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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 Avocado Controversy

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By Alicia Flores—

Few foods have enjoyed a rise to global fame quite like the avocado. Once a regional staple in Mexico and Central America, it is now celebrated worldwide on toast, in smoothies, salads, and of course, guacamole. Rich in healthy fats, fiber, and vitamins, it has earned the title of a modern superfood. But behind its creamy green flesh lies a more complicated story.

Mexico produces nearly one-third of the world’s avocados, with the state of Michoacán supplying most of the fruit exported to the United States and Canada. The industry’s success has brought prosperity to many farming communities, creating thousands of jobs and generating billions of dollars in export revenue. Yet the avocado boom has also created unexpected challenges.

As international demand has soared, forests have been cleared to make room for new orchards, threatening biodiversity and reducing habitat for species such as the monarch butterfly. Avocados are also a thirsty crop, requiring significant amounts of water in regions where water resources are already under pressure.

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Perhaps the greatest controversy, however, is economic. The enormous value of the crop has attracted organized crime in parts of Mexico, where criminal groups have been known to extort growers, control transportation routes, and profit from the lucrative trade. These security concerns have occasionally disrupted exports and prompted increased government oversight.

For consumers, these realities can create mixed feelings. Buying Mexican avocados supports the livelihoods of thousands of honest farmers who depend on the industry, yet it also raises important questions about environmental stewardship, water use, and the need for stronger protections against criminal exploitation.

Like many foods that become global commodities, the avocado is neither entirely hero nor villain. It represents the opportunities and challenges of modern agriculture in an interconnected world.

Appreciating the fruit also means recognizing the people, landscapes, and complex issues behind every harvest—and understanding that the future of avocados depends not only on consumer demand, but on producing them in ways that are sustainable, transparent, and fair.

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Huatulco

Journalists, Avocados, and Cartels

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By Julie Etra

Journalists
We recently made a trip to the state of Michoacán, Mexico, specifically to the monarch butterfly reserve at ‘El Rosario’ (which was a magical amazing experience), and then on to Morelia, the capital of the state. After spending a few days in Mexico City, we hired a driver to take us on the three-hour drive to the reserve. From the reserve to Morelia required an initial ‘taxi’ ride in two small pick-up trucks (to accommodate the four of us and our luggage) to the central bus terminal in Zitácuaro where we took the very comfortable 3.5-hour bus ride to Morelia.

We were traveling with friends, and I did not tell them until the trip was over that Zitácuaro was recently featured in the Sunday N.Y. Times magazine section as one of the most dangerous places to be a reporter in all of Mexico. Mexico follows the Ukraine in being the second most dangerous place in the world to be an investigative reporter.

According to the article, under the Presidency of Felipe Calderon, starting in 2006, and his ineffective crackdown on drugs, at least 128 reporters have been killed in Mexico, 13 of them last year alone. The article focused on the founder and lead reporter of the local media outlet Monitor Michoacán, Armando Linares, who was dedicated to exposing corruption in Zitácuaro, hinting at the connection of the mayor to cartels. We were highly unlikely to be exposed to that sort of risk, being uninvolved foreigners, during our two hours at the central bus terminal. Nonetheless, I recalled the article, as it was on my mind during our departure from the reserve, our few hours in Zitácuaro, enroute through the town, and then on to Morelia.

Avocados
Avocados (Persea americana), a fruit and not a vegetable, most likely originated in the vicinity of Puebla, Mexico, about 10,000 years ago (similar to the domestication of corn). The English word avocado is derived from the Spanish word aguacate, which the Spaniards derived from the Nahuatl word ahuacatl (meaning testicle). It is called oon in Maya, and palta in Quechua. In the United States of America (US) avocado trees were first planted in Florida in 1833 and then in California in 1856.

Although the US lifted its 83-year import ban in 1997, shipments to California were not allowed at the time due to concern over competitive lower priced Mexican avocados and supposed fear of foreign pests. California finally began imports in 2007, as the state, with limited suitable growing conditions, simply could not meet the demands of this increasingly popular fruit. In 1985, Americans ate 436 million pounds of avocados per year. By 2020, that number exploded to 2.7 billion pounds.

