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Decorating the church with compostura, as this type streamer is known in this part of rural Jalisco.

On the Catholic feast day of Saint Luke I invited my friend Julia to drive to San Lucas Evangelista with me to meet the coheteros (fireworks makers). It was the final day of the fiestas patronales (patron saint's festivities) for Saint Luke and I figured his little namesake town would be in full party mode.

We drove along the main street of the tiny town looking for the church. Usually a village church is easy to locate—I just look for the church torre (tower, or steeple) and point the car in its direction. This town was different; we couldn't see a steeple. Finally I pulled to the side of a narrow street and asked an elderly shawl-wrapped woman how to get to the church.

"Ay señora," she sighed heavily, "No se puede." (You can't.)

I was momentarily puzzled, but then light dawned. "Because of the fiestas?"

"Yes, the whole street is blocked with the rides and booths. You need to go to the last street in town," she pointed, "and park your car there. Then you can walk." She shook her head, scandalized by the madness of the fiestas.

Chuckling, I followed her directions and parked the car almost directly in front of the church, but on the rocky unpaved side street rather than the main street. We walked a few meters to the churchyard and immediately saw that the castillo (the castle, a large set-piece fireworks display) was under construction. We also noticed that the church has no torre—no wonder we hadn't spotted it immediately from the edge of town.

As I approached a group of men working on part of the castillo, they stood up to greet us. "Buenas tardes, how can we help you?"

I explained that I was interested in talking to the boss about the fireworks and that I was going to write an article about the fireworks. The first young man laughed and pointed at a second young man crouched on the ground working. "Talk to him, he's the boss's son. He'll help you." Then he laughed even harder. The young man in question rolled his eyes and grimaced.

"My name is Gerardo Hernández Ortiz, and I'm not the boss's son. I'm just a helper here. You want to talk to the big boss—he's over there." He pointed at another man standing by the churchyard gate. "Wait here a minute, I'll go get him." He socked the first young man in the arm as he walked to the gate. I watched as he talked briefly with a man in a navy blue plaid shirt. He glanced toward me and nodded.

Very shortly that man came over and shook my hand. "I'm Manuel Zúñiga of Cohetería del Pueblo (Town Fireworks Makers). My worker said you wanted to talk with me?" I explained my interest again and he became very serious.

"You have to explain to your readers that my profession is not dangerous. The majority of accidents happen because of juguetería, the small 'toy' fireworks such as palomitas (poppers) and luces de Bengala (sparklers) used by children. Those fireworks are imported from China and are much less stable than the ones we make here in Mexico. Those are very dangerous, very.  Not these.

"Yes, there have been some bad accidents with our kind of fireworks, like the one in Veracruz in January 2003 (28 people were killed and more than 50 were injured when illegally stored fireworks exploded in a central market), but those incidents are very unusual.

"Our philosophy is that one person dies, but others follow in his footsteps and the work carries on and becomes better.

"My family has been making castillos, cohetes (rockets), bombas (bombs) and other fireworks for three generations. My grandfather, may he rest in peace, started making fireworks in San Juan Evangelista, the next town over there," he gestured to a spot in the distance beyond the church, "and then the whole family moved to Cuexcomatitlán, just up the road from here, and we've lived there ever since."

"It's always been a family business. You might say that we're Zúñiga and Sons." He smiled broadly and repeated, "I'm Manuel Zúñiga, at your service. We make a unique style of fireworks and we're very good at it. We've won many contests, including first place in the State of Jalisco. We've been asked to be judges at a pyrotechnics contest in the State of Mexico.

Twisting the carrizo (bamboo) into place.

"Most people think that the Chinese are the kings of gunpowder, that China is the world capital of fireworks. We've found out that the tradition of fireworks is very strong in England and that the English are really more knowledgeable than the Chinese. Their designs and innovations are at the forefront. We hope to travel to England one day to see their work in person."

I was fascinated with the construction of the various parts of the castillo. "It looks as if you have to be an engineer to figure out how this entire thing fits together and works," I said, reaching up to move several parts of the mechanism.

Bamboo tubes filled with gunpowder and wrapped with paper.  The tubes are color-coded to indicate the effects they will have on the design.

