AMERE MENTION OF JALISCO, THE STATE, OR GUADALAJARA, its capital, conjures up (apart from tequila) visions of charros—gentlemen horsemen dressed in splendid riding habits lavishly studded with silver ornaments and their wide-brimmed sombreros—as well as mariachis, their musical counterparts, in almost equally elegant attire. They are unique to Jalisco, manifestations of a cultural and social life that evolved in the days of prosperous hacienda life before the Revolution. They have now spread to many parts of Mexico. I have been traveling in different parts of Jalisco as long as I have been in Mexico, but it had never really come together for me as an entity, perhaps because its boundaries wander so much and I have approached it at so many different points. Nayarit is its West Coast neighbor to the north; Jalisco almost engulfs Colima to the south; fingers of its land penetrate Zacatecas to the northwest; and its arid lands join those of Aguascalientes. Its most extensive boundaries to the south and southeast are with Michoacán. With the beautiful lake of Chapala and its string of minor lakes to the south and a coastline of over 200 kilometers, it has attracted many foreigners who make their permanent home there. To the northeast of Guadalajara, beyond the extensive central plain, is the area known as Los Altos, the Heights, where many people have retained their Spanish traditions—and appearance for that matter, tall with pale skin and dark hair. The architectural jewel of Los Altos is Lagos de Moreno, declared by former president Salinas as a colonial monument. It is a delightful place with elegant houses, squares, and parks that reflect the affluent life there in the late nineteenth century. (Another architecturally beautiful town that I pass through on my way from Michoacán to the Colima coast is Mazamitla, set high in pine forests where you think you have walked onto a scene from a Spanish movie set in the eighteenth century.) Much of the western mass of Jalisco is high sierra, crossed by only two tortuous highways (and a new, straighter toll road to the north) that take you down to the coast. Prosperous mines attracted miners and prospectors from Europe, many from England and Ireland, to this area in the eighteenth century. After the decline of these mines during the Revolution, many of the families stayed on, and generations later you can still meet fair or redheaded O’Higginses, O’Reillys, and O’Gormans.
Despite these outside influences and geographical differences, there is not great divergence in the popular, everyday food of Jalisco (many years ago I was severely reprimanded by a young American archaeologist for saying this), as there is for instance in Oaxaca, the prime example, Puebla, or Chiapas. While the coastal towns have naturally seen changes in eating habits due to tourism, the average Mexican family there will still go out for the evening pozole and gorditas. Signs advertising birria (a meat stew typical of Jalisco) will be displayed at every little eating establishment in town and along the highways.
Jaliscienses can be proud of the quality of their cheese, fish, and meats and the variety of their breads and sweetmeats. But let’s not forget the colorful and practical clay pots and plates, both rustic and sophisticated, in which they are prepared and served—these are made in Tlaquepaque and Tonalá on the edge of Guadalajara.
PUERTO VALLARTA AND POINTS NORTH
It often takes only a chance remark about a new recipe, or rather one I have never heard of before, to send me off in pursuit. It happened again, surprisingly, in a cooking class in New York many years ago when a friend from Mexico City mentioned some very special sweetmeats made in Mascota, a small town in the Sierras above Puerto Vallarta. So of course I had to go and try them.
I never take the shortest routes via toll highways but instead map out my way along roads I haven’t already traveled. I like to see the countryside and what is grown there, the villages and their regional architecture, and the changes that are taking place, often far too fast.
This time I drove north through Michoacán into Jalisco and then west past Chapala. I had forgotten how beautiful the lake is. It was especially so on that dull morning of the rainy season, and so serene, not a ripple on its pale blue-gray surface with the misty gray mountainous mass looming behind protectively. The narrow twisting road is one of the main arteries down to the coast, and traffic was constant and sporadically heavy, unnervingly so as we dipped down into canyons with unguarded edges.
It was a long and tiring drive, hot and very dry in parts, and many fields lay uncultivated for the lack of rain. After a night spent in the little coastal town of Melaque, I drove off early the next morning north through the mostly scrubby land, gray and lifeless except for the occasional flowering shrub. Where the soil was deeper and more suitable for cultivation or cattle, the only trees had been felled and ugly black scars dotted the landscape. Only occasionally was there a glimpse of the sea or a distant house revealing the whereabouts of the almost hidden small resorts that dot the coastline.
Halfway on my journey I stopped for breakfast at a clean, airy little restaurant under a large palapa that offered an amazing array of seafood dishes for breakfast, lunch, or supper, whatever the hour of the day. The shrimp catch had just been brought in, so why not! I sat down to a large plate, para pelar, to peel, still warm, accompanied by my own filtered coffee, which travels with me everywhere.
The landscape did not change much as the road passed through small rancherías, or settlements, with their small plantations of bananas, limes, and coconut palms, that seemed isolated and forgotten. Suddenly the tropical vegetation became more luxuriant as the land began to rise on either side, and higher up still the road wound through rich stands of pines, oaks, and other hardwoods, so far mercifully spared by the large sawmill a short distance away.
At last the highway began its steep descent toward the coast through a narrow canyon; you could see the bay, dominated by Puerto Vallarta. Another ten kilometers down I was in Mismaloya, now almost totally built up along the coastal road.
Puerto Vallarta brings back many memories of sporadic visits in years gone by. I first went there when Paul, my late husband, was writing a piece for the New York Times on John Huston and his production of The Night of the Iguana. There were no paved highways then, and one had to fly in, the plane descending abruptly from the high, forested Sierra Madre Occidental to the narrow coastal plain. The small port, almost totally undeveloped at the time, was jumping with intrigue and temperament, and I shall always remember Richard Burton, after a few drinks, imitating his father’s precise Welsh diction of “The Verb To Be.” Years later, after the death of my husband, when I started teaching Mexican cooking in New York, another talented member of that cast, Grayson Hall, came to my very first classes and reminded me of those rather crazy days.
Change was coming. The renowned (and now lamented) Posada Vallarta was in its first stages of development. It was to become a wonderful training ground for chefs and hotel staff under the guidance of Violet and Suna Gershenson, who introduced sophisticated food into that burgeoning little coastal resort.
Up until then the food had been very limited in scope because of difficult transport. Everyone on the beach tried the freshly caught fish impaled on sticks and broiled over mangrovewood. It no longer exists; instead, pescado sarandeado, fish opened up and grilled by turning over several times in a light metal frame, is the order of the day. I was told in Nayarit, farther north, that this method of cooking fish was invented on the “island on the lake” of Mexcaltitán. Now everyone has his own version, with condiments and hot sauces of different types used with varying degrees of success.
The weather had been turbulent that year, and the unpaved road we were to have taken up into the Sierra Cacoma was partially washed out and dangerous, so that trip to Mascota for the sweetmeats had to be postponed until the late fall. Instead, I stayed for a few days in Puerto Vallarta and, under the guidance of friends who live there, tried the local specialties, new and old.
POZOLE DE CAMARÓN
SHRIMP POZOLE
SRA. RAFAELA VILLASEÑOR
[MAKES APPROXIMATELY 12 CUPS (3 LITERS), 8 SERVINGS]
The most popular supper dish by far in the western states of Mexico from Nayarit down through Guerrero, especially in the hot country and coastal areas—with a few exceptions of course—is pozole. Pozole is a brothy stew of large white corn kernels and pork. Guerrero lays claim to it, and curiously, there white pozole is served in the morning and green pozole midday on Thursdays.
The preparation of the corn remains much the same, but the toppings vary slightly from one region to another, and occasionally you will find chicken cooked with the pork.
At that time there was no pozole to compare with that of Señora Rafaela Villaseñor for local residents of Puerto Vallarta. Many years ago, to support a growing family, she sold her pozole and gorditas de res on the street corner just below where she lived. Apart from her growing take-out business, she would prepare large quantities to order for special occasions.
For local residents who shun meat during Lent, she prepared a red pozole with shrimp both fresh and dried. While this pozole is made in many communities along the coast of Colima and Jalisco, it was her recipe that I found most satisfying.
1 pound (450 grams) prepared corn for pozole (see page 54)
2 quarts (2 liters) plus 1-1/4 cups (313 milliliters) or more water as needed
4 ancho chiles
4 guajillo chiles
4 cloves, crushed
1/8 teaspoon cumin seeds, crushed
4 garlic cloves, roughly chopped
3 tablespoons olive oil
8 ounces (225 grams) fresh medium shrimp (see preparation at end of recipe)
3 ounces (85 grams) dried shrimp (see preparation at end of recipe)
Salt to taste
TO SERVE
Finely chopped white onion
Thinly sliced radishes
Thinly shredded cabbage
Dried oregano
Lime quarters
. . .
The large, wide, white corn kernels, maíz cacahuazintle, or pozolero, are used with minor exceptions for pozole. They can, of course, be prepared from scratch, cooking them first with lime and then descabezando, or “beheading” them, removing the pedicals, so that they will open up, or “flower,” later. All this is described in detail in The Art of Mexican Cooking. However, in both Mexico and the United States in some supermarkets and specialty stores the pozole corn, already prepared with lime and beheaded, can be bought in plastic bags. Use the canned pozole, which is known in the United States as hominy, only when desperate.
. . .
Cover the corn with 2 quarts (2 liters) of the water in a large saucepan and set over medium heat to cook until the kernels open up or “flower”—about 3 hours (50 minutes or more at a high altitude, in a pressure cooker). Set aside.
Remove the stems, veins, and seeds from the chiles separately and put them in two individual piles. Cover them separately with hot water and cook over low heat for about 5 minutes. Set aside to soak for about 10 minutes to soften and become fleshy. Drain, discarding the cooking water.
Put 1/4 cup (63 milliliters) of the water into a blender, add the cloves, cumin, and garlic, and blend thoroughly. Add another 1/2 cup (125 milliliters) of the water and a few of the anchos, then blend until smooth. Add the rest of the anchos and blend again, adding only enough water to release the blades of the blender. The sauce should be quite thick.
Heat the olive oil in a heavy pan in which you are going to cook the pozole. Add the ancho sauce and fry for about 3 minutes, scraping the bottom of the pan from time to time to prevent sticking.
Add another 1/2 cup (125 milliliters) of the water to the blender and add the guajillos gradually, blending thoroughly after each addition. Add this puree through a fine strainer to the pan, thoroughly pressing out the debris of tough skins.
Cook the puree of chiles over low heat, scraping the pan to prevent sticking, for about 5 minutes.