Avocado consumption in the US peaks during the Superbowl, although the average consumption is said to be seven lbs. of avocados /year. I can attest that in our Huatulco household we average eight avocados per week. This seemingly excessive consumption is vastly curtailed when back in the US due to cost and sometimes quality. Even with the peso at 16.3:1 US dollar as of this writing, one avocado averages 90 cents in Huatulco as opposed to an average of $1.50 per avocado at the bargain outlets in the US and as high as 2.98 for one organic avocado.

Michoacán produces more avocados than any other state in Mexico, as the small trees thrive in well drained soils of volcanic origin, and sunny climates. It is followed by Jalisco and the Estado de Mexico. Mexico (the country) exports about half of the avocados consumed worldwide. In 2022 this was valued at just under 3.5 billion in US currency, with the US being by far the biggest consumer estimated at 3 billion, receiving 86% of Mexican exports (95% of these are Hass avocados).
From Mexico City to the reserve, in the vicinity of the reserve, and on our way to Morelia we certainly noticed all the monocultures of avocado orchards. There is concern that deforestation and land use conversion to avocado orchards is destroying the oak/pine woodlands, increasing water demand, and the only sanctuary for monarch butterflies in the world, for which Michoacán is famous. A 2016 Associated Press report said that as many as 20,000 acres of forest was being converted to avocado orchards, with an estimated loss of one-fifth of the native forests from 2001 to 2017 and increasing dramatically since 2017.
Avocados consume 50 – 60 litres of water per day. In contrast, a native pine tree consumes roughly 11 liters of water per day. However, avocado trees are not particularly fertilizer consumptive. Irrigation can be reduced with inoculation of symbiotic mycorrhiza, a type of soil fungi that greatly increases uptake of phosphorus and water. One study I read concluded that the growth rate of inoculated avocado trees was a massive 250% higher than uninoculated trees. Producers of quality inocula are extremely reluctant to approach growers, for reasons addressed below.

Cartels and Avocados
Are cartels involved in this rapidly expanding agro industry? In August 2023 National Public Radio (NPR), a USA nonprofit radio network podcast, featured a story entitled: Caliber 60: The violent underbelly of the avocado industry (www.npr.org/podcasts/1162033047/caliber-60). It is well known that Cartel Jalisco Nueva Generación has been involved in the industry, extortion and extreme violence being common practices.
In response, some communities in Michoacán have formed their own citizen self-defense groups like Pueblos Unidos, who, according to the podcast, turned out to be equally bad as the narcos. The title refers to the fact that at least 80% of the firearms in Mexico can be traced to the US.

While we were in Morelia, I picked up a local paper (February 29, 2024) that included an article about a meeting between the governor of Michoacan and the US ambassador to Mexico, Ken Salazar. The meeting focused on the US’s desire to only import avocados that have been grown on land that has not been illegally de-forested (I assume recently) and certified accordingly. Further, ‘This is consistent with both countries’ efforts to combat climate change and is in the interest of American consumers and members of the Indigenous communities of Michoacán and Jalisco who are at risk for defending their forests and water,” said Sen. Peter Welch, a Democrat from Vermont, alluding to organized crime.

Journalists
Full circle, back to journalists and journalism; Mexico can be a tough country. In 2021, President Andrés Manuel López Obrador (aka AMLO), took aim, so to speak, at three reporters during his morning press briefing, including Ciro Gómez Leyva, a well-known T.V. anchor. Leyva subsequently barely escaped an assassination attempt; his car was protected with bullet-resistant glass windows.

As for the media outlet, the Monitor Michoacán, the cameraman was assassinated first, and the subject of the article, the founder and lead journalist determined to expose a link between the local government and the cartels, was murdered in his home 46 days later. From the NY Times article, the author wrote ‘Mexico is a hall of mirrors to any journalist. It is so hard to tell who is telling the truth because the line between crime fighter and criminal has become so blurred it often ceases to exist.’