PROVINCIA AZUL, DONDE ES AZUL EL CIELO, DONDE es azul el mar.” (Blue region, where the sky is blue, where the sea is blue.) I thought of this quote from poet Carlos Pellicer many years ago as I was driving across the long bridge that links La Isla de Carmen to the mainland of Campeche. The sea and sky, both a pale lustrous blue, seemed to converge at a hardly discernible line. There was nothing else to be seen but a few seabirds and an occasional fish jumping in the still water. I wondered if I dared stop on the bridge to take a photograph, but the trailers and trucks were coming up behind at a fast lick. When I come back, I thought. On the journey back a storm had blown in and all was gray with silvery-green reflections of the mounting clouds in the water. Again it was impossible to stop as I watched the oncoming traffic in the rearview mirror—and besides, I would need a wide-angle lens to do justice to the beauty of that turbulent scene. Campeche, the town, has always been a very special place for me. My first extended stay there to study the food was in the summer of 1969. The Malecón (promenade) stretched for several kilometers along the rim of gulf, and the landfill between that and the town itself was dotted with a few buildings of hideous design and construction (I cannot use the word architecture). The baluartes, fortifications, built to defend the town against the most daring of pirates in the eighteenth century stood back partially crumbling with neglect, the still elegant, whitish stone mottled with grays and blacks. Behind those walls lay the town itself; it was white and clean with immaculate small plazas overhung with flowering trees and shrubs surrounded by houses of simple but beautiful design that I have come to associate with that of the southern ports: Tlacotalpan, which is almost intact, and Veracruz, Alvarado, and Ciudad del Carmen, as they used to be. In those days the market was small and compact, full of locally grown produce and fruits, and the eating stands served well-made regional specialties. I shall always remember the fish market. It stood on its own near the water’s edge; it was light and cooled with breezes from the gulf. In the early morning fishermen brought their enormous catches of shrimp, shark, and dogfish (cazón) of all sizes, and baskets of multicolored fish still squirming and shiny, fresh out of the water. The outdoor cafés were always busy with local businessmen in white guayaberas passing the day gossiping and playing dominoes over numerous cups of coffee. Family life took place behind closed doors until the evening Mass, when the women folk sauntered through the jardín in front of the cathedral. And, of all the trivial things that I remember, there were no curtains at the bedroom windows of that ugly (and still ugly) hotel that faced the gulf. The lower half of the glass was only frosted and still not sufficiently opaque. As the sun dropped and the lights came on in the room, the local lads indulged in their favorite pastime of sitting on the promenade benches watching the unsuspecting visitors undress for bed or change to go out to supper.
When I visited some local cooks, mostly in restaurants, I noted over and over again through the years: “the freshest of fish, but grossly overcooked. Tasteless and watery.” It was a little more difficult to ruin the solid-fleshed moro crab claws, the specialty of Campeche at that time. (Some of those recipes are to be found originally in Mexican Regional Cooking.)
Years ago I happened to be driving back to Tabasco from Yucatán and stopped for the night in Campeche. I was dismayed; some of the lovely old houses had been replaced by modern monstrosities and the little plazas either destroyed or neglected. (I once again stayed at that ugly hotel, but this time the windows were curtained.) I stayed only through part of the morning and made this trivial observation in my notebook: “Is this the start of the Campeche health movement? Stout matrons, hardly seen in the streets before, their hair still wrapped up in curlers, were walking in clutches in the early morning light, but nevertheless taking the opportunity of their newly acquired habit to catch up on the local gossip.”
I visited Campeche again, this time to stay longer and learn more about this very special place, not only from the point of view of its food but to see the countryside and the lesser-known (than those in Yucatán, for example) Mayan sites of Edzná, Calakmul, Chicanna, Becan, and Xpujil. Their magnificent tall structures, many with elaborate stone carvings, are awe-inspiring and especially impressive in their splendid isolation, surrounded as far as the eye can see by thickly wooded, untamed land.