Add the corn and the water in which it was cooked and the cheesecloth bag with the shrimp heads and shells. Cook slowly for about 15 minutes. Add the dried and fresh shrimp and cook for another 10 minutes. Taste for salt. Remove the cheesecloth bag, squeezing it well to extract as much liquid as possible.
Serve the pozole with plenty of the broth and pass the accompaniments separately.
NOTE: If the broth is too strong for your taste, add more hot water to dilute.
DRIED: See box, page 327. Choose the largest you can find with head and tail intact—or at least in the same bag. Soak in hot water for 5 minutes to remove excess salt. Drain and then remove the heads and feet, leaving the skin and tail intact for texture and flavor. Reserve the heads.
FRESH: Medium shrimp are best for this dish, but try to buy them with heads still intact if possible for better flavor. Remove the heads and reserve them; peel and devein the shrimp. Put the dried and fresh shrimp heads along with the fresh shells into a piece of cheesecloth and tie tightly.
GORDITAS DE RES
SRA. RAFAELA VILLASEÑOR
[SERVES 6]
When showing me this recipe, Señora Villaseñor made small tortillas—de dos mordidas, of two bites.
HAVE READY
12 ounces (340 grams) masa for tortillas (page 440), about 1-1/3 cups (333 milliliters)
Lard or oil for frying
2/3 cup (164 milliliters) bean paste from refried beans
2 cups (500 milliliters) loosely packed finely shredded cabbage
2/3 cup (164 milliliters) finely grated queso añejo or Romano
THE MEAT
8 ounces (225 grams) skirt steak
Salt to taste
2 tablespoons vegetable oil
1/3 medium white onion, finely chopped
6 ounces (180 grams) tomatoes, finely chopped, about 1 cup (250 milliliters)
THE SAUCE
3 ancho chiles, veins and seeds removed
4 black peppercorns, crushed
3 cloves, crushed
Cut the steak into 1-1/2-inch (4-centimeter) squares, cover with water in a saucepan, add salt, and bring to a simmer. Continue simmering until the meat is tender, about 40 minutes. Leave the meat in the broth to cool, then strain, reserving the broth, and shred, not too finely. You should have about 1 heaped cup (275 milliliters) of meat.
Heat the oil, add the onion, and fry briefly until translucent. Add the tomatoes and cook over medium heat until it has reduced and seasoned—about 4 minutes. Add the shredded meat, season as necessary, and cook until the mixture is almost dry—about 5 minutes. Set aside and keep warm.
Cover the chiles with hot water and leave to soak for about 15 minutes or until soft and fleshy. Put 1/2 cup (125 milliliters) of the reserved meat broth into a blender. Add the peppercorns and cloves and blend until smooth. Gradually add the drained chiles and another 1/2 cup (125 milliliters) of the broth and blend until smooth. The sauce should be of medium consistency and coat the back of a wooden spoon. Add more broth if necessary to obtain this consistency, and test for salt.
Divide the masa into 12 pieces. Roll each piece into a ball about 1-1/2 inches (4 centimeters) in diameter. Cover the balls with a cloth while you work. Press a ball of the dough out to a not-too-thin tortilla 4 inches (10 centimeters) in diameter. Cook as you would any tortilla, on an ungreased comal or griddle, pinching up the edges to form a low rim. Set aside. Continue with the rest of the dough.
Heat lard or oil in a skillet to a depth of about 1/8 inch (3 millimeters). Dip a few of the tortillas in the raw sauce—it should cover them well on both sides—and fry in the hot fat for about 2 minutes on each side. Add more fat as necessary. Drain on paper toweling. Spread 1 heaped teaspoon of the bean paste over the gordita, then a small pile of the shredded meat, finishing off with shredded cabbage and plenty of the cheese. Serve immediately—this is pan-to-mouth food.
PULPO EN SALSA DE GUAJILLO
OCTOPUS IN GUAJILLO CHILE SAUCE
JOSE RUIZ MUÑOZ, RESTAURANT TAMPICO
[SERVES 8 AS A FIRST COURSE, 6 AS A MAIN COURSE]
Sr. Ruiz prepared both octopus and squid in this sauce, which is simple and delicious, in his airy and attractive restaurant in Puerto Vallarta. Like many restaurateurs in resort areas that cater to many foreign tourists as well as Mexicans, Sr. Ruiz was always finding and inventing new ways of preparing seafood, such as the very delicate dish of strips of a white-fleshed fish in a sauce made of squash flowers that he serves.
In many better-known seafood restaurants along the coasts of Mexico, the tendency is to rob octopus of all of its texture and flavor by using a pressure cooker or cooking it too long. If you use small octopus, it is usually unnecessary to precook it for this type of dish; stir-frying and a short simmering in its juice will do it. However, Sr. Ruiz told me that the octopus from that area of the coast tends to be tougher than Gulf Coast octopus and needs longer cooking. Indeed, an octopus I bought recently did have a very dark-colored, tougher skin. In any case, always look for those that are under 2 pounds.
Since this is a rather strongly flavored sauce, I prefer to serve this dish in small quantities as a first course with some corn tortillas or crusty, French-type bread. As a main course it can be served with plain white rice—I particularly like the simple way of cooking rice in Tabasco (page 272).
2 small octopus, about 2 pounds (900 grams) each, cleaned
3 tablespoons olive oil
1/2 large white onion, thinly sliced
8 garlic cloves, thinly sliced
Salt to taste
THE SAUCE
4 ounces (115 grams) guajillo chiles
1 pound (450 grams) unskinned tomatoes, broiled (page 438)
5 peppercorns, crushed
1 teaspoon dried oregano
2 tablespoons olive oil
Salt to taste
Rinse the octopus well and cut it into small pieces. Heat the oil in a heavy pan, add the onion and garlic with a sprinkle of salt, and cook over high heat for about 5 minutes. Cover the pan and cook over medium heat, shaking the pan from time to time for about 10 minutes or until tender.
Slit the chiles open and remove the stems, seeds, and veins. Toast briefly on a warm comal (not too hot or the chiles will burn and make the sauce bitter) on both sides. Cover with hot water and set aside to soak for about 15 minutes.
Meanwhile, put 2 of the broiled tomatoes and some of the juice that has exuded into a blender. Add the peppercorns, oregano, and cloves and blend until smooth. Add the rest of the tomatoes and blend again.
Heat the olive oil in a deep skillet, add the sauce, and reduce over fairly high heat for about 5 minutes.
Put 3/4 cup (188 milliliters) water into the blender, add the chiles a few at a time, blending well after each addition, and blend as smoothly as possible. (Add more water only if necessary to release the blades of the blender.) Add the chile sauce to the pan through a fine strainer, pressing down hard on the chiles to extract as much of the flesh and juice as possible. Discard the debris.
Cook the sauce over fairly high heat for 5 more minutes or until reduced and well seasoned. Add salt.
Add the octopus to the pan and cook in the sauce over high heat, scraping the bottom of the pan to avoid sticking, until it is a thick consistency and coats the octopus well—about 10 minutes. If the octopus is still a little chewy, add 1 cup water, cover the pan, and cook for about 1 hour over low heat, testing for correct texture from time to time.
This dish can be cooked ahead and reheated.
TINO’S CEVICHE
RESTAURANT TINO, PUERTO VALLARTA
[MAKES APPROXIMATELY 2-1/2 CUPS (625 MILLILITERS)]
This way of making ceviche is appealing for people (like me) who do not like to eat very large cubes of raw fish. The recipe came from the lively, airy restaurant called Tino’s in Puerto Vallarta, where it was served as a topping for tostadas. Although sierra is generally used for ceviche, any white nonfatty fish could be substituted. Make sure that there are no very small bones running down the middle of the fillets before freezing.
12 ounces (340 grams) fillets of sierra
1 medium carrot, trimmed and scraped
1/3 cup (83 milliliters) fresh lime juice
2 tablespoons very finely chopped white onion
1 jalapeño chile, seeds removed
2 heaped tablespoons very finely chopped cilantro
1 small tomato, very finely chopped
1 teaspoon dried oregano, crumbled
Salt to taste
Put the fish into the freezer until it is partially frozen and firm to the touch. Chop roughly together with the carrot and put into a food processor. Process sporadically until the mixture has a fairly fine texture but is not reduced to a paste. Turn out into a nonreactive bowl and stir the lime juice into it well.
Set aside to “cook” for 30 minutes, no longer. Transfer to a fine strainer or, better still, a piece of cheesecloth and press or squeeze to extract the moisture. Mix in the rest of the ingredients and set aside to season for at least 1 hour before serving. Don’t keep this more than 6 hours; it will lose its fresh taste.
CAPIROTADA DE DOÑA ROSA
DOÑA ROSA’S BREAD PUDDING
[SERVES 8]
Sra. Rosa, who used to go a few days a week to a friend’s home in Puerto Vallarta to cook, was well known for her capirotada. Her recipe is unlike the more common ones in Mexico: rounds of bread fried crisp and soaked in a syrup with nuts and raisins or other regional elaborations. Hers was more like a bread pudding moistened with custard.
The bread Doña Rosa used is called picón, a round raised semisweet egg/yeast bread about 5 inches (13 centimeters) in diameter. I suggest you substitute challah or even stale brioche. She also used evaporated milk diluted with water, which I can’t stand, so I use whole milk and add some grated lime peel.
The ideal dish for this amount is an ovenproof one about 8-1/2 inches (21.5 centimeters) in diameter and at least 3 inches (8 centimeters) deep. It is lined on the bottom and a little way up the sides with fried corn tortillas so that the custard does not seep down and stick to the base of the casserole.
7 cups (1.75 liters) whole milk
2-inch (5-centimeter) cinnamon stick
1/2 cup (125 milliliters) sugar
1-1/2 tablespoons cornstarch
2 egg yolks
1/2 teaspoon vanilla extract
Vegetable oil for frying
6 5-inch (13-centimeter) corn tortillas
1 ripe plantain, about 1 pound (450 grams)
Approximately 16 small slices of dried bread (see note above) 1/2 inch (13 millimeters) thick
10 ounces (285 grams) dried prunes, soaked until slightly softened and pits removed
Heaped 1/2 cup (135 milliliters) roughly chopped pecans
1/2 cup (125 milliliters) raisins
Warm the milk with the cinnamon and sugar in a saucepan. Put the cornstarch into a small bowl, add a little of the warmed milk, and mix with a wooden spoon until smooth. Add some more of the milk, stir well, and then return it to the pan. Mix the egg yolks—just to break them up, not beat them—add a little of the warmed milk, and quickly mix until smooth. Add more of the milk and then return it to the pan. Cook over low heat, stirring from time to time and scraping the bottom of the pan to prevent sticking, until the mixture begins to thicken slightly. Stir in the vanilla and set aside.