"Yes, it's very complicated. Every tube that you see attached to the structure is filled with gunpowder and the chemicals that create the colors of the designs. We use several different kinds of materials to make the framework, like carrizo (bamboo canes) and madera de pino (pine wood). The bamboo is very flexible, the pine is rigid. There are other kinds of wood that we use to give more shape to the designs. Some of the sections of the castillo are hinged so that they move up and down as they spin.

"Designs are made with long thin tubes filled with gunpowder and with the thicker tubes that shoot fire. You might see flowers, a heart, a horse or a cow, or some religious symbols." He walked over to a large section of castillo lying on the ground and traced the outline of the design with his finger. "This one is a chalice with the communion host above it. Can you see it?" I certainly could. "It will look beautiful when it's lit up tonight."

"When it's time to put the whole castillo together, the parts are set onto a pole. We start with the topmost part and then use a system of pulleys to raise it up. Then we add the middle section, and then the bottom part under that."

"Come with me, I want to show you some other things." As we walked to the fireworks-filled storeroom next to the church, Sr. Zúñiga continued explaining the intricacies of his family business.

The torito (little bull) covered with fireworks.  It is made to be carried and to chase happy fiesta-goers through the streets.

"Here, this is something different. It's a torito, a little bull. See the shape? Late tonight, we'll bring these out to play." He laughed. "A boy carries this little bull over his head—yes, after it's lit and while it's exploding with color and fire—and runs through the crowd. He'll chase whoever looks like a good victim. He hunts for whoever looks nervous. This torito has buscapíes fastened to it. Those are a kind of fireworks that shoots off the framework of the little bull and skitters along the ground. It literally means 'looks for feet'. It's only a little dangerous." He grinned and winked.

I grinned too, remembering a fiesta night in Guadalajara when a small boy with a blazing torito chased me down a cobblestone street as the festive crowd laughed to see the señora americana running to escape.  And I remembered another night at the Basílica of Our Lady of Zapopan, when a buscapíes got under the long brown habit of a Franciscan priest.  Fortunately he was a good friend, not to mention a good sport.   Watching him dance to escape the buscapíes was the highlight of the festival for me.

Sr. Zúñiga talked as we walked back through the churchyard. "We work all year round. There are 25 of us who build the fireworks.

"We'll be in Ixtlahuacán de los Membrillos on October 21 for a visit of Our Lady of Zapopan and in Ajijic on October 31 for the last day of the month-long celebration for Our Lady of the Rosary. There will be a castillo in each town. Of course we've already started preparations for the nine-day festivities in Ajijic at the end of November."

We gazed up at the castillo being mounted just outside the cemetery fence. Curious, Julia asked him, "What does it cost to have one of these built?"

"The simplest ones start at $7,500 pesos—about $665 U.S.. The price goes up from that to about $20,000 pesos—about $1,800 U.S.—for more complicated castillos built on a central pole, like this one. Then there is another category of castillo, much more complex, that starts at $25,000 pesos. For that kind, the sky's the limit." He shook my hand. "Can't you stay until we burn this one at around eleven o'clock tonight?"

"I wish I could—maybe next year." With a last look at the work in progress, Julia and I headed for the car. I knew I'd dream of castillos that night. The sky was the limit.

Looking for a tailored-to-your-interests specialized tour in Mexico? Click here: Tours.

Mexico Cooks! is traveling.  We'll be back to our regularly scheduled programming in mid-July.

The feast of Our Lady of Guadalupe, 2007, Morelia, Michoacán.

Before the wedding guests arrived, Jalisco 2004.

A window frame in Pátzcuaro.

A picture frame in Zacatecas.

Our Lady of Guadalupe embroidered on the back of a shirt.

Archway in San Cristóbal de las Casas.

La Puerta, Ajijic, Jalisco, 2004.

Gold-leaf flowers in the Santuario de Guadalupe in Morelia.

Stairway in La Casa de los Once Patios, Pátzcuaro.

Mexico Cooks! has moved to Mexico City.  In just a couple of weeks, we'll be writing from Mexico's exciting capital, one of the largest cities in the world.  Meantime, enjoy these reportajes recalentados (warmed over reports) from days gone by.  This one dates to February 2008.

 Looking for a tailored-to-your-interests specialized tour in Mexico? Click here: Tours.