By now the city had grown, spreading out over the surrounding hills, while the Malecón now extended even farther by landfill stretch along the water for many more kilometers. Today Campeche, ever noisy, is even more so, and the commercial streets bustle with life. The decay of the ramparts has been halted by a conservation order, which also includes the restoration of the elegant old homes and derelict buildings, bringing them back to a useful existence and restoring the architectural harmony of the past.
The baluarte of Santiago, for instance, has been transformed into a botanical garden for native plants, and the main thoroughfares have been planted with flowering trees. When I was there in May, the flame trees, tabachín, were ablaze with color alternating with the delicate lluvia de oro and their cascading bunches of yellow flowers and the pale pink macuilis.
At first glance the market seemed to have changed little; the small eateries were doing a brisk trade in the morning with panuchos, pan de cazón, and negritos (traditional specialties based on inflated tortillas stuffed with bean paste, etc. (see Mexican Regional Cooking). The freshly killed grass-fed beef still looked horribly red and tough (although, in fact, it has an excellent flavor), and you can still buy very large, fat white fowl for local dishes.
The fish market that used to be so colorful has been incorporated into the main market building and isn’t as picturesque as it used to be. Most of the fishermen now sell their catch where their boats come in and are moored, on the Malecón. All complain that stocks of fish are diminishing. Undoubtedly overfishing, illegal catching in the closed seasons, and the natural foods of the fish being destroyed by contamination of the waters nearer the shore all play their part. However, most of the blame belongs to the government-owned petroleum industry, Pemex, which has flagrantly disregarded the preventive measures against polluting the sea while giving lip service to them.
One long counter in the market is devoted to cazón asado, grilled dogfish (page 300), sold alongside the herbs and condiments with which it is cooked: flat-leaf parsley, chives, epazote, chiles habaneros and güeros, called here x-cat-ik.
Outside the main market building is a covered area where mountains of fresh chiles are sold, all colors at all stages of ripeness: habaneros, dulces, verdes, rosados, x-cat-ikes. There are chaya leaves, dark green squash formed like pattypan, and fresh ibes—light green flecked with black, shucked then and there from their long, skinny green pods.
At last I was here in May for the marañón season. The sidewalks around the market were perfumed by these exotic fruits of the cashew tree, smelling and tasting like strong, very ripe strawberries. A few days earlier I had seen them growing, hanging down from the trees like small, shiny red lanterns terminating with that curious formation resembling a parrot’s beak in a shiny gray casing, the cashew nut. Some of the fruits were a deep salmon-pink color, and others, from a different tree, were yellow. For the whole of my stay, agua de marañón (Anacardium occidentale) was served with every midday meal. One of the traditional cooks told me that on no account must the flesh of the fruit be put into the blender; it had to be mashed by hand. I can vouch for it that this is the best method. It is the most exotically perfumed drink of any I know.
The home cooks that I visited and cooked with still prepare daily their traditional recipes and take great pride in them; it is their “soul food.” Strong Mayan influences can be seen in the preparation and ingredients of many of the local dishes, while others show a complete melding of Mayan and Spanish, and still others have a distinctive Lebanese influence—there are large Lebanese communities of long standing in the Yucatecan peninsula.
For those families who still follow traditional eating patterns, there is a predictable weekly sequence to the dishes prepared: on Mondays it is comida de floja (the lazy woman’s meal—although it still requires a lot of preparation), frijol con puerco, beans and pork (original recipe in Regional Mexican Cooking, now in The Essential Cuisines of Mexico). On Tuesdays beef is served in some form or other, often thin steaks in a tomato sauce, breaded, or stewed with charred onion and garlic, seasoned with oregano, and served with plain white rice. To digress: I am very partial to the rice grown in this state—it has a very satisfying, earthy flavor that reminds me of the rice from Guayana that I remember eating years ago on the Caribbean islands. Sadly, as with many other good things, production was then dwindling because of the low prices paid to the producers.
Wednesday is the day for preparing a simple puchero, or stew, with chicken or beef with vegetables, and Thursday for cazón (dogfish) in any one of its various preparations. On Friday my friends and their cooks like to choose a whole fish, or fish steaks, often seasoned with tomato and chile dulce and cooked in a banana leaf.