Heat the oven to 350°F (177°C).
Heat about 1/8 inch (3 millimeters) of oil in a skillet and fry the tortillas on both sides until they are leathery, not crisp. Add a little more oil as necessary. Blot them well and line the bottom of the mold (see note above). Peel the plantain and cut into slices. Fry the slices on both sides in the oil until golden brown, blot, and set aside.
Put a layer of the bread over the tortillas, sprinkle with a third of the drained prunes, nuts, and raisins, and add a third of the plantain. Remove the cinnamon stick from the custard.
Very slowly pour 1-1/2 cups (375 milliliters) of the custard over the first layer, a little at a time, allowing the bread to absorb the liquid—if you pour it too fast, it will all just sink to the bottom of the dish. Repeat with a second layer and then finish off with the third layer of bread, etc., and the remaining milk.
Bake in the top of the oven until most of the liquid has been absorbed—about 40 minutes. Set aside for about 20 minutes before serving so that the remaining liquid is absorbed. Serve lukewarm with crème fraîche or whipped cream.
A SERENDIPITOUS SEARCH
Some friends familiar with the area and I were on our way to Aticama, a small fishing community renowned for its spectacular array of seafood cocktails. Each little restaurant there, housed in open palapas along the water’s edge, displayed these cocktails prominently to tempt passersby. They were all lined up, each type of seafood in its bulbous goblet of thick glass along a counter colorfully decorated with fruits and flowers.
A local specialty was smoked lisa, grilled while you waited over a mangrovewood fire—not delicious, but interesting.
In Puerto Vallarta we had been asked to look for beet bread made in a neighboring community on the way. It was curious to see large signs outside practically every house announcing “pan de calabacita, pan de zanahoria, pan de plátano” (zucchini, carrot, and banana breads) but nowhere beet. As our search took us from house to house, we found out that a visitor from the United States who had stayed there for a period had introduced these cake-like breads and they had provided a modest income from sales to visitors who came from as far away as Puerto Vallarta, about a two-hour drive.
On our way, I had noticed in the village of El Llano what appeared to be stunted trees with thick leaves and large pendulous fruits with dark green knobbly skin. On our return I stopped to take a photograph. They were unfortunately not ripe, but farther along in an open shop there they were for sale. The ripe fruit known as yaca, known as jackfruit in English, had a strongly perfumed orange flesh. Sra. Villegas was also selling the pulp of the fruit in plastic bags.
The fruit, a native of Brazil, had been introduced and flourished in that area, and has subsequently been incorporated into the local food. The firm flesh is sometimes used in the following recipe instead of the fried plantains, but as yaca is not generally available, we’ll stick to plantains.
POLLO EN BLANCO
CHICKEN IN WHITE SAUCE
SRA. MARÍA VILLEGAS, EL LLANO, NAYARIT
[SERVES 6]
Well, this is not exactly a white sauce as we know it, but the name indicates that it is not a colored chile sauce. The recipe was given to me by María Villegas—who is actually from Guadalajara but married someone from this village of El Llano. We passed through it on our way along a quiet road leading down to the coast of Nayarit and eventually on to San Blas.
1 large chicken, cut into serving pieces, plus 1 extra whole breast
Chicken broth or water to cover
Salt to taste
6 medium carrots, trimmed and scraped
6 small new potatoes
1 small chayote, cut into strips about 1 inch (2.5 centimeters) thick
2 small zucchini, quartered lengthwise
1 pound (450 grams) tomatoes
1/8 teaspoon cumin seeds, crushed
6 black peppercorns, crushed
1 heaped teaspoon dried oregano
3 tablespoons vegetable oil or the rendered chicken fat
1 plantain, about 12 ounces (340 grams), peeled and sliced lengthwise
1-1/2 tablespoons all-purpose flour
1-1/2 tablespoons vinegar
1/3 cup (83 milliliters) raisins
In a large pan, cover the chicken with broth or water with salt to taste and simmer until tender, approximately 25 minutes. Drain and return the broth to the pan. Set the chicken aside.
Bring the broth to a simmer, add the carrots and potatoes, and cook for 10 minutes. Add the chayote and zucchini and cook for another 10 minutes or until the vegetables are just tender. Remove the vegetables from the broth and cut into large cubes. Set aside.
Put the tomatoes whole into the hot broth and simmer until soft but not falling apart—about 15 minutes. Remove and reserve the broth.
Put 1/2 cup (125 milliliters) of the broth into a blender, add the cumin, peppercorns, and oregano, and blend until smooth. Gradually add the tomatoes and blend until smooth. Set aside.
Heat the oil in a heavy skillet, add the plantain, and fry until golden on both sides. Drain well and reserve.
Measure 2 tablespoons of the oil into the pot in which you are going to cook the stew. Add the flour, stirring well to eliminate any lumps, and cook to a deep golden color. Add the tomato puree, stirring well to make a smooth sauce, and cook over low heat, scraping the bottom of the pan to prevent sticking, for about 3 minutes. Add the vinegar and raisins and cook until the sauce thickens very slightly, about 3 minutes more.
Add 2 cups (500 milliliters) of the chicken broth, the chicken, and the vegetables and cook again over low heat for about 5 minutes. Adjust the salt. Five minutes before serving, add the fried plantain and just heat through.
PUERTO VALLARTA TO NAYARIT
I decided to continue up the coast at a more leisurely pace and visit Compostela and Tepic, neither of which I had seen before. The narrow highway wound between belts of tropical growth broken by clearings for cattle or corn or lush plantations of mango and papaya.
There were also occasional fields of tobacco, with the cut leaves hung up to dry in bunches sheltered under long, narrow roofs. Nayarit, like Veracruz, is one of the main tobacco producers in Mexico. Like many other crops, it is diminishing with the vagaries of demand in foreign markets and a lack of coherent and stable agricultural policies.
The land began to climb and twist through foothills until there was a sudden, magnificent view of a huge valley to the north and east that stretched as far as the eye could see, transversed by rivers, streams, and lakes with towering mountains in the distance. I had never realized that Nayarit was so richly endowed with this abundance of water, apparently not yet contaminated by the effluence of uncontrolled industry.
Tepic, the capital of the State of Nayarit, is one of those nondescript towns that have grown with no regard to any architectural harmony with the few remaining colonial houses and buildings. Not surprisingly, the market too offered hardly anything of interest. The foodstuffs were predictable, and the space for the most part was invaded by small stands selling cheap clothes and shoes.
The small but interesting archaeological museum saved the day with some fascinating regional pieces of great beauty and imposing size. The renowned local seafood restaurant where every visitor is sent turned out to be a disappointment. I was immediately suspicious on receiving a menu without prices; I can only assume that they were fixed at the whim of the waitress or the fierce-looking lady presiding over the cash register. I was to eat far better local specialties—sopes, empanadas, and grilled fish—at a very simple coastal restaurant the next day.
The following morning I drove on to the little town of Santiago Ixcuintla—the name derives from the edible hairless dogs, now almost extinct, that were so often portrayed in the pre-Hispanic artifacts of the area.
Santiago, a little agricultural town in the western part of Nayarit, must have been quite prosperous in its day if one can judge by the rather elaborate church and public buildings. No longer. I eschewed the seedy-looking hotels in the center in favor of a slightly better-kept motel on extensive grounds at the edge of town. No sooner was I installed than I realized that this establishment served a double purpose: on one side were the “decent” rooms; on the other the entrance doors were concealed inside the curtained garages that hid the license plates of the car owners occupying the rooms with their movidas (sexual partners).
But it could have been worse: the other side was busy during the day, and we were left to sleep relatively undisturbed at night apart from the occasional and inevitable roar of the engine of a latecomer’s truck. As in so many of these little hostelries off the beaten track of tourists, the rooms were ugly and bare, with a television chained to the wall almost at ceiling level. The shower head flooded the closet-sized bathroom—you had to wade across to the lavatory—and the thin lumpy mattresses were covered with threadbare sheets and pillows stuffed to bursting with squeaking plastic.
Wandering around this sad little town, I came across a street vendor selling shrimp tamales, which I had heard about for years and never had a chance to try. They are in fact a specialty of Esquinapa in the neighboring state of Sinaloa. The dough was roughly textured and heavy with lard. It was filled with a whole shrimp: the head with feelers, legs, shell, and tail, which made for a rather abrasive mouthful. I was not impressed and hurried off to the market for some of my standby foods—delicious juicy mangoes, sweet ripe pineapples, and a tempting variety of bananas, all grown locally.
Supper too was a disappointment. A little birrería—a modest eating place serving birria exclusively (page 74)—opposite the bus station had been recommended to me. The meat was mushily overcooked and the broth tasteless. I left after the first mouthful and thought of it again only when I was eating the most delicious birria in Mascota some months later. On such occasions I keep telling myself that, gastronomically speaking, it is always hit or miss when charting new territory, but all the same, there had been rather too many misses on that trip. Surely my planned visit to Camichín the next day would turn up something more exciting.
The Boca de Camichín lies due east of Santiago, and it is where the Río San Pedro enters the Pacific Ocean. On the southern bank of the river lies a small fishing settlement: a group of rather flimsy dwellings and little restaurants or ramadas where the tables are sheltered by palm fronds slung across rustic wooden scaffolding. The people living there support themselves by fishing in the local waters and collecting oysters from the extensive beds lying just off shore. On weekends they cater to the townspeople who come out to eat the specialties: chivichangas and sopes of oysters.
Although the palapas were practically indistinguishable—many without names—it did not take long to find that of Sra. María Cruz de López. Her restaurant had been recommended by her nephew, a young fisherman whom I had given a ride to the coast. A fresh basket of oysters had just been brought in with a large pargo (Pacific snapper) that was flopping around on the table.
After a warm welcome, the López family agreed to prepare their local specialties for me and set to work, with the help of two fishermen friends, shucking the oysters and starting the fire of mangrovewood under the grill. One of the men deftly cut the fish into two fillets, with the head and skin intact. The open sides of the fillets were smeared with a strong paste of salt, garlic, and hot chiles, ready to be grilled or sarandeado—meaning that the fish is turned over at very brief intervals so that it is never dry. The morning wore on slowly and pleasantly as we cooked and sampled, washing the food down with plenty of cold beer.
I promised to go back and take their boat through the inland lagoons to the mysterious island of Mexcaltitán—legendary departure point of the Nahuas who founded Tenochtítlan (now part of Mexico City) in 1325.