 

Two days a week, José Manuel Mora Velásquez continues a tradition that
has been part of his family for more than 80 years. Long before dawn he
begins preparations for baking pan de tlachigual,
a type of bread so distinctly regional that Sr. Mora says that it has
only been made in San Juan Cosalá and in Ajijic, although it’s sold in
other towns along the north shore of Lake Chapala.

In years gone by, natives of those two towns did not allow a wedding, baptism, First Communion or confirmation to pass without tlachigual
as part of the festivity rituals. Although times are changing, even
today the most traditional celebrations of these life passages include
the humble local loaves.

Sr. Mora showed me around the tiny bakery at his home in
Ajijic. The ceiling is low and the only light comes from windows
without glass. Loaves of freshly baked tlachigual are piled high on a wooden shelf while dough rises in a warm corner, out of the way of any passing breeze.

Tlachigual loaves stuffed with nuts and raisins rise on the bakery shelves.

"The oven is heated only by wood. It’s not easy to keep a good supply
of wood, but we collect it from all over the area. People usually tell
me where a dry tree has fallen, or where someone has cut down a tree
that will burn well when the wood is dry."

"Which days of the week do you bake?" I asked.

"Wednesdays, like today, and Saturdays. It’s very time-consuming work and you have to pay very close attention to the masa (dough) or it won’t turn out right." Sr. Mora turned to peer into the oven as he spoke to me.

"A full twenty-four hours before I bake, I have to prepare the harina fermentada (starter).
It’s a mixture of flour and water. I mix that, and then it sits in the
warm bakery for a full day before I can use it for the bread.

"Early in the morning of the days I bake, I mix the dough. It’s
made with the starter dough I made the day before, plus additional
flour, eggs, sugar, and lard. Some of the dough is made with whole
wheat flour and some with white flour. The white flour dough has white
sugar, raisins and toasted nuts blended into it. The whole wheat loaves
are sweetened with piloncillo (cones of brown sugar)."

Sr. Mora showed me how he weighs each of the ingredients to make the
bread. "I don’t measure. The bread is better if each component is
weighed. How many kilos of flour I use depends on how many loaves I
need to bake on any given day. Usually I make enough dough to produce
400 loaves a day.

"Baking this traditional way is different from baking in a modern oven.
The first difference, of course, is that the oven is made of bricks and
clay. It’s shaped like a beehive. And as I said before, I use wood fire
for the heat. Temperature control is more difficult. I have to start
the fire about three hours before the dough starts to bake. That’s so
the oven will reach the right temperature. It takes two hours for the
coals to be at the right stage, then another hour for the temperature
to go down enough so the bread will bake in the right amount of time."

Tlachigual bakes right on the floor of the brick beehive oven.

I looked into the oven, which has no door, and saw that the
baking bread was beginning to turn golden brown. "I don’t see a
thermometer, Sr. Mora. How do you know when the oven has reached the
right temperature to begin baking?"

Sr. Mora checks the oven to make sure the temperature is right.

He laughed. "I put one loaf in to bake. It should be ready in
about 30 to 40 minutes. If it takes longer than that, I put more wood
on the fire. If it bakes too quickly, I wait a bit for the temperature
to go down. Then I try again. Of course I’ve been doing this for so
long that I can almost always tell when the temperature is right, but I
still bake a trial loaf to be sure."

I asked Sr. Mora if there were other tlachigual bakers in
Ajijic. "Yes, my cousin still makes this bread the old way. She lives
on Calle Constitución and bakes on Tuesday and Thursday. I think we’re
the only two left in Ajijic who bake this bread. There is a family in
San Juan Cosalá that still has a bakery, but I don’t know them
personally."

Ojitos (little eyes) rise near the warmth of the oven.

An article about the San Juan Cosalá bakers appeared several years ago in the Lake Chapala Spanish-language weekly newspaper, El Charal. At that time, Sra. Margarita Villalobos and one of her daughters were baking pan de tlachigual for distribution and sale in San Juan, in Nestipac, and in Jocotepec. Sra. Villalobos told El Charal that as a young girl, she had learned to make tlachigual
from her mother. Her methods hadn’t changed over the years, she said,
because making the bread in the traditional way gives it the delicious
flavor that people want. Sra. Villalobos said that someone had offered
her an electric mixer to help beat the dough, but she was not
interested in changing her style of preparation. "Other bakers make it
using the same recipe I do, but they don’t mix it by hand. Their
results aren’t the same," she reported.