Every Saturday cattle are slaughtered to ensure an abundance of beef for the Sunday puchero de las tres carnes (stew of three meats). The fresh offal is immediately bought up for chocolomo, a hearty soup/stew served only on Saturdays.
In spite of the hot climate freshened somewhat by breezes from the sea, Sunday is a day of heavy eating. In the early morning there was a steady stream of people going to their favorite cook, usually a man, of cochinita pibil. A small, but not suckling, pig is seasoned with a paste of achiote and spices dissolved in bitter orange juice, wrapped in banana leaves, and cooked in a pit barbecue. The stomach and large intestines are stuffed with and cooked with the meat. A slice of this buche and the roughly shredded pork is stuffed into the Campeche-style French bread roll for breakfast.
The main meal of the day is a puchero de las tres carnes, the most substantial of stews with pork, beef, and a fat hen (the hen is very important for flavor). The meat is served with the vegetables, a bowl of the broth on the side along with a helping of rice and the typical relishes of the region: chopped onion in Seville orange juice, a salpicón, radishes chopped with cilantro and chile, again in orange juice, and (another relish) chile habanero charred and crushed. Now, I like my food piping hot, so I never know where to start first; picking at this and that at random, I am full far too early in the game, to my annoyance. A Sunday puchero is an excellent prelude to a long siesta. If there is meat left over, it is shredded and added to mashed vegetables for tacos.
Eating patterns are always more likely to change in the larger urban centers, while in the more isolated rural areas there has to be much more reliance on ingredients readily available. One family I know that lived in Campeche, but also has a ranch about ninety kilometers away, remembers being brought up on what it cultivated: corn, beans, squash, roots, vegetables in various guises, and wild game, especially venison—before the shooting of it was forbidden to conserve rapidly dwindling stocks.
Sra. Concepción told me about the preparation of the ritual food for the comida de milpa (food of the cornfield), El han-li-cool, which she still prepares under the guidance of her father, who was a strong believer that the gods of the mountain have to be appeased to ensure a good harvest, to pray for rain, or to give thanks for a good harvest. She remembers as a young woman how the corn flourished in the field where the offering was made, while other fields that had been planted were not nearly so lush and productive.
After the ritual killing of turkeys and chickens with prayers chanted in Mayan, the food was cooked in a pit in the ground, pib, dug in the field to be blessed. There was pan de milpa or gordas, nine or thirteen layers of corn masa between alternate layers of pureed beans and toasted ground pumpkin seeds, the whole wrapped in banana leaves. When the meal was served, part of it was crumbled into the broth from the meats. There were also bolillitos, indeed like small, round bolillos (bobbin-shaped bread rolls), also filled. These are eaten together with the fat skimmed off the meat broth.
Without doubt, one of the most important foods in Campeche is cazón or dogfish. There are at least five species: cagüay, t’uc t’un, cornua, pech, and jaquetón. These are much preferred over shark, a near relative, for having firmer and less watery meat. Of course, everyone has a preference and will argue hotly in favor of one or the other. Another strong preference is between fresh cazón and asado, the latter grilled until it is slightly charred. The cazón asado in the market was not prepared by the vendors but principally by one man. I thought it would be interesting to see just how it was prepared and, directed by neighbors, went to see him. No, he made all sorts of excuses, including the fact that he did the grilling at four in the morning. Nobody believed him. Perhaps he thought I would set up in competition until someone pointed out that I did arrive in a black police car (lent by a friend in the Justice Department) with a burly escort/chauffeur—that was enough to make anyone suspicious.
After a little scouting around farther up the coast to what was once a prosperous little fishing village, but now invaded by Pemex, we found a man who was semiretired but who had agreed to grill some for us if we brought them to him early the next day.