SOPES DE OSTIONES
SOPES TOPPED WITH OYSTERS
SRA. MARÍA CRUZ DE LÓPEZ
[MAKES 12 3-INCH (8-CENTIMETER) SOPES]
I imagine that the very thought of doing this to oysters is laughable in most people’s book, but there are small oysters galore in Boca de Camichín, and the cooks there are always thinking up new ways of using them for regular visitors. Of course the little Olympia oysters would be perfect—if it weren’t for the price. It surprises me to hear myself recommending a can, but . . . I’ve made this recipe using a can of miniature clams, using the liquid for the masa as well. They worked very well, and I was also tempted to use smoked oysters—it made for a very tasty and economical botana, a change from the usual shredded meat topping.
THE MASA
1 cup (250 milliliters) masa for tortillas (page 440), 9-1/2 ounces (265 grams), preferably rather dry
1/4 cup (63 milliliters) oyster or clam juice
Approximately 2 tablespoons lard or vegetable oil
THE TOPPINGS
3/4 cup (188 milliliters) cooked, drained, and mashed bayo or pinto beans
1 cup (250 milliliters) small oysters or canned clams, drained (see note above)
1 cup (250 milliliters) cooked cubed carrot
1 cup (250 milliliters) cooked cubed potato
1 heaped cup (265 milliliters) finely shredded lettuce seasoned with a little salt and lime juice
1/3 cup (83 milliliters) finely chopped white onion
1 cup (250 milliliters) tomato sauce (recipe follows)
1/4 cup (63 milliliters) very finely grated queso añejo or Romano
Crumbled dried oregano
Mix the masa with the oyster juice. Divide into 12 balls about 1-1/4 inches (3 centimeters) in diameter and set aside. If you are making double the amount or more, keep the other batches of masa under a damp cloth while you work with the first batch.
Press the balls out gently in a baggie-lined tortilla press to about 3-1/2 inches (9 centimeters) in diameter, no larger. Cook on an ungreased comal or griddle as if you were making tortillas.
While still hot, press the dough up around the edge to form a rim—you will probably burn your thumbs, but don’t let the dough get cold. Cover with a cloth to keep the sopes slightly warm and flexible.
Spread each one with a little of the bean paste, cover with a scant tablespoon of the oysters, a tablespoon of the carrots and potatoes mixed, a little shredded lettuce, chopped onion, a tablespoon of the tomato sauce, and a liberal sprinkling of the cheese and oregano.
Heat the lard or oil in a pan or comal and just heat the bottoms of the sopes through for a minute or two before serving.
TOMATO SAUCE
[MAKES 2 CUPS (500 MILLILITERS)]
1 pound (450 grams) tomatoes
1 jalapeño chile or more to taste, roughly chopped
2 small garlic cloves, roughly chopped
1 tablespoon vegetable oil
1/2 cup (125 milliliters) water or juice from the oysters
Salt to taste
Finely crumbled dried oregano
Cover the tomatoes with hot water in a saucepan and simmer until soft but not falling apart—about 10 minutes. Drain, saving the hot water for the vegetables. Put the tomatoes, chile, and garlic into a blender and blend until smooth.
Heat the oil in a small skillet and cook the sauce over high heat for about 2 minutes. Add the water with salt if necessary and cook for another 2 minutes.
If using this as a table sauce, sprinkle the oregano on top just before serving. If using it on the sopes, sprinkle the oregano on top of the sopes.
OYSTER CHIVICHANGAS
SRA. MARÍA CRUZ DE LÓPEZ
[MAKES 6 CHIVICHANGAS ABOUT 5 INCHES (13 CENTIMETERS) LONG]
12 ounces (340 grams) masa for tortillas (page 440), about 1-1/3 cups (333 milliliters)
Salt to taste
1 tablespoon salsa de chile cora (page 67)
2 dozen medium oysters, more or less, depending on size
3 tablespoons vegetable oil plus oil for frying
3 heaped tablespoons finely chopped white onion
1 jalapeño chile, finely chopped
4 ounces (115 grams) tomatoes, finely chopped, about 2/3 cup (164 milliliters)
Mix the masa with a little salt and the hot sauce. Divide the dough into 6 equal pieces and roll each into a ball about 1-3/4 inches (4.5 centimeters) in diameter. Cover with a damp cloth.
Drain the oysters well. Heat the 3 tablespoons oil in a skillet, add the onion and chile, and fry without browning for about 1 minute. Add the tomato and fry until almost dry. Add the drained oysters and salt to taste and stir-fry rapidly for about 2 minutes. Set aside to cool slightly and then drain off the excess juice.
Heat 1/2 inch (13 millimeters) of oil in a skillet. Press one of the balls of dough out in a baggie-lined tortilla press to a very thin circle about 6 inches (15.5 centimeters) in diameter. Put a few of the oysters along the center. Fold one side of the dough over the filling, leaving about 1 inch (2.5 centimeters) of dough exposed on the opposite side. Fold this over and fold the ends up about 1/2 inch (13 millimeters) to seal in the filling. Fry in very hot oil on both sides until the dough is crisp on the outside and a deep golden color. Drain well on paper toweling and serve immediately, opening up one end to add a little of the hot sauce.
Don’t expect the dough to be crisp all the way through. It will be soft but cooked around the filling.
If you are not serving informally straight from the pan, as they are best, then as the chivichangas are cooked, place them on an oven tray lined with absorbent paper and reheat in a 400°F (205°C) oven. This will also help extract some of the excess oil.
EMPANADAS DE CAMARÓN
SHRIMP EMPANADAS
SRA. MARÍA CRUZ DE LÓPEZ, BOCA DE CAMICHÍN, NAYARIT
[MAKES 12 EMPANADAS]
THE FILLING
1-1/2 cups (375 milliliters) peeled raw shrimp
2 tablespoons vegetable oil
2 tablespoons finely chopped white onion
1 jalapeño chile, chopped
Salt to taste
2 small tomatoes, finely chopped, about 2/3 cup (164 milliliters)
2 heaped tablespoons finely chopped cilantro
Vegetable oil for frying
1 pound (450 grams) masa for tortillas (page 440), about 1-3/4 cups (438 milliliters)
1 teaspoon salsa de chile cora (see below)
Roughly chop the shrimp. Heat the oil in a skillet, add the onion and chile with a sprinkle of salt, and fry without browning for a few seconds. Add the tomatoes and cook for about 2 minutes or until some of the juice has evaporated. Stir in the shrimp and stir-fry until just opaque, about 3 minutes. Taste for salt, stir in the cilantro, and set aside. Heat about 1/4 inch (7 millimeters) of oil in a skillet.
Mix the masa with the hot sauce and a little salt. Divide the masa into 12 pieces and form into balls about 1-1/2 inches (4 centimeters) in diameter. Using a baggie-lined tortilla press, press one of the balls out to about 5 inches (13 centimeters), put a very heaped tablespoon of filling in the center of the dough, double it over, and carefully lift it off the plastic bag lining the tortilla press. Carefully set into the hot oil.
Fry on both sides until crisp and lightly browned. Drain on paper toweling and eat immediately.
SALSA DE CHILE CORA
CHILE CORA SAUCE
[MAKES APPROXIMATELY 1-1/2 CUPS (375 MILLILITERS)]
This is a typical table sauce—used as a condiment—from Nayarit. The recipe was given to me in the small market town of Compostela. The chile is grown locally and named for the indigenous people living nearby. It is a shiny, dark red triangular chile usually used in its dried state. I have seen it elsewhere labeled chile catarina.
Like any sauce made with dried chiles of this type, it will keep for a few days in the refrigerator.
8 ounces (225 grams) tomates verdes, about 9 medium
7 dried cora or cascabel chiles
2 tablespoons lard or vegetable oil
2 garlic cloves, roughly chopped
1/3 cup (83 milliliters) water
Salt to taste
Remove the husks from the tomates verdes, rinse, cover with water in a saucepan, and simmer until soft but not falling apart—about 10 minutes. Wipe the chiles clean with a damp cloth and remove the stems. Heat the lard in a skillet and fry the chiles, turning them so that they do not burn (or the sauce will be bitter) for about 2 minutes. Remove with a slotted spoon and when cool crumble into a blender.
Add the garlic and water and blend to a slightly textured consistency. Add the drained tomates verdes and salt to taste, then blend again to a fairly smooth consistency.
Fall had come and almost gone before my friend Violet called to say that the trip to Mascota, where they make luscious candied fruits, had been arranged. A friend of hers who had contacts there would be our guide, and her brother would drive a high, comfortable vehicle since a standard car could not make it.
It was only 115 kilometers but would take about six and a half hours. In 1974 the Guide Bleu stated that “the road is mediocre,” and that was an over-statement—especially for the French!
Our friends immediately told us—this was Saturday morning—that they had to be back by Sunday night and were sorry but there wouldn’t be time enough to see San Sebastián. They had, however, seen to it that I would get all the information I needed and try the food and fruits. I had been told sometime before to be sure not to miss San Sebastián. Ah well, you never know what fate has in store, I thought, having been in Mexico for such a long time, and settled back to enjoy the ride.
Those first three hours seemed endless, as fascinating as the journey was, as we found our way slowly up a loose dirt track—sending clouds of dust up behind us, crossing through streams, over rocky little riverbeds, through a constantly changing landscape as we gained altitude. Thick tropical vegetation thinned out to semitropical and finally was dotted with stunted pines and scrubby oaks with occasional narrow views of the valleys and coastal plain below. We saw hardly a soul, and small herds of cattle would stop their grazing and turn to stare as we went by. There was an occasional farmstead with crumbling adobe house, and the silence was broken once in a while by the roar of a truck or the coughing sputter from the exhaust of an old bus descending in the opposite direction with unaccustomed precaution.
We passed a sign pointing to San Sebastián—ten kilometers, what a pity we didn’t have time to stop—but we had to get to Mascota for a late lunch and well before the light began to fade. Less than two kilometers farther on, we rounded a curve too tightly, skidded on the loose surface, and hit a small, oncoming truck that had swung out a fraction too wide. Water poured from their radiator, and the engine died. The couple in the truck were from San Sebastián, so it was decided that we should go back there to get help.
We returned to the signpost and took a narrow road that wound up through pine forests and past drying fields of corn and cattle grazing until we came to an avenue of majestic elm and walnut trees that formed a high arch, as if welcoming us to the little town. While the woman who had come back with us was negotiating for a tow truck and reporting the incident to the local transit authority—a young man casually dressed in a T-shirt and baggy pants—we hurriedly bought fruit to appease our hunger and walked back slowly to the car, admiring the elegant little town sitting in isolation in a basin (or so it seemed) in the foothills of the surrounding sierras. The houses and public buildings were in simple Spanish colonial style, with white painted walls and low sloping roofs covered with reddish tiles mottled with age. Then and there we decided to stay on the way back.