Sr. Mora’s baking sheet is made of a flattened 5-gallon square tin can.

Sr. Mora tells a similar story. "A woman named Teresa taught my aunt how to make tlachigual,
and my aunt taught me," he reminisced. "And now there’s no one left to
teach. My children don’t want to be bakers. It’s sad to think that I
might be the last in the family to keep this tradition alive."

Although Sr. Mora graciously told me about his work and the traditions
of the bread he made, there was never a time when he was not also
paying strict attention to the rising loaves, the bread baking in the
oven, and the bread that was cooling on primitive wooden shelves along
three walls of the bakery. I watched quietly for a while as Sr. Mora
worked.

With one eye on the oven, he picked up an escobilla (double-ended straw brush) and started rhythmically sweeping the wood ash from each cool loaf of tlachigual. As he cleaned each loaf, he placed it in a pile.

When he noticed that the bread inside the oven had turned a deep golden brown, he set aside the escobilla and picked up a pala (literally a shovel, but in this case it resembled a long-handled wooden pizza peel). He used the pala to remove a metal tray holding the ojitos
from the oven and placed it on a table near where I was standing. In
one experienced and skillful motion, he scooped up as many small panes de tlachigual as the pala would hold and transferred them from the oven to a shelf for cooling. With a similar movement, he loaded the pala with unbaked loaves of tlachigual. Gently shoving the pala
as far into the oven as he knew it needed to go so that the bread would
bake evenly, he snapped his elbow back and the raw loaves landed evenly
spaced on the oven floor. In just a few minutes he demonstrated skills
he had acquired over his 22 years as a baker.

The sweet smell of baking tlachigual was making me very
hungry. "Sr. Mora, do you take all of the bread to be sold at stores
here in town?" I was hoping he’d say no, and I was not disappointed.

"A lot of people come here to the bakery to buy bread. And the boys
take some to be sold out on the streets in that washtub…" he gestured
to a galvanized metal tub in the corner by the oven. "And of course
some does go to stores around town."

"What does the tlachigual cost?" I was fingering some coins in my pocket.

"The small loaves are four pesos, the big ones are ten pesos.
And those mini-loaves are two pesos apiece. I sell the miniatures to
mothers for little kids."

I bought four loaves, one large and three small. The large one came
home with me and I took the three small ones to share with my neighbors. My car held the tantalizing scent of the fresh-baked bread for two days.

From Baja California and Nuevo León on the northern border to Oaxaca and Chiapas in the south, from Veracruz on the east coast to Nayarit on the west, Mexico loves to eat. Here in Mexico, there's nothing more common on any menu than antojitos mexicanos: literally, "little Mexican whims."

Mexicans get hungry at all hours, and it's not entirely about physical need. Seductive aromas, exciting presentations on the plate and the crunchy sounds of chewing entice them to the 'little whims'. From the hand-lettered banner at the smallest street stand to the menu of the most elegant of restaurants, antojitos mexicanos are a staple on almost any Mexican bill of fare.

Most Mexican restaurants in the United States specialize in only one aspect of Mexican cooking—antojitos mexicanos. These are the corn and tortilla-based specialties that include the enchiladas, tacos, tamales, quesadillas, and tostadas that all evolved directly from original indigenous cooking. In Mexico today, these corn-based antojitos mexicanos are popular with rich and poor alike.  

Antojitos can include almost any traditional Mexican foods, but the term always refers to the corn kitchen. The gamut runs from budín azteca (a cream, cheese, chile and tortilla pie) to the numerous kinds of pozole (a hearty soup made with pork or chicken and fresh hominy) right through the alphabet to xolostle (a soup of chicken, corn and various spices).

Some of the most popular antojitos at restaurants and street stands are tacos, tostadas, sopes, gorditas, empanadas, enchiladas, and quesadillas. If you're North of the Border, most of those antojitos are not only easy to find in restaurants, but they're easy to prepare at home. Each is based on the same corn masa (dough).