Soon after eight o’clock I was bargaining for two healthy-looking tuctunes and hurried along to Sr. Gregorio. He told us to find a fisherman to clean them, and for a few pesos they were gutted and washed and laid flat with the head, tail, and backbone still intact. But first they had to dry a little in the hot morning sun, a good time to have a typical breakfast of panuchos, filled with cooked cazón and black beans, with beer. By the time we had finished, he had the charcoal fire smoldering with a simple metal rack about 6 inches (15.5 centimeters) above the heat. Grasping the fish by the tail, he threw them one by one, skin side down, onto the grill. From time to time he lifted them up to look at the color, and in about ten minutes (this depends, of course, on how thick the flesh is) he threw them over onto the flesh side and again left them for about eight minutes—the flesh was about 1 inch (2.5 centimeters) thick and each cazón was about 3 feet long.
I stayed chatting with Sr. Gregorio. He told me that times were bad. Up until a few years ago he was kept busy grilling between 100 and 120 cazón every day. Now he did only a few occasionally but kept himself busy helping his daughter in her small shop, where she also prepared and sold snacks, when he wasn’t preparing and salting ray (fish). It takes an expert hand to cut, with geometrical precision, vertical slits through the skin and flesh to expose the bone so that the fish is, in essence “butterflied” out to flatten like a fan. Abanicos de raya cooked with potatoes is a traditional local dish. Most of the cooks I met prefer the species with a shiny gray skin and eye-catching polka dots to the blanca or white species.
At one time he had thirty-six people working for him and, apart from the time spent fishing, used to cut and salt more than a hundred fans in twelve hours. It is important, he says, to wash the fish in agua de lluvia (rainwater, an expression I was to hear time and time again; at one time everyone used to collect rainwater, and many still do). Once cut, they are salted, but with sea salt only, and left overnight piled one on top of the other to drain. As soon as the sun was hot enough the next morning, the abanicos were set out to dry for about six hours, depending on the seasonal strength of the sun. The morning I was there, huge boxes were piled high with these fans, all spoken for, except for a few that he let me buy and take to all my new cook friends. Sr. Gregorio lamented that the young men of today do not want to do this work and carry on the tradition: “Se tira mucho suero”—you lose too much sweat, he said.
When not working, he was dressed neatly, sitting in a low chair by the door of the house to catch the sea breeze. He was slow of movement but had skin that many a woman would envy—due, said his daughter, to his healthy diet of fish and fruit.
When the car came back for me, we wrapped the cazón up in several layers of newspaper, but, he warned, if the fish was to travel, it had to be packed with thick layers of epazote in between—I forgot to ask why. The grilled fish was packed again most carefully, but from the curious glances it was quite evident by the time I reached Mexico City airport that I had come straight from Campeche.
Among traditional cooks in Campeche, there is consensus about how to prepare these regional dishes and the ingredients that go into them, with very little variation from one to another. As I have mentioned before, some hotly argue for cazón asado, others prefer fresh cazón, some use chile dulce (a small, wrinkled variety of sweet pepper, perhaps the forerunner) in their miniestra—a basic mixture employed in many dishes using tomatoes, onion, chiles, and often epazote leaves—some like it hot and use chile seco; others don’t.
Although shark has a rather watery flesh, it could be used by increasing the amount and squeezing the flesh well before seasoning, or use any firm-fleshed fish such as cod, grouper, etc. While it need not be grilled, purists like me, who try to duplicate as faithfully as possible the traditional methods, will want to do so. To my mind, it does enhance the flavor. One cook I know cooks the cazón and then mixes it with a lot of pounded epazote until it is an appetizing green color.
CAMPECHE’S REGIONAL INGREDIENTS
When I was planning to visit Campeche and stay for the first time, I remembered the reminiscences of Juan O’Gorman, the distinguished Mexican artist and architect, over dinner one night. Years earlier he was carrying out a project on the building of new schools in Campeche and, if my memory is correct, accepting a very low fee. The grateful governor, to express his appreciation, promised to have his cooks prepare a different seafood dish every day of his long sojourn. I am afraid I can’t remember the food that he described with such relish; a pity, but how could I have known that my life would become so very much involved with Mexican food?
The variety of seafood in Campeche is enormous—the lighter-fleshed fish being much preferred over those with darker flesh—while the ingredients that season or accompany them are not as varied as those of, say, Veracruz or Oaxaca. But because of the different methods of cooking meats and fish and the numerous ways in which the spices and vegetables are combined, the cuisine appears to be more extensive than it really is. Nevertheless, outside of Mexico, it has never received the attention that it deserves.