We returned to the scene of the accident with the transit chief and a promise of help from the mechanic in San Sebastián, but despite the deposit of a tidy sum to cover the repairs (and our friend’s driver’s license), the authority insisted we go back again immediately to sign an official document. It would take him several hours to type it up. Couldn’t we sign on the way back tomorrow? With tempers still hot, the negotiations stalled, and when they resumed it all became so convoluted that I decided it was time for the women to take over. I just happened to have one of my books in Spanish with rather a ludicrous photograph of me on the back in sombrero and serape. Our friend explained that we had an important mission: the presidente municipal was waiting for us, and we were very late, and besides, I was a distinguished visitor who had the Order of the Aztec Eagle. We were soon on our way!
Those last two and a half hours were by far the worst. At first the road was shaded by trees along a small river and there were some homesteads and a few children playing while their fathers gossiped over a beer. Surprisingly there was also a field, beyond an imposing gateway with a hundred little triangular shelters, each with a number, to house fighting cocks that were pecking around outside. I could only think of the noise at dawn and what would happen if they all started fighting together! Unfortunately there was no one in sight to ask, and in any case we were already very late. We were held up twice by huge machines trying to clear the road of a recent fall of rocks and earth and then began a precarious descent when the road narrowed considerably as it hugged the side of the steep slope. The loose stony surface made it slippery, and the bends were closed and blind. Luckily our driver seemed unconcerned as the drivers of the occasional truck that served as collective transport for the area sped around at an alarming speed for those conditions and glared at us as though we had no right to be taking up the space.
As we descended, we had a distant view of the broad valley below and soon caught sight of the tiled roofs of Mascota, la Esmeralda de la Sierra, the Emerald of the Sierra, as it is known locally.
It was by then late afternoon: the restaurant that we had heard so much about was closed for a wedding party, so we hurried along to the lady who was famous for her conserves. She had gone to Mass, a long one, her son said, but he finally took pity on us and showed us in to buy her much-acclaimed wares.
Where were the stuffed peaches that we had particularly come to buy? There was no peach harvest this year. Nobody had them! Similar incidents flashed through my mind: I had arrived on the wrong day, in the wrong season, there had been a drought, too much rain. . . . It was always a risk one took when setting off on these gastronomic trails.
But what a variety of sweets there were: ates, called cajetas, of local fruits—pears, apples, guavas, and tejocotes, like a crab apple, thin layers of fruit conserve rolled up with a coating of sugar, the most delicious being a pale green color and sharper than the others, made of steamed green mangoes. There were little bags of arrayan, small wild guavas cooked with and rolled in sugar, with the delicious acidic taste of tamarind but with all the little seeds included. To console us for the lack of peaches, he did still have some boxes of stuffed guavas. The guavas had been left in a lime solution overnight, cooked in a syrup, then dried in the sun, all of which had given them an intense flavor and special texture. They were then stuffed with a cajeta of the same fruit. They were unique, and one could see why the lady-who-had-gone-to-Mass was so renowned in the region and even as far as Guadalajara.
After downing some lavishly topped tostadas and generously trimmed gorditas, we went off to see Sra. Carolina. She and her daughter Lilia were respected and dedicated local teachers and, apart from that, enthusiastic traditional cooks. Lilia’s daughter Bertha, the third generation, has carried on that tradition and become a very talented cook, devoting herself to making cheeses, jocoque (a delicious soured raw milk, page 72), and butter and to raising special chickens while her husband works his family’s ranch.
The hours flew by as they all volunteered recipes—many carefully written down—with tips and advice all given generously.
The men were dragged from the game on television when supper was announced: delicious sweet and savory tamales, gordas de harina (page 80), arepas (page 81), atole, and hot creamy milk.
We finally fell into bed, happily tired, in the immaculately clean but spartan hotel in the center of the town.
Mascota has extremely broad streets, one of which continues for more than a block, shearing off at an unexpected angle, leaving one bewildered and temporarily lost. A good memory and a great sense of direction are necessary to avoid the circular tours we took that morning to find Lilia’s house for a late breakfast.
When we arrived, Lilia was grilling strips of beef on what she called an asador de echazo, a grill made of junk. It was a metal plate set on top of an old wide tire rim, the fire underneath neatly confined by the metal. Bertha, or Bety as she prefers to be known, was beating the jocoque and patiently described to me how it was made.
It wasn’t so much the choice of food at that breakfast that was so exceptional as the quality of it and the care with which each item had been prepared. The tortillas of white corn were some of the finest I had had in a long time: light and mealy, spread with that fresh jocoque, and sprinkled with salt. It was the epitome of simple but delicious Mexican fare. There was chicharrón (fried pork skin) still hot from the frying vat, locally grown yellow Peruano beans (although not Peruvian) in their broth, two sauces, and a freshly made panela cheese. The meat, although delicious, was almost superfluous.
Farewells were prolonged as we were given cheese, a little pot of what they call oregano de maceta—a cultivated oregano that is used fresh, while the fragrant dried oregano of the region is collected wild—jocoque, and for me 2 pounds of butter. I put off thinking how I would get it back to Mexico City the next day. We then had to stop for gas, for a large supply of that very special dried oregano, and for some packages of tortitas (page 77), a must if a friend knew you had visited Mascota.
We were finally off and starting up that dreaded track with a crumbling, unguarded edge. I tried not to look or exclaim too loudly as the opposition came hurtling down!
Somehow we arrived in record time at San Sebastián, and there, waiting for us in the central plaza, was our transit official, this time in his neatly pressed official uniform, holding up a spottily typed document. Our friends signed the paper and continued on their way, promising to freeze our perishable goods while we stayed behind in the primitive rooms of the only little rooming house in town.
JOCOQUE
SRA. BERTHA ELENA MORENO DE GONZÁLEZ
[MAKES 5 CUPS (1.25 LITERS)]
In some parts of Mexico jocoque refers to naturally soured cream—the same as the crème fraîche of France—and in others it is yogurt. Here in Jalisco, where it is used a lot, jocoque means naturally soured milk that has been drained of some of the whey.
I have never tasted such delicious jocoque as that in Mascota, prepared by a young and very capable cook, Bertha Elena, or Bety. Of course, it does help to have superb raw milk straight from the morning’s milking at their ranch nearby.
It may seem absurd to urbanites, or suburbanites for that matter, to include a recipe for jocoque, but there is always someone who wants to know how or who can actually get raw milk and make it. The Moreno family likes to eat jocoque when it is absolutely fresh, smeared onto a corn tortilla with a little salt, nothing else. When it is a day old, it is relegated to sauces, like that for taquitos (recipe follows).
Set 2 quarts of raw milk to sour in an unglazed clay pot or plastic container, cover loosely, and set aside in a warm place for 2 days. Skim the cream from the top and set aside in the refrigerator. Leave the milk for 2 or 3 more days, depending on the time it takes to sour and become bubbly—se hacen bombitas is the local expression. Skim off and discard the filmy layer that forms over the top of the milk and put the rest into a cheesecloth bag to drain.
Bety says to leave it to drain until it becomes fairly dry, like ricotta, and then beat it with a little milk and then the reserved cream. I actually left it to drain for 2 hours, which got rid of most of the whey, beat it smooth, and then beat in the reserved cream. I did not need the extra milk. It is silky smooth, pleasantly acid, and creamy.
Jocoque substitute: Leave some not-too-sour whole-milk yogurt to drain for 3 hours, then beat with a little cream.
TACOS DE JOCOQUE
TACOS FILLED WITH CHILE STRIPS IN JOCOQUE SAUCE
BERTHA ELENA MORENO
[MAKES 12 6-INCH (15.5-CENTIMETER) TACOS]
This is without a doubt one of my favorite dishes. The filling is usually (and most deliciously) made with chile strips and cheese, although the tacos can also be filled with carrot and potato. As an alternative I suggest using the filling of various vegetables such as that for quesadillas de verduras from Chilapa, Guerrero (page 318).
Everything can be prepared ahead of time, but the tacos should be assembled at the last moment before baking. These tacos make an excellent main vegetarian course for four servings, a first course for six, or an accompaniment to broiled or roasted meat.
Oil for frying
12 6-inch (15.5-centimeter) tortillas
THE SAUCE
1 pound (450 grams) tomatoes, finely chopped, about 2 rounded cups (550 milliliters)
1/3 medium white onion, roughly chopped
1 tablespoon vegetable oil
1-1/2 cups (375 milliliters) jocoque (recipe precedes) or substitute
THE FILLING
10 ounces (285 grams) queso fresco, panela, or Muenster, cut into strips
1-1/2 cups (375 milliliters) rajas of poblano chile, fried with a little onion (see The Art of Mexican Cooking)
Have ready a well-greased ovenproof dish, or dishes, into which the tacos will just fit in one layer—2 ovenproof glass 8-inch (20-centimeter) square dishes are just right.
Put the tomatoes and onions in a blender and puree. Heat the oil in a skillet, add the sauce, and cook, stirring and scraping the bottom of the pan to prevent sticking from time to time, until the juice has been reduced and the sauce begins to sizzle around the edges of the pan—about 4 minutes. Transfer to the blender, add the jocoque, and blend until smooth.
Heat the oven to 375°F (190°C).
In another skillet, heat a little oil, just enough to cover the surface of the pan, and fry each tortilla lightly, just to soften; they should not be crisp around the edges. Blot on paper toweling. Put a few strips of cheese and plenty of chile strips along the center, roll the tortillas loosely, and set aside in the prepared dishes. Pour the sauce as evenly as possible over the top of the tacos (decorate if desired with some of the chile strips and/or cheese), lightly cover with foil, and bake until the sauce is bubbling and the filling heated through (stick a clean finger in to test)—about 15 minutes. Serve immediately.
BIRRIA ESTILO MASCOTA
FAMILIA MORENO
[SERVES 12]
After traveling extensively in Jalisco and part of Nayarit, one tends to become heartily tired of the soupy, stringy meat that passes for birria in most little restaurants and cenadurías, supper places, so it was with some reluctance that I talked about birria with the Moreno family. Then I found myself writing it down with enthusiasm.
They use various meats for their birria, depending on which one is most plentiful at the time—mutton, pork, beef, even chicken. After a long steaming, which means you have a delicious broth, the meat is then given a brief roasting in the oven to give it a more appetizing appearance and improve its texture and flavor.