In many cities North of the Border, you can buy prepared masa at a tortillería (tortilla making shop).  Even if you don't live next door to a tortillería (tortilla-making shop), masa harina (corn flour for dough) is available at supermarkets and Latin specialty shops all over the USA and Canada. You're sure to find common brands such as Quaker or Maseca. A word to the wise: don't try to use standard cornmeal to make masa. Masa harina and cornmeal are very different products.

Corn Masa

4 cups masa harina
1/2 teaspoon salt
2 1/2 cups hot but not boiling water

Place the masa harina and salt in a large bowl. Add the water and mix with your hands to make dough that comes together in a soft ball. Continue mixing and kneading until the dough is elastic enough to hold together without cracking, about 3 minutes. If you're making the dough ahead for later use, wrap the whole ball in plastic wrap and refrigerate for up to 24 hours. Divide as needed.

Once you've prepared a batch of masa, you're well on the way to a Mexican feast.

Let's make sopes and gorditas for starters. You'll need basic utensils:

• Large, deep frying pan or wok
• Flat strainer with long handle
• A comal or heavy griddle

These basic ingredients will be used for the two antojitos:

• The prepared corn masa
• Large quantity of oil or lard for frying
• You'll also need frijoles refritos (well-fried beans) for both the sopes and the gorditas. You can buy them in cans if you'd rather take a shortcut to preparation, but traditionally you would prepare fresh beans at home.

 

Basic Preparation of Beans
One kilo (2.2 pounds) dried pinto or peruano beans
Water
Salt to taste

Clean the dried beans, removing any sticks, stones, or other foreign objects. Wash the beans in a colander under clear running water.

Put the beans in a large, heavy pot and add water to approximately three times the depth of the beans. Bring to a boil over high heat. Lower the heat to medium, loosely cover the beans, and allow them to cook until the beans are soft. Add water as needed to keep the beans from drying out. When finished, the bean liquid will be slightly thickened. The cooking process can take several hours.

Once the beans are completely cooked, add salt to taste. Salting the beans before or during cooking causes them to toughen.

Frijoles Refritos (Well-fried Beans)
Cooked beans
Lard or vegetable oil
1 or 2 chiles serrano (if desired). Slit each from tip to stem end
Salt to taste

In a large, heavy frying pan, melt the lard or heat the vegetable oil. Add the chiles and allow them to fry until they are nearly black. Carefully add the amount of beans that you will need to feed your family and/or guests. For six people, you will need approximately three cups of beans plus enough of the bean liquid to give the proper consistency to the finished dish.

Allow the beans to heat through. Once they are hot, begin to mash them and the chiles with a bean or potato masher. Add bean liquid as needed. Continue to mash the beans until they are smooth. You want the consistency of the well-fried beans to be thinner than peanut butter but not runny. Add additional salt, if necessary.

Gorditas
To prepare serving plates of the gorditas de frijoles, you'll need the following ingredients:

• Thinly shredded cabbage
• Salsa verde or roja
• Crumbled queso Cotija or queso fresco
• Chopped fresh cilantro
• Small-diced, fresh white onion

Make a ball of masa a little larger than a tennis ball. Flatten it to about a five-inch round. On half of the round, heap a large spoonful of frijoles refritos and a small spoonful of cheese. Fold the filled masa in half and shape into a thick, flat disk approximately three inches in diameter. Fill and shape as many as you will need.

Heat enough lard or oil in the wok or large, deep frying pan to fry two or three gorditas at a time. Slide the gorditas into the fat and allow them to fry until deep golden brown. Remove the gorditas from the fat with the strainer and then keep them hot on the comal or griddle. Drain on paper towels if needed.

To serve, split each gordita in half approximately one-third of the way from one edge of the disk. Open a flap of the gordita and place on a plate. Top with either salsa verde or salsa roja, shredded cabbage or lettuce, the cilantro, the diced onion, and crumbled cheese.  You can also add freshly cooked shredded chicken or beef.

Sopes
Make balls of fresh masa approximately two inches in diameter. Flatten each ball using just slight pressure of your hands until you have a disk approximately three inches in diameter. Pinch the entire circumference of the disk to form a vertical edge about one-quarter inch high. Set aside and continue to form the sopes.

Slide the sopes a few at a time into the same hot fat in which you fried the gorditas. Allow the sopes to fry until they are light golden brown but not crisp. Remove from fat with strainer and drain if necessary. Keep warm on the comal or griddle.