As neighboring states, Campeche and Yucatán have much in common with their Mayan roots, much the same culinary traditions and ingredients and, therefore, built-in rivalries. I have even heard cooks in Campeche insisting that their dishes are more authentic because they have preserved those traditions more assiduously. (Of course, to enter into an argument of this kind would be tantamount to instant ostracism by one or the other for daring to enter into a partisan debate in which there would never be a resolution.)
Some of the regional ingredients will obviously not be available in some parts of the United States, but there are reasonable substitutes. For instance: the chile dulce is a small, thin-fleshed green pepper gathered into an undulating top. It has a more delicate flavor than the green pepper and, of course, is not picante. Substitute half the amount of ordinary green pepper.
The oregano used in its dried state is a species with a larger leaf than the ordinary oregano and a pronounced aroma. Of course, the ordinary Mexican oregano may be substituted for it.
In Campeche you will hear them mention oregano fresco, or fresh oregano. This is not true oregano at all but a large, fleshy stemmed plant with an average leaf of about 2-1/2 inches (6.5 centimeters) long and 2 inches (5 centimeters) wide, pointed and slightly serrated: Plectranthus (Coleus) aboinicus. There is no real substitute, so I suggest using the ordinary fresh or dried oregano.
The cebolla verde is a small very white onion with thin, flat leaves. Usually the leaves only are used. It is also referred to as cebollina.
The calabacita, or little squash, is the same as that used in Yucatán: it has a dark green skin and yellow flesh, appears round or slightly elongated with an undulating surface like that of a pattypan squash. When fully mature and dry, it turns a deep yellow color and its seeds are the pepita menuda or chinchilla used unhulled, always toasted to a golden brown. Use any green squash for this when called for in the vegetable and meat stews that abound despite the hot weather.
No substitute can really come up to the complex flavor of the Seville-like or bitter orange. (While they are grown in California and Arizona, there is also a bitter one that does not have the aroma or flavor of the Seville.) As a substitute, use a fruity, mild vinegar or use half rice vinegar and half good-quality wine vinegar. (Perhaps we can start a campaign with growers in California, Texas, Florida, and Puerto Rico to produce and send us more. After all, the bitter orange grows at many altitudes and is used as an ornamental tree in Sacramento Park, for example.)
Here are some of the recipes given to me by some of the cooks in Campeche.
CAZÓN ASADO FRITO
GRILLED AND SEASONED DOGFISH
SRA. MANUELA CHUC
[MAKES 3-1/2 CUPS (813 MILLILITERS) TIGHTLY PACKED]
2 large sprigs epazote
2 teaspoons salt
1 pound (450 grams) cazón asado, cut into large pieces, or charcoal-grilled shark
1/4 cup lard or oil
1/2 medium white onion, finely chopped
1 tablespoon finely chopped epazote leaves
1 pound (450 grams) tomatoes, finely chopped, 2 rounded cups (550 milliliters)
1 habanero chile, charred and finely chopped
1 teaspoon powdered seco chile or powdered chile de árbol
1 tablespoon bitter orange juice or substitute (page 440)
Barely cover the epazote with water, add salt, and bring to a boil. Lower the heat, and when simmering add the cazón. Cook over low heat for about 10 minutes (for fillets about 1 inch/2.5 centimeters thick). Set aside to cool in the broth and drain well. When the fish is cool enough to handle, remove the skin and bones and any dry pieces around the edges and mash the flesh with your hands.
Heat the lard in a skillet, add the onion and chopped epazote, and fry without browning for about 1 minute. Add the tomatoes and habanero chile and continue cooking for about 5 minutes or until almost dry. Add the mashed cazón, salt to taste, and chile powder and continue frying and stirring to prevent sticking for 5 more minutes. Finally, stir in the orange juice and set aside to cool.
CAZÓN FRITTERS IN BROTH
[MAKES APPROXIMATELY 18 2-INCH (5-CENTIMETER) FRITTERS]
Among the many recipes that Sra. Castro shared with me, this one was passed down from her grandmother.