Rice is usually served first in this meal, then the meat in shallow bowls with plenty of the broth topped with finely shredded cabbage and chopped onion. A very hot sauce of chile de árbol is served separately, and afterward some frijoles de olla. If you have any of the broth left over, it makes a delicious, rich soup.
A stew like birria has to be made in fairly large quantities so that you have rich broth. The cuts of meat should include some bone and fat—you can always skim the fat off afterward. I like to use beef brisket, breast of lamb or mutton, or pork shoulder. I find the taste of goat too strong, and chicken falls apart too quickly without absorbing the flavors.
Start this recipe a day ahead.
THE SEASONING PASTE
4 ancho chiles, veins and seeds removed
1 cup (250 milliliters) pineapple vinegar or 1/2 cup (125 milliliters) wine vinegar and 1/2 cup (125 milliliters) rice vinegar
4 garlic cloves, roughly chopped
4 1-1/2-inch (10-centimeter) cinnamon sticks
1/2 teaspoon cumin seeds, crushed
1/2 teaspoon peppercorns, crushed
2 teaspoons dried oregano, crumbled
1-1/2 ounces (45 g/1/2 small round tablet) Mexican drinking chocolate, crumbled
Salt to taste
THE MEAT
6-1/2 pounds (3 kg) meat such as brisket (see note above), cut into large pieces
1 pound (450 grams) tomatoes
TO SERVE
Finely shredded cabbage
Finely chopped white onion Lime quarters
Sauce for birria (recipe follows)
Start one day ahead.
Cover the ancho chiles with hot water in a saucepan, simmer for 5 minutes, and set aside to soak for 5 minutes more. Drain.
Put the vinegar into a blender, add the garlic, spices, and oregano, and blend until smooth. Gradually add the chiles and chocolate and blend until smooth—you may need to add a little water to release the blender blade, but do not dilute too much because the loose paste should coat the meat well. Add plenty of salt and coat the pieces of meat. Cover and leave in a cool place or in the bottom of the refrigerator overnight.
Prepare a tamale steamer (page 434), or improvise one with a rack that stands about 4 inches (10 centimeters) above the water line. Fill the bottom with about 2 quarts (2 liters) water. Set the pieces of meat into the top of the steamer and cover tightly with plastic wrap so very little steam can escape. Steam the meat until tender but not too soft—about 4 hours. Put some small coins in the water; as they cease rattling around, add more boiling water.
Heat the oven to 400°F (205°C). Transfer the meat to a roasting pan and roast for about 30 minutes, turning it over once, or until the meat is shiny and slightly crusty.
Meanwhile, cook the whole tomatoes in the broth from the bottom of the steamer, transfer to the blender, and blend until smooth. Return to the broth and heat through.
Serve the birria with the toppings (see note above). Any leftover meat can be used shredded for tacos or as a topping for tostadas and the broth served as a soup.
SALSA PARA BIRRIA
SAUCE FOR BIRRIA
MASCOTA, JALISCO
[MAKES ABOUT 1/2 CUP (125 MILLILITERS)]
This sauce is served as a condiment with birria. It is very hot indeed, thin and brilliant red. It is best left to season for a few hours before serving.
20 chiles de árbol
1/2 cup (125 milliliters) mild vinegar or half rice vinegar and half wine vinegar
Scant 1/2 teaspoon dried oregano, crumbled
2 garlic cloves, roughly chopped
4 peppercorns, crushed
Salt to taste
Cover the chiles with water in a saucepan, bring to a simmer, and continue simmering for about 10 minutes. Set aside to soak for 10 more minutes. Drain and discard the water. Remove the stems and tear the chiles with seeds into small pieces.
Add the chiles to a blender along with the vinegar and blend as smooth as possible. Gradually add the oregano, garlic, and peppercorns, and blend again.
Transfer the sauce to a nonreactive bowl, pressing it through a fine strainer to extract as much of the juice as possible. Stir in salt to taste and set aside to season for a few hours.
CHILAQUILES
SRA. CAROLINA DE LÓPEZ, MASCOTA
[SERVES 4]
THE SAUCE
12 ounces (340 grams) tomatoes
4 chiles de árbol, lightly toasted in a dry skillet
1 tablespoon vegetable oil
Salt to taste
THE CHILAQUILES
Approximately 1/4 cup (63 milliliters) vegetable oil
6 5-inch (13-centimeter) tortillas, cut into 1-inch (2.5-centimeter) squares and left to dry overnight
4 eggs
Salt to taste
FOR THE TOPPING
1/3 cup (83 milliliters) finely chopped white onion
1 cup (250 milliliters) loosely packed grated Muenster or crumbled queso fresco (in Jalisco, adobera)
1 scant teaspoon crumbled dried oregano
FOR THE SAUCE: Cover the tomatoes with water in a saucepan and bring to a simmer. Continue simmering until soft right through but not falling apart, about 10 minutes. Drain and transfer to a blender. Crumble the toasted chiles in with the tomatoes and blend until smooth. Heat the tablespoon of oil in a skillet, add the sauce with salt, and fry over medium heat until reduced and seasoned, about 3 minutes. Set aside.
FOR THE CHILAQUILES: Heat a little of the oil in a skillet and add a few pieces of tortilla. Fry until golden and partially crisp (do not crowd the pan). Transfer with a slotted spoon to a strainer, shake off any excess oil, and then drain on paper toweling. Continue with the rest of the pieces, adding a little oil as necessary.
Beat the eggs lightly with salt to taste. Drain off all but 2 tablespoons of oil from the pan in which the tortillas were fried. Return the tortilla pieces to the pan, then pour the eggs over them and stir until the eggs are just set.
TO SERVE: Stir in the tomato sauce and mix well, stirring continuously for about 3 minutes. Turn the chilaquiles out onto a warmed serving dish; sprinkle the onion, cheese, and oregano over the top; and serve immediately.
HONGOS GUISADOS CON YERBABUENA
MUSHROOMS COOKED WITH MINT
SRA. CAROLINA DE LÓPEZ
[MAKES APPROXIMATELY 2 CUPS (500 MILLILITERS)]
Although wild mushrooms are used for this recipe, cultivated ones—either oyster or shiitake—may be substituted. Butter is used in Mascota, but I prefer to use half butter and half vegetable oil.
A whole clove of garlic is always added when cooking wild mushrooms in Mexico. If it discolors badly, then there is a poisonous mushroom among them; pitch them out.
2 tablespoons vegetable oil
2 tablespoons unsalted butter
1/4 cup (63 milliliters) finely chopped white onion
3 serrano chiles or to taste, finely chopped
1 garlic clove if using wild mushrooms (see note above)
Salt to taste
4 ounces (115 grams) tomatoes, finely chopped, about 2/3 cup (164 milliliters)
1 pound (450 grams) wild, oyster, or shiitake mushrooms, wiped clean and thinly sliced
2 tablespoons roughly chopped mint leaves
Heat the oil and butter in a heavy skillet. Add the onion, chiles, garlic, and a sprinkle of salt. Cook over low heat for about 1 minute without browning. Add the tomatoes and continue cooking over medium heat until the juice has been absorbed—about 3 minutes. Add the mushrooms and cook, adding more salt if necessary until they are well cooked through and well seasoned, stirring in the mint after 5 minutes and continuing to cook for another 5 minutes. Cover and set aside for about 10 minutes before serving.
TORTITAS DE REGALO
GIFT COOKIES
SRA. CAROLINA DE LÓPEZ
[MAKES 40 SMALL COOKIES]
These short and sugary little cookies are a great favorite in Mascota. Pork lard is used abundantly here, and it is indispensable for the correct texture and flavor. The cookies are cut out with a circular, fluted cutter and then cut in half again. Once baked, they’re coated with a seven-minute frosting.
The cookies keep very well stored in an airtight container.
THE DOUGH
1/2 cup (125 milliliters) water
1/4 teaspoon anise seeds
8 ounces (225 grams) all-purpose flour, about 2 scant cups (450 milliliters)
1 teaspoon baking powder
5 ounces (140 grams) sugar, about 1/2 cup plus 2 tablespoons (135 milliliters)
1/4 teaspoon salt
3-1/2 ounces (100 grams) pork lard, about 1/3 cup plus 2 tablespoons (115 milliliters)
1 egg yolk, lightly beaten with 1/2 egg white
THE FROSTING
1/2 cup (125 milliliters) sugar
1 egg white
1/8 teaspoon cream of tartar
2 tablespoons cold water
1/4 teaspoon vanilla extract or 1/2 tablespoon fresh lime juice
Put the water into a small saucepan, add the anise seeds, and simmer for about 5 minutes. Set aside to cool. Mix the flour with the baking powder, 5 ounces (140 grams) sugar, and salt. Lightly rub in the lard with the tips of your fingers, then stir in the beaten egg with a metal spoon.
Moisten the dough with about 1/4 cup (63 milliliters) of the strained anise water and mix until you have a malleable but not too soft dough. Add a little more water if necessary.
Heat the oven to 350°F (177°C). (If the weather is hot and the dough unmanageable, refrigerate it for an hour or so.) Roll out the dough 1/4 inch (7 millimeters) thick and cut to the desired shape, about 2-1/2 inches (6.5 centimeters) in diameter. Carefully transfer the cookies to ungreased sheets and bake to a pale golden color—about 15 minutes. Allow to cool a little before transferring to a wire rack to cool off completely and become crisp.
To prepare the frosting, put all the ingredients into a double boiler and stir well. When the sugar has dissolved, beat the mixture over medium heat for about 7 minutes. Coat the cookies with the frosting and decorate as desired.
ROLLOS DE MANGO VERDE
GREEN MANGO ROLL
MASCOTA
[MAKES 8 10-INCH (25-CENTIMETER) MANGO PASTE ROLLS]
Of all the fruit confections I have cooked and eaten in Mexico, this tops the list. It was one of those surprises that I was led to by my friend Violet, who has known about the Mascota sweetmeats for many years.
I dedicate this recipe to my fans, who I know will search out the meanest-looking, hard little green mangoes in Latin American fruit stores and make this delectable fruit paste. You are aiming at about two sheets of fruit paste just less than 1/8 inch (3 millimeters) thick—any thicker, and they will break when you roll them. If this happens, cut the paste into squares and just dust with sugar; nobody will know the difference.
6 pounds (2.7 kg) green mangoes
1-3/4 pounds (800 grams) granulated sugar, just over 3-1/2 cups (875 milliliters)
1/4 cup (63 milliliters) fresh lime juice
Confectioners’ or fine granulated sugar for dusting
Have ready 2 cookie sheets or trays; those measuring 12 by 16 inches (25 by 40 centimeters) are ideal.
