Category: Mexican Tourism

The agave atrovirens cactus.  This enormous blue-gray plant, native to the ancient land which became Mexico, continues to provide us with pulque (POOL-keh), a naturally fermented alcoholic beverage.  The maguey, with pencas (thick, succulent leaves) which can grow to a height of seven to eight feet, matures in ten to twelve years.  At maturity, the plant can begin to produce liquor.

Pulque, native to Mexico, is suddenly all the rage in countries far from its origin.  Folks who have never seen a maguey cactus 'on the hoof' argue the relative merits of natural versus flavored pulques, canned versus straight from the barrel, and so forth.  Mayahuel, the goddess of the maguey, is laughing up her sleeve at this current rash of pulque aficionados: pulque has been well-loved in what is now Mexico for longer than humankind can remember. 

Legend has it that a thousand years ago and more, Sr. Tlacuache (Mr. Opossum) scraped his sharp claws through the heart of the maguey and slurped down the world's first taste of pulque–and then another, and another, until he had a snoot full.  His meandering drunken ramble allegedly traced the path of Mexico's rivers.

A drawing from the Codice Borbónico (1530s Spanish calendar and outline of life in the New World) shows Mayahuel, goddess of the maguey, with a mature cactus and a pot of fermented pulque.  The first liquid that pours into the heart of the maguey is called aguamiel (literally, honey water); legend says that aguamiel is Mayahuel's blood.

Aguamiel actually comes from the pencas (leaves) of the cactus.  In order to start the flow of liquid into the heart of the plant, the yema (yolk) of the plant is removed from the heart and the heart's walls, connected to the leaves, are scraped until only a cavity remains.  Within a few days, the aguamiel begins to flow into the cavity in the heart of the plant.  The flow of aguamiel can last anywhere from three to six months.  Today, the men who work the maguey to produce pulque are still called tlaquicheros.  The word is derived from the same Nahuatl origin as the name for the original tlaquichero: Sr. Tlacuache, Mr. Opossum.

An early tlaquichero removes aguamiel from the heart of the maguey by sucking it out with a long gourd.  Today, workers use a steel scoop to remove up to six liters of aguamiel per day from a single plant.  Aguamiel is not an alcoholic beverage.  Rather, it is a soft drink, sweet, transparent, and refreshing.  Once it ferments, however, it becomes the alcoholic drink pulque, also known as octli.

The fermentation of pulque can start in the plant itself.  Aguamiel, left in the plant's heart to 'ripen' for a few days, begins to ferment.  For the commercial production which began in the 19th century, tlaquicheros remove aguamiel from the maguey and transfer it to huge steel tanks, where it ferments.

The heart of the maguey, full of aguamiel.  The tool balanced in the liquid is the same type gourd that is pictured in the early drawing seen above.  Between extractions of aguamiel, the leaves of the maguey are folded over the cavity where the liquid collects to prevent insects and plant debris from falling into the heart.

Mexican photographic postcard dating to the 1940s or 1950s.  The women and children pose in front of huge maguey plants.

By the end of the 19th century, pulque was enormously popular among Mexico's very rich and very poor.  Weary travelers in the early 20th century could find stands selling pulque–just for a pickmeup–alongside rural byways.  Travelers riding Mexico's railroads bought pulque at booths along the tracks.  Pulquerías (bars specializing in pulque) were in every town, however small or large.  In Puebla and Mexico City, legendary pulquerías abounded.    

Italian expatriate Tina Modotti, a member of the Diego Rivera/Frida Kahlo artists' circle, photographed Mexico City's pulquería La Palanca in 1926.

This common image hung in pulquerías all over Mexico.  Clients could order the amount of pulque they wanted according to the drawings–and be reminded of what they had ordered when the pulque had laid them low.  Image courtesy of La Voz de Michoacán.

In the foreground are the actual pitchers and glasses used in Mexico's pulquerías.  Compare them with the vessels in the drawing.  Image courtesy of Museo del Arte Popular (DF).

Pulque lovers spent long evenings in their favorite pulquerías in an alcoholic haze of music, dancing, laughter and delight.  Far less expensive than other hard liquors, pulque carries with it the romance of ancient legend, the tradition of a nation, and the approbation of the gods.

Edward Weston, American photographer, immortalized Mexico City's pulquería El Charrito, also in 1926.

Natural pulque is a pale white, semi-viscous, liquid with a slick, thick feel in the mouth; many people are put off by that feel, as well as by its slightly sour taste.  Even for those who dislike natural pulque, another kind of pulque–called curado (in this instance, flavored)–is delicious.  Natural pulque, combined with blended fresh fruit, vegetables, or ground nuts, becomes a completely different drink.   Bananas, guavas, strawberries, and the tuna (fruit of the nopal cactus) are particular favorites.  