THE BROTH
6 cups (1.5 liters) water
10 peppercorns
5 garlic cloves, peeled
1 rounded tablespoon achiote paste
Salt to taste
1 tablespoon vegetable oil or melted lard
1 chile dulce or 1/2 green bell pepper, finely chopped
1/2 small white onion, finely chopped
2 tablespoons all-purpose flour
1/4 cup (63 milliliters) water
1 large sprig epazote
2 x-cat-ik chiles or a mild yellow pepper
THE FRITTERS
Melted pork lard or vegetable oil for frying
3 eggs, separated
2 tablespoons all-purpose flour
1 cup cazón asado frito (recipe precedes)
Heat the water in a wide saucepan. Crush together the peppercorns, garlic, and achiote paste with salt. Add this to the pan and continue cooking over low heat.
Heat the oil in a skillet, add the chile dulce and onion, and fry until the onion is translucent. Add to the pan.
Mix the flour with the water to make a smooth paste. Add some of the hot broth to dilute and smooth out any lumps. Stir this into the broth and cook for about 10 minutes. Add the epazote and x-cat-ik. Set aside and keep warm.
Heat the lard or oil in a skillet over low heat while you prepare the fritters.
Beat the egg whites until stiff but not dry, gradually add the yolks, and continue beating. Gradually add the flour and stir in the cazón. Add salt only if necessary.
Carefully add the mixture in tablespoonfuls to the hot oil and fry until golden brown underneath, about 4 minutes, then turn over and fry on the other side. Drain on paper toweling. Keep stirring the mixture while you’re cooking, because the cazón tends to drop to the bottom of the beaten eggs.
TO SERVE: Carefully transfer the tortitas to the broth and heat through for about 5 minutes. Serve in deep bowls.
JAROCHITOS EN FORMA DE TAMALES
SRA. MANUELA CHUC
[MAKES 24 TAMALES]
Jarochitos are eaten hot and just as they are, for breakfast or supper. They can also be served in a light caldo or a soup of black beans as a midday meal (recipe follows).
2-1/4 pounds (1 generous kilogram) masa for tortillas or tamales (page 440)
11 ounces (315 grams) dark pork lard, melted, about a scant 1-1/2 cups (350 milliliters)
Salt to taste
1-1/4 cups (313 milliliters) firmly packed cazón asado frito (page 300)
Have ready 48 dried corn husks (2 per tamale) and 48 strips of dried corn husks (2 for each tamale), plus extra for lining the steamer, or 24 pieces of banana leaf 5 by 8 inches (13 by 20 centimeters) and 24 ties. Prepare the tamale steamer by putting coins in the water of the bottom section. Line the rack with more leaves and set over low heat.
Beat the masa, lard, and salt together for about 5 minutes. Take a ball of the dough about 1-3/4 inches (4.5 centimeters) in diameter and flatten it out to a circle about 3-1/2 inches (9 centimeters) across and 1/2 inch (13 millimeters) thick. Put 1 heaped teaspoon of the cazón filling in the center, fold the dough over the filling, and roll the dough between your palms into a bobbin shape, like an elongated cylinder. Place 2 of the husks together, broad ends in the middle, points at the ends, place the tamale in the center, fold the leaves over to cover the tamale (don’t flatten it), and secure both ends with the ties.
When the water is boiling and the coins jingling, place the tamales horizontally in the top of the steamer and cook over lively heat for about 1-1/2 hours or until the masa can be rolled easily away from the corn husk. It is always worthwhile to break one open to see if this rather dense masa is cooked all the way through.
JAROCHITOS EN CALDO DE FRIJOL
JAROCHOS IN BLACK BEAN BROTH
SRA. MARÍA ESTHER PÉREZ CAMPOS
[SERVES 4 TO 6]
Jarocho is the name for a native of the southern Veracruz coast but can also refer to something native and robust, which this dish definitely is.