Peel the mangoes, taking care to remove all the tough skin, and put into the top of a steamer. Cover tightly and cook until the flesh is perfectly soft—about 25 minutes (some of the mangoes may burst open and resemble mashed potato). Set aside to cool.
When cool enough to handle, scrape all the flesh from the pits and put into a food processor. Process to a smooth pulp—a few slightly harder pieces will always remain—adding a little water only if necessary.
Now weigh or measure the pulp; there should be about 3 pounds (1.35 kilograms)—yes, believe it or not!—or about 5-3/4 cups (1.44 liters). Put the pulp in a very heavy pan along with the granulated sugar and the lime juice and stir over low heat until the sugar has melted. Increase the heat until the mixture begins to bubble and continue cooking for exactly 20 minutes, making sure that you continue stirring and scraping the bottom of the pan because these dense mixtures scorch easily.
Sprinkle the surface of the baking sheets lightly with water and tip off any excess. Spread the paste evenly to about 1/16 inch (5 millimeters) and set aside to cool and dry. As soon as the paste dries sufficiently to separate it from the surface of the trays—but is still flexible—about two days depending of course on the humidity of the air—cut the paste of each tray into four equal parts, sprinkle with confectioners sugar, and roll each one up as firmly as possible. Allow the rolls to dry out for several days before storing.
When serving this paste, slice through the roll at 1/4-inch (7-millimeter) intervals—thinner if you want to decorate a dessert with shreds of the paste, which will now have a deep yellow tone.
TURCO
[SERVES 12 TO 16]
The Diccionario de cocina simply says of turco: “a timbal of corn.” It is in fact a type of pie with a thick crust that can be made of corn masa, chickpeas, or rice, either sweet or savory and often with filling. This recipe, given to me in Mascota, Jalisco, is made with a semisweet flour dough with a thin layer of savory stuffing in the middle. It is served either as part of the main course or, more often than not, with the desserts.
My friend María Dolores, whose mother came from Sonora, has the family turco mold shaped like a turban. Now for easy serving on festive occasions it is more prosaically presented in a large glass or other ovenproof dish. Turco is a sine qua non for weddings and baptisms in particular.
I am afraid I find it rather boring and have been known to serve it with tomato sauce and strips of pickled jalapeño, much to the chagrin of my traditional friends from Jalisco.
THE FILLING
12 ounces (340 grams) ground stewing pork with a little fat
Salt to taste
6 ounces (180 grams) tomates verdes, about 7 medium, husks removed, rinsed, and finely chopped
1/3 cup (83 milliliters) finely chopped white onion
1/2-inch (13-millimeter) cinnamon stick, crushed
4 peppercorns, crushed
1/2 teaspoon dried oregano, crumbled
4 ounces (115 grams) potatoes, cooked, peeled, and roughly mashed, about 1 scant cup (240 milliliters)
2 tablespoons raisins
1/2 cup (125 milliliters) water
6 ounces (180 grams) grated piloncillo or dark brown sugar, about 1 cup
4 eggs
4 egg yolks
14 ounces (400 grams) lard, 1-3/4 cups (438 milliliters)
2 pounds (900 grams) all-purpose flour, about 7 cups (1.75 liters)
2 teaspoons baking powder
1/4 teaspoon baking soda
Approximately 1/2 teaspoon salt
4 ounces (115 grams) granulated sugar, 1/2 cup (125 milliliters)
Have ready an ovenproof dish, ideally 13 by 9 inches (33 by 23 centimeters) and at least 2-1/2 to 3 inches (6.5 to 8 centimeters) deep.
Put the pork into a heavy skillet, sprinkle with salt, and set over low heat until the moisture from the meat has been absorbed and the fat rendered out. Add the rest of the ingredients and continue cooking over medium heat until well seasoned—15 minutes. Adjust the salt and set the filling aside to cool before using.
Put the water to heat in a small pan, stir in the piloncillo, and continue stirring until it has dissolved. Set aside to cool and then strain.
Heat the oven to 350°F (177°C).
Beat the eggs and yolks together lightly and add with the lard to the syrup.
Sift together the flour, baking powder, soda, and salt and stir in the egg mixture. Form the dough into a cohesive mass with the tips of your fingers and divide it into 2 parts. Roll each piece lightly into the shape of the dish. Spread one along the bottom and cover with an even layer of the filling, then cover with the other half of the dough and sprinkle the top with the granulated sugar. Bake until spongy to the touch and browned on top—about 45 minutes to 1 hour. It is best served soon after it has been baked.
GORDAS DE HARINA
SRA. CAROLINA DE LÓPEZ
[MAKES 40 5-INCH (13-CENTIMETER) COOKIES]
Gordas—fat ones—is a strange name for these wafer-like disks that are served with coffee. Señora Carolina says that after much experimenting she finds that the three fats are best to use in this recipe, since each one contributes to the flavor or consistency.
It is best to cook gordas very slowly—on an iron griddle, or better still soapstone, rather than a thin comal. These gordas keep well if stored in an airtight container in a cool place.
2-1/2 ounces (75 grams) vegetable shortening, about 1/3 cup (83 milliliters)
2-1/2 ounces (75 grams) pork lard, about 1/3 cup plus 2 teaspoons (93 milliliters)
2-1/2 ounces (75 grams) natas, about a scant 1/3 cup (83 milliliters) or 5 tablespoons unsalted butter
1/2 cup (125 milliliters) sugar
2 large eggs
1 pound (450 grams) all-purpose flour, 4 scant cups (1 liter)
Cream the fats together well and gradually beat in the sugar, salt, and eggs with 1 tablespoon of the flour. Gradually work in the remaining flour and mix to a soft, malleable consistency. Divide the dough into about 40 balls about 1-1/4 inches (3 centimeters) in diameter and cover them loosely with plastic wrap while you work with a few at a time.
Line a tortilla press with plastic baggies and proceed as if you were going to make tortillas. Flatten one ball of the dough out to about 5 inches (13 centimeters) in diameter, lift off the top baggie, place the dough (still on the second baggie) on the inside of your hand, and carefully lay the dough onto a warm griddle. The heat should be low at all times so that the fat in the dough does not scorch. Cook until the underside is mottled with light golden brown—about 5 minutes. (The second side is never as attractive as the first, so don’t expose it when serving the gordas.) Cool on a rack so that they become quite crisp.
AREPAS
[MAKES 16 3-INCH (8-CENTIMETER) COOKIES]
Arepas in Mascota are crisp, semisweet star-shaped cookies served with coffee at either breakfast or supper-time. Traditionally they are baked in a wood oven, which of course gives a very special texture and flavor. But they are still very good cooked in a domestic oven.
1/2 cup (125 milliliters) water
Peel of 1 orange
6 ounces (180 grams) grated piloncillo or dark brown sugar, 1 cup (250 milliliters) firmly packed
2 ounces (60 grams) vegetable shortening, 1/3 cup (83 milliliters)
A scant 4 ounces (115 grams) pork lard, a scant 1/2 cup (115 milliliters)
3/4 teaspoon baking powder
1/2 teaspoon baking soda
1/4 teaspoon salt
2 tablespoons fresh lime juice
2 eggs, lightly beaten
1-1/2 pounds (675 grams) all-purpose flour, about 5-1/2 cups (1.375 liters)
THE GLAZE
1 egg yolk
1 tablespoon milk
1/3 cup (83 milliliters) granulated sugar
Put the water into a saucepan with the orange peel and brown sugar. Cook over medium heat, stirring, until the sugar has completely melted. Continue boiling until the mixture starts to thicken and forms a thin thread when dropped from a spoon. Stir in the fats and set aside to cool a little. Don’t worry if the sugar stiffens; it will dissolve when beaten with the other ingredients.
When cool, add the baking powder and soda, salt, lime juice, and eggs with 1 tablespoon of the flour. Beat well, then stir in—do not beat in—the flour and work the dough with your hands to a stiff cohesive mass. Add a little water if necessary to obtain this texture.
Have ready 2 ungreased baking sheets. Heat the oven to 350°F (177°C).
Flatten the dough onto a lightly floured board to just over 1/4 inch (7 millimeters) thick. Cut out the cookies with a star- or flower-shaped cutter about 3 inches (8 centimeters) across and set about 1 inch (2.5 centimeters) apart (they do not spread much) on the cookie sheets. Beat the egg yolk and milk together and brush over the top of the arepas. Sprinkle with the granulated sugar and bake until crisp and lightly browned—25 to 35 minutes. Cool on a rack. Arepas keep very well in an airtight container.
SALSA DE LIMA AGRIA
SOUR LIMA SAUCE
[MAKES ABOUT 2 CUPS (500 MILLILITERS)]
The sour lima or limetta (a citric fruit as sharp as its name) lends its unique flavor to the traditional Yucatecan sopa de lima and also accompanies the red mole of Chilapa, Guerrero. I was surprised to come across it in this part of Jalisco and in a quite different form: the flesh and juice combined with other ingredients are used in a very refreshing, acidy relish. Here it is served with pacholas (see The Art of Mexican Cooking), thin “steaks” of ground beef, and many of the other local dishes.
Given time, I am sure that some enterprising person will either import or grow this sour lima in the United States, but meanwhile I suggest a not-too-sweet white grapefruit with lime juice as a substitute. I have tried it, and it is very good.
3 whole sour limas, peeled and segments cleaned from the pithy skin, or 1 cup (250 milliliters) cleaned grapefruit segments
1/4 cup (63 milliliters) juice of limas or fresh lime juice
1/4 cup (63 milliliters) pineapple vinegar or rice vinegar
1 teaspoon salt or to taste
2 tablespoons sugar
1/3 cup (83 milliliters) finely chopped white onion
1/2 teaspoon dried oregano, crumbled
2 jalapeño chiles en escabeche, finely diced
2 tablespoons juice from canned chiles
1-1/4 cups (313 milliliters) finely diced cucumber with seeds and inner pulp
Mix all the ingredients together and allow to stand for about 10 minutes before serving.
SRA. CAROLINA DE LÓPEZ
[MAKES 12 ENCHILADAS]
These enchiladas are usually served with a salsa de lima agria (page 82), a perfect foil for the mild sauce. If you don’t have the salsa prepared, then substitute jalapeños en escabeche.