Feria de Pulque (Pulque Fair) in the State of Mexico.  Each of the jars holds pulque curado, each flavored with a different fresh fruit, vegetable, or type of nut.

Mexico Cooks! first tasted pulque about 30 years ago, in Huixquilucan, in the State of Mexico.  Huixquilucan, known to its inhabitants as Huixqui (pronounced whiskey), used to be a small town, and Mexican friends took me to its small-town fair where home-made pulque was for sale in what seemed like every booth offering food and drink.  "Try it, you'll like it a lot!" my friends giggled.  "Just a little taste!  C'mon!"  I was nervous: I'd heard about pulque and its slippery slimy-ness and its inebriating qualities.  Finally we stood in front of a booth offering pulque curado con fresas: pulque flavored with fresh strawberries.  "Okay, okay, I can try this."  And I liked it!  The first small cupful was a delicious, refreshing, slightly bubbly surprise.  The second small cupful went down even more easily than the first.  And then–well, let it be said that I had to sit down on the sidewalk for a bit.  I truly understood about pulque. 

Try it, you'll like it a lot…c'mon, just a little taste!

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Tortita de calabacita en caldillo (home-made zucchini/cheese croquette in thin tomato sauce).

More and more people who want to experience "real"Mexican food are asking about the availability of authentic Mexican meals outside Mexico. Bloggers and posters on food-oriented websites have vociferously definite opinions on what constitutes authenticity. Writers' claims range from the uninformed (the fajitas at such-and-such a restaurant are totally authentic, just like in Mexico) to the ridiculous (Mexican cooks in Mexico can't get good ingredients, so Mexican meals prepared in the United States are superior).

Much of what I read about authentic Mexican cooking reminds me of that old story of the blind men and the elephant. "Oh," says the first, running his hands up and down the elephant's leg, "an elephant is exactly like a tree."  "Aha," says the second, stroking the elephant's trunk, "the elephant is precisely like a hose."  And so forth. If you haven't experienced what most posters persist in calling "authentic Mexican", then there's no way to compare any restaurant in the United States with anything that is prepared or served in Mexico. You're simply spinning your wheels.

Pig head for making pozole (pork and hominy stew) at home.

It's my considered opinion that there is no such thing as one definition of authentic Mexican. Wait, before you start hopping up and down to refute that, consider that "authentic" is generally what you were raised to appreciate. Your mother's pot roast is authentic, but so is my mother's. Your aunt's tuna salad is the real deal, but so is my aunt's, and they're not the least bit similar.

The descriptor I've come to use for many dishes is 'traditional'. We can even argue about  that adjective, but it serves to describe the traditional dish of–oh, say carne de puerco en chile verde–as served in the North of Mexico, in the Central Highlands, or in the Yucatán. There may be big variations among the preparations of this dish, but each preparation is traditional and each is authentic in its region.

I think that in order to understand the cuisines of Mexico, we have to give up arguing about authenticity and concentrate on the reality of certain dishes.

Chiles en nogada (stuffed chiles in walnut sauce), a traditional dish for the fall season in Mexico.

Traditional Mexican cooking is not a hit-or-miss let's-make-something-for-dinner proposition based on "let's see what we have in the despensa (pantry)." Traditional Mexican cooking is as complicated and precise as traditional French cooking, with just as many hide-bound conventions as French cuisine imposes. You can't just throw some chiles and a glob of chocolate into a sauce and call it mole. You can't simply decide to call something Mexican salsa when it's not. There are specific recipes to follow, specific flavors and textures to expect, and specific results to attain. Yes, some liberties are taken, particularly in Mexico's new alta cocina (haute cuisine) and fusion restaurants, but even those liberties are based on specific traditional recipes.

In recent readings of food-oriented websites, I've noticed questions about what ingredients are available in Mexico. The posts have gone on to ask whether or not those ingredients are up to snuff when compared with what's available in what the writer surmises to be more sophisticated food sources such as the United States.

Surprise, surprise: most readily available fresh foods in Mexico's markets are even better than similar ingredients you find outside Mexico. Foreign chefs who tour with me to visit Mexico's stunning produce markets are inevitably astonished to see that what is grown for the ordinary home-cook user is fresher, more flavorful, more attractive, and much less costly than similar ingredients available in the United States.

Calabaza en tacha, cooking at home with Mexico Cooks!.

It's the same with most meats: pork and chicken are head and shoulders above what you find in North of the Border meat markets. Fish and seafood are from-the-sea fresh and distributed within just a few hours of any of Mexico's coasts.