8 ounces (225 grams) black beans, cleaned and rinsed
1 large sprig epazote
1/2 medium white onion, roughly chopped
Salt to taste
2 tablespoons pork lard, melted
1/2 small onion, thinly sliced
2 sprigs epazote
1 habanero chile
12 uncooked jarochos (recipe precedes)
Put the beans, large epazote sprig, chopped onion, and salt into a pan with water that comes about 4 inches (10 centimeters) above the surface of the beans. Cook over low heat until the skins of the beans are soft. Add salt to taste and cook for 10 minutes more—about 2-1/2 hours, depending on the freshness of the beans. Or cook overnight in a slow cooker.
Puree the contents of the pot in a blender. If the beans are old and the skins extra tough, pass the puree through a fine strainer and discard the debris.
Heat the lard in a skillet, add the sliced onion, 2 epazote sprigs, and chile, and fry gently until the onion is translucent. Add the bean puree and cook for about 5 minutes.
Dilute the beans with enough water to make 5 cups (1.25 liters), adjust the seasoning, and bring to a simmer. Carefully add the uncooked jarochos, cover the pan, and continue cooking over low heat until the jarochos float to the top—about 10 minutes. Carefully roll them over to cook on the other side and continue cooking for another 10 minutes.
Serve 2 or 3 jarochos in a deep bowl with about 3/4 cup (188 milliliters) of the bean soup.
CHERNA EN SU JUGO
GROUPER COOKED IN ITS JUICE
SRA. MARÍA DOLORES CEL
[SERVES 6]
The name of this recipe is certainly an understatement. It is one of the most delicious ways to cook fish I have come across in Mexico.
Sra. Cel is one of those passionately traditional cooks who happily spent hours reeling off a string of her everyday recipes from memory. She then invited me to go and cook with her and, of course, eat with her and the family—a huge one that congregated from all over town when they heard of the incredible number of dishes she was going to prepare.
For this recipe she uses a whole, large fish or two smaller ones and slashes the skin on both sides so that the seasoning will penetrate the flesh. Of course, the sauce is richer with the gelatinous quality of the bones and head.
As if it needed any more flavor, this dish is served with salsa de chile, page 288.
Heaped 1/2 teaspoon cumin seeds
12 peppercorns
1 tablespoon dried oregano
5 garlic cloves, peeled
2 teaspoons achiote paste
2 teaspoons salt or to taste
2 groupers, about 2-1/2 pounds (1.125 kilograms) each, or 2-1/4 pounds (1 generous kilogram) fish steaks about 1 inch (2.5 centimeters) thick
6 tablespoons bitter orange juice or substitute (page 440)
1/4 cup (63 milliliters) olive oil
1 small bunch flat-leaf parsley with stems, roughly chopped
1 medium white onion, broiled
2 chiles dulces or 1 green bell pepper, seeded, and thinly sliced
1 pound (450 grams) tomatoes, thinly sliced
4 x-cat-ik chiles or a mild yellow pepper, broiled and left whole
Grind the cumin, peppercorns, and oregano together in a coffee or spice grinder. Crush the garlic, add the ground spices, achiote, and salt, and mix to a paste. Spread this paste on both sides of the fish, pour on the orange juice, and set aside to season for a minimum of 30 minutes.
Heat the oil in a skillet, add the parsley, onion, and chiles dulces, and fry without browning, for about 3 minutes. Add the sliced tomatoes and continue cooking for about 5 minutes. The mixture should still be juicy. Place the fish in a shallow pan and spread with the tomato mixture. Add the whole x-cat-ik chiles, cover, and cook over medium heat, shaking the pan from time to time, until the fish is just cooked—about 15 minutes, depending on the thickness of the fish, weight of the pan, heat, etc. Set aside to season, off the heat, for about 10 minutes before serving.
IBES GUISADOS
STEWED WHITE BEANS
SRA. CONCEPCIÓN GALA
[SERVES 6 TO 8]
Sra. Concepción Gala has a ranch on the road to Chetumal and is used to cooking game shot on the ranch. As it becomes scarce and at times illegal, she falls back on the traditional foods of her childhood.
This is an unusual way of cooking dried white beans and makes for an excellent vegetarian dish. Ibes, dried white beans, together with small black beans are those most commonly used in the cooking of this region.
