oriental,” it was located at Avenida 16 de septiembre, #303. Since lamb apparently was difficult to find and expensive, and since the Mexicans preferred pork, the family quickly adapted. Traditional Lebanese spices, such as caraway, cardamom, nutmeg, and ginger were gradually replaced with Mexican spices but tacos árabes are in part defined by the wheat flour tortilla, not corn.

The restaurant moved to its current location near the zocalo in 1942; it’s at Portal Iturbide, #5. The sign reads “La Oriental: la cuna del taco Árabe” (“The Eastern: the birthplace of the Arab taco).

Speaking of spices, there are numerous spices not originally Mexican but over the centuries and decades have found their way into Mexican cuisine, e.g., cumin (comino in Spanish) and cilantro.

Cumin, which seems indispensable in so many Mexican dishes, is in fact from the Mediterranean, introduced to Mexico by the Spanish conquistadores. Cilantro (called coriander when you are referring to the seeds) is related to cumin, as they are both in the carrot/parsley/celery family. Although its origin remains uncertain, it is also most likely from the Mediterranean and it has been in use as a spice and as a medicinal plant for about 5,000 years. There are references to the use of coriander in the Old Testament (in Exodus) and The Arabian Nights. Coriander, too, arrived in Mexico with the Spaniards, along with cinnamon (canela) and cloves (clavos).

Lebanese Culture in Mexico

Who are some famous Mexicans of Lebanese origin?

Number Uno has to be Carlos Slim Helu, better known as Carlos Slim. I have to assume, dear readers, that most of you know he is the 5th-richest person in the world, the wealthiest Latin American and worth about $68.9 billion US dollars, but did you know he is of Lebanese descent? Slim is the son of Julián Slim Haddad (born Khalil Salim Haddad Aglamaz) and Linda Helú Atta, both Maronite Christians from Lebanon. Slim’s father emigrated to Mexico from Lebanon at age 14, apparently to avoid conscription in the Ottoman army, making Slim first generation on his father’s side. His mother was from Chihuahua, but both her parents were also Lebanese immigrants. The Soumaya Museum in Mexico City – and most of its contents – are the gift of Carlos Slim.

The actress Salma Hayek Jiménez, aka Salma Hayek, is also of Lebanese descent. She was born in the state of Veracruz, Mexico. Her father, Sami Hayek Domínguez, is Lebanese, having emigrated from the city of Baabdat, Lebanon. Her mother, Diana Jiménez Medina, is Mexican/Spanish (her maternal grandmother and great-grandparents were from Spain).

The supermarket Chedraui, aka Super Che, is one of the two big box stores in HuatuIco and is part of a chain of super stores founded by the Lebanese immigrants Lázaro Chedraui Chaya and his wife Ana Caram in 1927 in Xalapa, Veracruz. First known as Port of Beirut, this highly successful chain now includes stores in the United States in California, Arizona, Nevada, and Texas, under the names El Super and Fiesta Mart.