We can fill sopes with the same ingredients that we used for the gorditas, of course, but variety in flavors would be better if you're planning to serve the two antojitos at the same meal. We'll fill the sopes with shredded chicken or beef or some diced potatoes as well as with frijoles refritos.

For shredded chicken filling, poach boneless chicken breasts, cool, and shred.

For shredded beef filling, simmer a flank steak in enough water to cover, along with a clove or two of garlic, a chile Serrano or two, a teaspoon of sea salt, and half an onion, until the meat is very tender. Slice the steak into two inch pieces (across the grain) and shred.

For potato filling, dice several medium-size, white potatoes into small cubes. Cook in salted boiling water until tender. Drain. Fry in a little hot fat until light golden brown.

To assemble the sopes, smear the inside of each one with a teaspoon or two of well-fried beans. On top of the beans, add two tablespoons of either shredded chicken, shredded beef, or diced potato. Top with salsa roja or salsa verde, shredded lettuce, minced onion, thinly sliced radishes, and some crumbled cheese of the same kind you used for the gorditas.

Empanadas
Next we'll prepare empanadas. These are delicious savory-stuffed, folded, and fried tortillas  You'll use the same equipment that you used to make gorditas and sopes, with the addition of a tortilla press. Once you're used to pressing tortillas, this recipe will be easy to prepare.

 

Empanada Filling
The beef and vegetable filling for the empanadas could not be simpler.
1 pound lean ground beef
1 white onion, minced
1 large clove garlic, minced
1 chile Serrano, minced
1/2 pound frozen peas and carrots
1 tablespoon fat
Salt to taste

In a large heavy frying pan, melt a tablespoon of fat and sauté the onion, garlic, and chile until soft. Add the ground beef and continue to fry until the beef turns an even color. Add the vegetables, sauté briefly, and add salt to taste. Set aside.

 

Tortillas for Empanadas
Place a small sheet of plastic on the lower surface of a five-inch tortilla press. Make a golf-ball size ball of masa. Flatten slightly between your hands and place the flattened ball on the plastic. Place another sheet of plastic between the masa and the top surface of the press. Close the lid, push down on the handle, and open the press. Peel the plastic away from both surfaces of the tortilla. The tortilla will be approximately four inches in diameter.

Holding the raw tortilla in your hand, put a heaping tablespoonful of filling in its center. Fold the tortilla in half, enclosing the filling. Pinch the edges lightly to seal. Slip the raw empanada into the hot fat—the same hot fat you used to fry the gorditas and the sopes. Fry until golden brown and crisp. Remove from the fat with the strainer; drain. Repeat until you've made as many as you need for your crowd. The filling freezes well if you have more than you need.

To serve, arrange the crispy empanadas on a serving platter or put several on individual plates. Let them overlap one another. Pour a small amount of salsa verde over them and garnish with shredded lettuce and a sprinkle of crumbled cheese.

These three deliciously different antojitos  mexicanos will give you a real sense of being right here in the heart of Mexico. Put a mariachi CD in the player and get the whole family to help you with the preparations for your meal. All of you will enjoy the fun of preparing these typical and simple dishes from South of the Border. 

Here in Mexico, cooks are famous for their salsas. On any dining table at home or in a restaurant, there is inevitably a bowl of homemade salsa. But when you look around the table, usually you'll see one, two, three, or more bottles of different types of manufactured salsa as well.

Mexicans and many people from North of the Border enjoy bottled salsa picante on a variety of foods that at first seem to be highly unusual combinations with the savory heat. Seafood cocktails would be bland to the point of boring without a serious jolt of bottled liquid fire.  Potato chips, chicharrones (crisp fried pork skin), French fries, and popcorn all get a whopping dose of bottled salsa.  You'll go crazy for cut fresh fruits–pineapple, mango, papaya, watermelon–and vegetables (particularly jícama and cucumber), spritzed with a few drops or a stream of salsa.  Red-stained fingers are the norm as we eat our way down the street, dipping into a plastic bag filled with the goodie of the moment.

Jícama and Cucumber Appetizer

1 large jícama, peeled and cut into strips
      –Shopping tip: Look for a jícama that's heavy for its size; they are the juiciest.
1 crisp cucumber, peeled and cut into strips
2 limes, cut in half and seeded
Coarse salt to taste
Salsa Cholula to taste
Toothpicks

Arrange the jícama and the cucumber strips on a plate. Sprinkle with salt. Squeeze the lime over the strips. Add salsa, as much or as little as your palate will allow. Spear with the toothpicks and enjoy.