1 pound (450 grams) dried small white beans
1 medium white onion, roughly sliced
2 large sprigs epazote
Salt to taste
8 ounces (225 grams) cabbage, finely shredded, about 4 cups (1 liter)
1 heaped teaspoon achiote seasoning paste (recado rojo; see The Art of Mexican Cooking)
8 eggs
Run your hands through the beans, picking out any little bits of earth or stray debris. Rinse, put into a pan with the onion and epazote, and add water to come 4 inches (10 centimeters) above the surface of the beans. Cook over low heat—or in a slow cooker—until they are tender but not falling apart (about 3 to 4 hours, depending on the age of the beans). Add more water if necessary to make about 7 cups (1.75 liters). Bring the beans to a simmer again, add the salt, cabbage, and achiote, and bring to a simmer.
Continue cooking until the cabbage is almost tender—about 5 minutes. Carefully add the eggs one at a time—it is best to break each egg over a saucer first and then slide it into the broth. Cover the pot and cook until the eggs are firmly set. Serve in deep bowls with 1 egg per person and plenty of the cabbage and broth.
SRA. SOCORRO CASTRO
[SERVES 6]
It is much more common for a housewife to use a whole fish than fillets. You could use a whole grouper or snapper or thick fillets from either of these fish. They should be cooked in one layer.
2-1/2 pounds (1.125 kilograms) fillets of fish about 1 inch (2.5 centimeters) thick, cut into 6 serving pieces
1/2 cup (125 milliliters) fresh lime juice mixed with 1 cup (250 milliliters) water
1/2 teaspoon cumin seeds
12 peppercorns
1 tablespoon dried oregano
6 garlic cloves, peeled
2 teaspoons achiote paste
Salt to taste
4 to 6 tablespoons bitter orange juice or substitute (page 440)
6 tablespoons olive oil
1 medium white onion, thinly sliced
1 pound (450 grams) tomatoes, thinly sliced
2 x-cat-ik chiles, grilled
Banana leaves to cover (optional)
Rinse the fish with the lime juice and water and pat dry. In a coffee or spice grinder, grind together the cumin, peppercorns, and oregano. Crush 2 cloves of the garlic, add the ground spices and achiote paste with salt, and mix well. Dilute to spreading consistency with the orange juice. Spread this on both sides of the fish and set aside to season for at least 30 minutes.
Heat the oil in a skillet that will hold the fish in one layer. Fry the remaining 4 cloves of garlic for about 30 seconds or until golden, remove from the oil, and discard. Add the fish and fry for about 3 minutes on each side. Remove and set aside. Add the onion to the pan and fry for a few seconds—they should not brown—add the tomatoes, and fry over fairly high heat for 3 minutes. Put the fish back into the pan, add the x-cat-ik chiles, and cook, covered, over gentle heat for about 15 minutes or until the fish is just tender. I like to set it aside for about 10 minutes before serving to develop flavor.
BISTEC EN VIRE VIRA
STEAK AND ONIONS CAMPECHANA
SRA. CONCEPCIÓN GALA
[SERVES 6]
This is a very simple, quick recipe for small steaks, usually served with fried plantains, plain potatoes, and a salad of lettuce, tomatoes, and radishes. Always leave some fat on the steaks for flavor—you don’t have to eat it.
1/2 teaspoon black peppercorns
Heaped 1/2 teaspoon dried oregano
3 garlic cloves
Salt to taste
5 tablespoons bitter orange juice or substitute (page 440)
6 small steaks about 1/2 inch (13 millimeters) thick, lightly pounded
2 tablespoons pork lard or oil
1 medium white onion, thinly sliced
Crush the peppercorns, oregano, and garlic together with salt. Dilute with the orange juice. Season the steaks on both sides. Stack on top of one another and set aside to season for at least 30 minutes.
Heat the lard in a skillet and when very hot sear three of the steaks on both sides. Remove and continue with the rest of the steaks. Return to the pan in one layer. Add the onion and fry until browned, then pile on top of the steaks. Cook only until tender.