Nevertheless, Mexican restaurants in the United States make do with the less-than-superior ingredients found outside Mexico. In fact, some downright delicious traditional Mexican meals can be had in some North of the Border Mexican restaurants. Those restaurants are hard to find, though, because in the States, most of what has come to be known as Mexican cooking is actually Tex-Mex cooking. There's nothing wrong with Tex-Mex cooking, nothing at all. It's just not traditional Mexican cooking.  Tex-Mex is great food from a particular region of the United States. Some of it is adapted from Mexican cooking and some is the invention of early Texas settlers. Some innovations are adapted from both of those points of origin.  Fajitas, ubiquitous on Mexican restaurant menus all over the United States, are a typical Tex-Mex invention.  Now available in Mexico's restaurants, fajitas are offered to the tourist trade as proto-typically authentic. 

Caldo de pollo (traditional Mexican chicken soup), straight from the Mexico Cooks! home kitchen.

You need to know that the best of Mexico's cuisines is not found in restaurants. It comes straight from somebody's mama's kitchen. Clearly not all Mexicans are good cooks, just as not all Chinese are good cooks, not all Italians are good cooks, and so forth. But the most traditional, the most (if you will) authentic Mexican meals are home prepared.  For the most part, the traveler won't find them in fancy restaurants, homey comedores (small commercial dining rooms) or fondas (tiny working-class restaurants). You'll find the best meals as you stand next to the stove in a home kitchen, watching Doña Fulana prepare comida (the midday main meal of the day) for her family.  Take the time to educate your palate, understand the ingredients, taste what is offered to you, and learn, learn, learn.  You too can come to understand what traditional Mexican cooking can be. 

In order to understand the cuisines of Mexico, we need to experience their riches. Until that time, we can argue till the cows come home and you'll still be just another blind guy patting the beast's side and exclaiming how the elephant is mighty like a wall.

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These bright-red dried chile de árbol (tree chile) are slender, pointed, and about four inches long.  These chiles are really–but really–picante.  Soak, toast and liquefy them to use in salsas, or dry-grind them to powder, then dust the chile, along with a pinch of salt and a squeeze of jugo de limón (lemon juice) onto raw fruits and vegetables.  Start with just a little, though, till you know how much heat your palate will tolerate.

Dried and smoked, the chile jalapeño becomes the chile chipotle.  It's one of the spiciest of Mexico's dried chiles, and one of the most flavorful.  Buy it at a market as you see it in the photo, or buy it en adobo (a spice mixture) or en escabeche (pickled).  You'll find canned chile chipotle at most Latin markets.

The chile morita will remind you of the chipotle because of its smoky fragrance and very spicy but sweetish taste.  Some say the morita is the last of the mature jalapeño crop to be harvested (and therefore smaller than the earlier harvest); others say it's actually a smaller variety of chile jalapeño.

Chile cascabel (rattle chile) has a mildly spicy, nutty flavor.  Hold it by the stem, shake it, and you'll understand its name: the rattle of the dried seeds inside gives the name away.

Reconstituted by soaking and toasting, the familiar chile ancho is used for preparing salsas and many other common dishes.  The mature fresh chile poblano is the dried ancho.  To make sure you are buying chile ancho and not chile mulato–the two are often confused and/or mislabeled–slice open one of the chiles and hold it up to the light.  As the light shines through the chile, the ancho glows red, the mulato brown.

Chile guajillo, reddish-brown, flat, and about four inches long, is one of the most commonly used Mexican dried chiles.  Indispensable for preparing Jalisco's signature pozole rojo, the guajillo is also an ingredient in moles, adobos, and salsa picante.   Here's a recipe for Mexico Cooks!' favorite mushroom appetizer, champiñones al ajillo:

Champiñones al Ajillo estilo Mexico Cooks!
Mushrooms in Garlic/Guajillo Sauce, Mexico Cooks! Style

1 lb good-size fresh white mushrooms
4-6 chiles guajillos, leathery but flexible
4-6 large cloves of garlic
Minced flatleaf parsley
Olive or vegetable oil
Sea salt to taste

Remove the stems from the chiles.  Shake the seeds out through the stem opening and discard.  Bring the chiles to boil in a pan of water.  Turn off the heat and soak for about 30 minutes. 

While the chiles are soaking, clean the mushrooms and cut the stems off, even with the caps.

Drain the chiles and pat dry.  Cut them into 1/8" slices across their width.

Mince the garlic.

In a 12" skillet over medium heat, sauté the garlic in oil just until it begins to soften.  Add the chile strips and sauté for a few minutes more.  Add the mushrooms and sauté until tender.  Sprinkle with minced parsley, add sea salt to taste, and toss very briefly.  Plate and serve.

Serves 3-4 as an appetizer.

Provecho!

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