Mexican grocery stores stock endless well-known salsa varieties. Valentina, Herdez, Búfalo, Tamazula, Huichol, El Yucateco, Tapatío, and Cholula brands are common. Each manufacturer usually produces several types of salsa. The differences are in the kind of chile used, the heat level, and the combination of other ingredients in the recipe. Which one you buy depends on what flavor and combustion level you prefer.

"There are wide variations in hot sauce production," the editors of Wine & Food Companion wrote in their August 2004 hot pepper sauce study. "Some manufacturers salt down the chile peppers, then mash them; others just toss whole chiles in brine. Some age the mash in white oak barrels; others say you can't tell the difference between aging in oak and aging in plastic. Some brag about aging for three years; others say a month is enough."

The factory that manufactures one of Mexico's most popular salsas for export to the United States, to Canada, to Europe, and to Japan is located just 45 minutes from Guadalajara. Productos Sane, owned by the local Sánchez family, is over 50 years old and the Sánchez family patriarch, Sr. Edmundo Sánchez Núño, is still at the helm.

Sr. Sánchez is 77 years old and talks about his company with pride, with love, and with the solid recognition that what he has done with the last 50 years of his life has not been so much about money as about honor, family, and dignity.

After Sr. Sánchez's grandson Fidel (in charge of marketing and promotion for the company) introduced me to his grandfather and seated me in his well appointed office, Sr. Sánchez–whose desk is overshadowed by a life-size portrait of his mother–began by questioning me.  "A qué vino usted?" ("What did you come for?")

I told him that I was fascinated with the origins and growth of his company, as well as with the manufacture of his salsa.

He peered at me and with a small smile asked, "Bueno, que quiere que le diga?" ("Well then, what do you want me to tell you?")

I thought for a minute. "Que me diga la historia de como su familia empezó con todo esto," I replied. (I want you to tell me the story of how your family started all this.)

He smiled again and launched into the story. It seemed as if I had passed his test.

"My dear mother was the start of it all. Her name was María Guadalupe Nuño de Sánchez, may she rest in peace. My father was José Sánchez. He and my mother owned a restaurant right here in town. After my father died, my mother was always known in the restaurant as la viuda de Sánchez (the widow of Sánchez). The customers would call her, "Viuda! Viudita Lupita!" when they wanted something. That's why our first product, sangrita, was known by that name, Sangrita de la Viuda de Sánchez. Now that product name belongs to the House of Cuervo Tequila. We sold it to them a few years ago."

Note: Sangrita is a spicy, savory chaser served with straight tequila. It's made of salsa, natural grapefruit and orange juices, and a couple of secret ingredients.

"The whole thing started as a little family business, just barely a business. I was making the sangrita from my mother and father's original recipe. The factory was in the back of the house in a lean-to, I was squeezing orange juice by hand." He made the motion of holding an orange half on a squeezer and pulling down the handle. "Everything was hand made, everything.

"It was very popular around here, and it was still a little home operation. Finally in 1956 I received a certificate of health for national distribution. That's when it really started. For a long time we only made the sangrita."

"See, first to make the sangrita I used to buy salsa in a garafón (20-liter bottle) from a salsa maker my mother knew. Then the guy died and I had to come up with something else. I couldn't find the right taste in the salsas I tried." He gestured pouring salsa from a bottle into his empty palm and licking his palm. "All of them had the wrong taste."

"I hunted all over for a formula for the kind of salsa I wanted, to give the sangrita the flavor and spice that it had when my mother made it. How difficult that was! I tried everything, a little of this, a little of that—oregano and garlic, chiles from here and from there. It had to be the right combination: not too sweet, not too spicy, not too much vinegar. Oh, I tried and tried, so many combinations. Finally I hit it!" He grinned broadly and threw both hands into the air in triumph.

"And then there I was, grinding chiles in a little stone mill about this big," he gestured with his hands to show me the size, about a foot square. "Chiles and more chiles, spices, everything all together. Oh, the work was so much. But the product turned out just the way my mother would have wanted it. The taste of the salsa was right, and that made the sangrita come out right.