THE SAUCE
1 large ancho chile, veins and seeds removed
10 dried prunes, pitted
1 to 1-1/4 cups (250 to 313 milliliters) water
4 ounces (115 grams) tomatoes, simmered until soft, about 10 minutes
1-1/2 ounces (45 grams) Mexican drinking chocolate
1/4-inch (scant 1-centimeter) cinnamon stick, crushed
1 slice white onion, roughly chopped
2 tablespoons mild vinegar or half rice vinegar and half wine vinegar
Salt to taste
1 tablespoon sesame seeds, lightly toasted
THE TORTILLAS
Approximately 1/2 cup (125 milliliters) vegetable oil for frying
12 5-inch (13-centimeter) corn tortillas
THE FILLING
3/4 cup (188 milliliters) finely chopped white onion
1-1/2 cups (375 milliliters) finely crumbled queso fresco or substitute (page 437)
1/2 teaspoon dried oregano, finely crumbled
Cover the chile and prunes with hot water in a saucepan and simmer for 5 minutes. Set aside to soak for 10 more minutes. Drain. Put 1 cup (250 milliliters) of the water into a blender, add the chile torn into pieces, the prunes, and the rest of the ingredients and blend until smooth, adding water as necessary to release the blender blade. The sauce should be of medium consistency and cover a tortilla well. Add more water to dilute if necessary. Have ready a warmed serving dish.
Heat a little oil in the bottom of a skillet, dip one of the tortillas into the raw sauce, and fry for a few seconds on both sides. Hold the enchilada over the pan for a few seconds for the excess oil to run off (you can’t drain on paper toweling, or the sauce will adhere to the paper). Fill with 1 tablespoon of the onion, 2 tablespoons of the cheese, and a sprinkle of oregano, sprinkle with salt if necessary, roll the enchilada up loosely, and place on the serving dish. Continue with the rest of the tortillas.
If you have any leftover sauce, dilute with a little water, bring to a boil in the skillet, and pour over the enchiladas. Sprinkle the top with the remaining cheese and onion and serve immediately.
ALTERNATE METHOD: Heat the enchiladas in a 375°F (190°C) oven for about 10 minutes, no longer, and then serve.
“San Sebastián, legendary in the past: famous yesterday and forgotten today . . . crowned with pine-covered hills, the silence is only broken by the murmuring of the streams in the rains and the warbling of blackbirds, mockingbirds, thrush and finch that welcome the dawn and say farewell to the day; the orange trees and coffee bushes perfume the air with their flowers in May and June.”
A priest wrote that in a little book in which he had collected historical notes from the town’s archives. His love for nature was evident as well in the patio of the house that he had occupied until fairly recently: it was alive with flowers. It must have been a sad blow for him and his parishioners when after fifteen years he was sent off to another church, some distance away.
Indeed the town does seem forgotten today except for the few devotees from Puerto Vallarta who come at weekends to the cool of the mountains and stay within those white walls and under the tiled roofs that by local law cannot be changed. Most of the young and able-bodied men and women go elsewhere to work, and those who arrive from the ranches around buy supplies and hurry away.
We were fascinated by the largest and most active of the stores that carry a miscellany of goods including rope, candles, axes, cookies, and sugar bulging from bags, boxes, and string bundles that cover the walls in total disarray. There is one refrigerator full to bursting with soft drinks with some local cheeses stuffed in between the bottles as an afterthought. Near a basket of disintegrating dried chiles, and almost concealed, are large cubes of the most delicious crab apple cajeta brought in from the small nearby communities that still exist despite the closing of the mines. They live off their land, their fruit trees, a few cows, and a patch of corn and beans. There were boxes of oranges, tomatoes, and onions softly moldering by the door.
Surprisingly, there are two dress stores with very up-to-date models, one owned by the couple who helped cause the crash (page 69), the other housing the only telephone, where idlers sit around eavesdropping, hoping for a juicy bit of gossip.
Magnificent tortillas were the saving grace of the meal we ate that day of chicken in pipián in a little restaurant, or rather kitchen, that had been recommended to us. We had been directed to a house set on a steep rise not far from the center. We were seated on the balcony at an improvised table of wooden boards against the wall of the house with our backs to the magnificent view across to the west. The hardworking owner was enthusiastic enough about what she was doing, but even the beans were insipid. She did not have sazón, we concluded, despite the appetizing aromas coming from the pots on her hand-formed adobe, wood-burning stove.
Sra. Soledad, the owner of the small posada where we had left our luggage, was sitting on her terrace overlooking the main plaza when we returned. We gave her a report on what we had eaten. She took us into her kitchen, which was appetizingly cluttered with large pans of milk sitting around simmering or souring for jocoque or the cheese most favored in that area, panela. She let us try the rich, thick soured cream on a tortilla and shared two of her recipes with me: rice with chile and panela and a roll of pork, both of which follow. She spends a lot of time in her kitchen (when she is not in church), sending a steady supply of her local specialties to her daughter, who works in Guadalajara. The stories of her life, of her family, and of the neighbors would make fascinating material for a nonsuburban soap opera, with the changes she has witnessed there through good, but many more bad, times.
Before leaving the next day we went to look up the woman who is renowned for her cajetas and rolls of fruit pastes. Part of her porch was piled high with tejocotes, a type of crab apple, that had just been picked. More were cooking with sugar in huge pots on the stove, and the first batches, in brick shapes or from molds in the form of small pumpkins, were drying out in the sun. Left alone in the world, she ekes out a living making these sweetmeats, working a greater part of the year as each type of fruit is harvested. We bought as much as we could carry and were just about to leave when our chauffeur arrived from Puerto Vallarta.
The transit official came to wish us well, Sra. Soledad waved us good-bye, and even our crash victims managed a salute. We had been quite ready to leave, but as we swerved down toward the coast we knew we would be back, just to make sure it hadn’t been all a dream—this San Sebastián, a ghost of its former self.
As the priest, Gabriel Pulido, wrote in his little book, “Guadalajara had its eyes fixed on you in Viceregal times [for the riches of its mines]. Today it does not even know you, nor who you are, nor where you are.”
ARROZ BLANCO CON RAJAS Y PANELA
WHITE RICE WITH CHILE STRIPS AND PANELA CHEESE
SRA. SOLEDAD GARCÍA RÍOS
[SERVES 4]
1 cup (250 milliliters) long-grain white rice, not precooked or converted
1/4 cup (63 milliliters) vegetable oil
Salt to taste
1/4 white onion, roughly sliced
1-1/2 cups (375 milliliters) water
1/2 cup (125 milliliters) milk
2 poblano chiles, charred, peeled, veins and seeds removed, and cut into narrow strips
4 ounces (115 grams) queso panela or Muenster, thinly sliced
Cover the rice with hot water, rinse well in cold water, and shake off all the excess liquid. Heat the oil in a heavy casserole, stir in the rice so that it becomes well covered with the oil, sprinkle with salt, and fry for about 5 minutes. Stir in the onion and continue frying until the rice sounds brittle. Before it browns, drain off the excess oil (use it for another batch of rice, for example). Add the water and milk and stir in the chile strips.
Cook uncovered over medium heat until all the water has been absorbed and holes appear in the surface of the rice. Cover, lower the heat, and cook for about 5 minutes more or until the rice is tender. Set the rice aside for 15 more minutes to absorb all the moist steam and expand. Cover the surface with the cheese and gently heat through (better in the oven) until the cheese has melted.
STUFFED PORK ROLL
SRA. SOLEDAD GARCÍA RÍOS
[SERVES 6]
Sra. Soledad does the first stage of the cooking in a pressure cooker to retain the moisture in the meat, since the loin tends to be compact and rather dry. However, you can use a heavy pot with tight lid. Have your butcher, preferably a Mexican one who will understand what this is all about, make a thin sheet, cecina, out of the boned loin. One pound should be about 8 inches (20 centimeters) of the loin. I find it easier to make two smaller rolls each 8 inches long, so divide the meat in two.
1 pound boneless pork loin, butterflied and cut into 2 8-inch-wide (20-centimeter-wide) pieces
Salt to taste
Freshly ground black pepper to taste
2 tablespoons mild vinegar
1 cup (250 milliliters) water
String for tying up the pork rolls
THE FILLING
8 ounces (225 grams) chorizo, skinned and crumbled
8 ounces (225 grams) potatoes, cooked, peeled, and roughly mashed, about 1 scant cup (240 milliliters)
1/2 medium white onion, finely chopped
Salt to taste
1 egg, lightly beaten
THE SAUCE
3 ancho chiles, veins and seeds removed
2 cups (500 milliliters) water
1/2 cup (125 milliliters) mild vinegar
1 garlic clove, roughly chopped
2 peppercorns, crushed
1 clove, crushed
1/8 teaspoon cumin seeds, crushed
1/4 teaspoon dried oregano, crumbled
2 tablespoons sesame seeds, toasted in a dry pan
1 small slice French bread
2 tablespoons lard or vegetable oil
Season the pork on both sides, sprinkle with the vinegar, roll each piece up, and set aside to season for 1 hour. Meanwhile, prepare the filling: Put the chorizo into a skillet and cook over low heat until all the fat has rendered out. Discard all but 2 tablespoons of the fat. Stir in the potatoes and onion and cook over low heat for about 2 minutes. Add salt as necessary. Set aside to cool and then mix with the beaten egg. You should have about 2-1/2 cups (625 milliliters).
Divide the filling in half and spread each of the pieces of meat with it. Roll each piece of meat and tie firmly with string—but not too tightly or the stuffing will extrude.
If not using a pressure cooker, place the meat in a heavy pan, closely seal the lid, and cook over low heat, shaking the pot from time to time, for about 45 minutes. The meat should be just tender.
Meanwhile, make the sauce: Put the chiles and 1 cup (250 milliliters) of the water plus the vinegar into a small pan, bring to a simmer, and cook for 5 minutes. Set aside to soak for 5 more minutes. Put 1/2 cup (125 milliliters) of the water into a blender, add the garlic, spices, oregano, and sesame seeds, and blend as smoothly as possible. Add the remaining 1/2 cup (125 milliliters) water, a few of the chiles, and the bread and blend until fairly smooth. Add the remaining chiles and again blend as smoothly as possible. The sauce should be thick—don’t dilute further unless absolutely necessary to release the blender blade.
Remove the meat from the broth, reserving the broth for the sauce. Heat the lard in a heavy casserole, add the meat rolls, and brown them lightly, rolling them over from time to time. Add the sauce and reduce over fairly high heat, scraping the bottom of the pan to prevent sticking, then add the reserved broth and continue cooking over fairly high heat, adding salt as necessary until the meat has absorbed the flavors of the sauce—about 15 minutes. Remove the string, slice the meat, and serve with plenty of the sauce.