"Later I was thinking about the salsa that we used to flavor the sangrita. After the sangrita was made, there was always this delicious home-made salsa left over. And I thought, 'Maybe I can sell this, too.'

"So there was my next big idea. I was making hundreds of liters of salsa, still grinding chiles with the little stone mill.

"I had, thank God, two old school chums who owned big grocery stores. I mean big, the ones that are the superstores today. I went to them with my salsa in its little bottles and asked them to sell it for me. They weren't convinced that it would sell. They both already had shelves of many different kinds of salsas in their stores.

"But because we were old schoolmates, both of them finally said yes. 'You give us a few cases. If it sells, we'll pay you. If not—' Sr. Sánchez shrugged, wiggled his eyebrows, and his eyes twinkled. He paused and glanced at my notebook to see if I was keeping up with him. I was, but barely—it's a challenge to take notes in two languages.

"Oh it sold. In fact, it started selling really big. It's because the flavor is so pure and different from the rest of them. To keep that flavor, you have to have everything exactly right and always exactly the same. It's not like that stuff they sell in the United States, that famous one—Tabasco. That's just vinegar and chile. It has no flavor." Sr. Sánchez made a vinegar-y face.

"And you can't just go down to the Abastos (the regional wholesale produce market in Guadalajara) and buy some chiles of whatever kind when you need them." Sr. Sánchez gazed past me toward the production area of his plant, thinking. He continued seriously, "No, you have to take everything into account. Everything.

"We only use chiles from one guy. We only use chiles de árbol, you know the ones I mean. The hot dried red ones, the ones some people call uñas de bruja (witch fingernails). He grows them in Los Altos de Jalisco, in Teocaltiche and I buy his whole harvest. We start working with him before the seeds are sown every year. We analyze the soil, add whatever nutrients are needed. Then we spray special fumigants on the seedlings. Everything we do, all the chemicals we use are approved by the FDA of the United States, because our product is for export as well as for sale in Mexico. You know how strict the FDA is, right?"

"Now from that little beginning, with my mother's recipe, do you know how much salsa we make? I had to go very far north, all the way to Chicago, to buy special stainless steel mills for my factory. No more little stone mill! And the factory works 24 hours a day, seven days a week. Imagine!" Sr. Sánchez's eyebrows registered his amazement and pleasure. "Nearly 60% of our salsa is sold in the state of Nuevo Leon, in the city of Monterrey. They love it.

"Last year we sold 700,000 cases all together. Next year we will make 30% more than that. Can you imagine? From that little beginning in a lean-to behind my house? Who would have thought of this?" The gentleman folded his hands on his desk and beamed.

"Today I have my children, my grandchildren—I have 26 grandchildren now, and eight great-grandchildren already, what a huge family!"

He smiled delightedly, hugging the adolescent boy who had just slipped into the office and was bending down to kiss him. "This grandson is studying in Guadalajara. One of the granddaughters has just become a doctor. We never know when we start out where we'll go—sometimes we marry young and are sorry later—but look. I can look back and see the past, and I can look forward and see the future. And it all started with my mother, my father, and a little salsa to give flavor to the sangrita."

Sr. Sánchez sat back in his chair and gave a satisfied sigh. His face showed the pride of a job well done—founding and managing a highly successful family business.

Look for Salsa Cholula in any North of the Border supermarket or specialty store. You'll know it first by its round wooden bottle top and then by its distinctive just-right spicyness.

If you crave more than just a small bottle of this salsa, come visit me and bring an empty bottle or jug of any size. You can buy Salsa Cholula a granel (in bulk) right at the factory.  Just tell the man on duty to fill'er up.

 

 

The joy of Mexico rings out multi-colored, multi-faceted, multi-flavored, the adventure of a lifetime.  From the first tentative step across the border, we're led into a world that is not one we've known.  Whether we cross a culinary border that shoots us into a new sphere of Mexico's rich flavors, an intellectual border that makes the mind reel with new ways of thinking, or a spiritual border that leads us to reconsider our feelings about a country so 'other' that we might as well be on the moon, we'll never look at life quite the same way as before we crossed over.  Mexico, Mexico…beloved land of the sun…we greet you as we greet the dawn, with joy and gladness.