The secret to delicious salsa is a verb

Hungry? Click here for the recipes!

Salsa—it’s the essential component of any Mexican meal.

Although the literal English translation of the word salsa is simply “sauce,” in Mexico, salsa is generally understood to refer to a sauce seasoned with aromatics and chile. While the most common Mexican table salsas are vegetable based (think tomatoes and tomatillos), they can incorporate any and all ingredients—from fruits and nuts to cheese and insects. Some versions include only raw ingredients while other recipes feature ingredients that have been boiled, fried or roasted. The only limiting factor is, predictably, the imagination of the cook.

Growing up in California in the 1970s and 80s, my family rarely ate Mexican salsas at home that were made from scratch. Instead, we usually relied on a bottle of Pico Pica hot sauce tucked into the refrigerator door. Produced by Los Angeles-based Juanita’s Foods, this mild salsa has a pronounced tang of vinegar and notes of cumin. While its flavor isn’t what I’d describe as complex, it remains one of my favorites given its central place in my family food history. In fact, whenever I return to California for a visit, I always buy a couple of bottles to bring back to Mexico—which I’m well aware is like bringing sand to the beach.

Pico Pica is a California-made salsa that is spiced with cumin, a common flavor in Mexican-American cuisine that is rarely used south of the border.

When I left the US to move to the north of Mexico, I couldn’t wait to befriend Mexican folks who held the secret to making authentic salsa. What I hadn’t counted on is that everyone I met was too busy with work and family to bother making salsa at home. So I followed my friends’ lead and bought bottles of salsa roja and salsa verde made in the factories of Herdez and La Costeña.

With time, I eventually learned how to make a simple green salsa with tomatillos and jalapeños. It was tasty enough, but I remained a one-trick pony for many years.

My move to Mexico City was a game changer. My cooking style quickly began to evolve to reflect the diverse flavors of the historic capital. I began to incorporate ingredients I hadn’t used before, like dried chiles, xoconostle, huitlacoche, avocado leaves, insects and a rainbow of aromatic powders used to make mole and pipián. And my regular visits to the city’s taco and antojito stands exposed me to a previously unknown universe of salsas that were nothing like what I had grown up with in California.

Over the past decade, between eating out, attending cooking classes and experimenting at my home in Mexico City, I think it’s safe to say that I’ve learned a thing or two about salsa. It’s time to let you in on a little secret that’s not really a secret at all.

The secret, revealed

When making salsa, cooks in prehispanic Mesoamerica relied on a technique we now know as tatemar. This verb is a combination of two words with distinct etymological histories: tlatla and quemar, which are, respectively, the Náhuatl and Spanish terms for “to burn with fire.” It refers to the process of charring foods on a grill, comal or directly on hot coals to partially cook them and infuse them with a smoky aroma—a uniquely Mexican cooking technique not frequently seen in other parts of the world.

Today, while this cooking technique is most widely followed in rural communities of central Mexico, you’ll find folks charring foods all across the country. From the boozy barbecues known as carne asadas that happen every weekend in northern Mexico, to the fully decked out modern kitchens of affluent families in the country’s big cities, you’ll find Mexicans toasting and charring the foods that they eat.

There’s no “right way” to tatemar, so have no fear if you’ve never tried the technique. Just keep in mind that the longer you char your vegetables, the sweeter and smokier their flavors become as the natural sugars caramelize.

A brief word about the molcajete

Mexican salsas are traditionally prepared with a grinding stone called a molcajete. While many claim that the best-tasting salsas are prepared this way (and I would agree), I know that not everyone has a molcajete in their kitchen. This is why the recipes below call for the use of a blender.

Please don’t worry that your salsa isn’t truly authentic if you use a blender to prepare it rather than a molcajete. Let me share another secret with you: not every Mexican cook even has a molcajete. We do, however, all have at least one blender—and many cooks have two (one for making salsa and one for making mixed drinks).

Manny the cat poses with my molcajete. I bought this one—carved in the traditional form of a pig—at a market in Cholula, Puebla. I snapped this photo when the molcajete was brand new; it no longer looks this pristine and has taken on a unique personality thanks to repeated use.

Mild, medium or spicy?

No two chiles pack the same heat—even when the chiles are of the same size and variety. This is why determining how much chile to add to your salsa is more an art than a science. I always roast a few more chiles than I think I’ll need so that I can increase the heat incrementally until I reach the perfect level of picante.

Now, on to the recipes!

---

Simple salsa verde

You can make this traditional salsa in 15 minutes or less, so there’s no good reason not to give it a try. Not only is this full-bodied green salsa delicious atop tacos, quesadillas and other antojitos, you can also use it to stew chicken, beef or pork that can then be served with rice, beans and tortillas for a hearty plate of homestyle Mexican comfort food.

This morning’s breakfast: crispy chard and bacon quesadillas topped with generous amounts of salsa verde, avocado and table cream. The salsa tied all of the flavors and textures together.

Ingredients

500g [1 lb]`tomatillos
1/4 medium onion
1 clove garlic, in its peel
2 jalapeño or serrano chiles (use more or fewer chiles according to your tolerance for heat—see below)
1-2 stalks of fresh cilantro
Salt and pepper to taste

Mild, medium or spicy?

As mentioned above, heat levels can vary greatly from chile to chile, and even two similar-sized chiles of the same variety can have notable differences in their levels of heat due to variables in the environmental conditions where they were grown. The Scoville scale was developed to help determine how spicy a chile is and can be used as a general guide to help you estimate the heat level of any given chile. Choose your chiles accordingly. Here is a comparison between the two chiles I normally use in this recipe:

Instructions

1. Char the vegetables.

a. Disinfect the tomatillos, chiles and cilantro. Here’s how.

b. Preheat your comal or skillet over high heat. You’ll know it’s ready when you flick water with your fingers and it immediately beads up.

c. On the hot comal or skillet, char the 500 g (1 lb) of tomatillos (leave them whole), the ¼ onion and the garlic in its peel (the peels are left on to help prevent burning while on the stove top; remove them before blending). Turn the vegetables frequently so that they char evenly on all sides. You’ll know the tomatillos are ready when they have charred spots on all sides and are beginning to soften. Set aside in a bowl.

2. Mix the charred vegetables in a blender.

Blend together the charred vegetables. If the mixture doesn’t blend easily you can add a small amount of water to get the blades going. Add the cilantro and continue to blend until you achieve the desired consistency of your salsa. While I generally prefer a chunky salsa, this salsa is also delicious if you let it blend for several minutes until it has a smooth glossy texture.

3. Season to perfection.

a. While blending your salsa, you’ll need to check two things: the level of heat and the amount of salt. As soon as you have blended the charred ingredients together, taste a small amount to check its level of spiciness. Add more chiles, blending after each addition, until the salsa reaches your optimal heat level.

b. Once you have adjusted the heat, season your salsa with salt and black pepper to taste. Keep in mind that spicy foods activate many of the same parts of the brain as salt, which can result in spicy foods tricking your brain into thinking that they taste saltier than they actually are. For this reason, you may want to err on the side of adding less salt to your salsa than would normally use to season other dishes.

4. You’re done!

Your salsa verde is now ready to eat. Serve it alongside a big bowl of tortilla chips or use it to add flavor to eggs, stews, tacos or anything else you can think of.

You can also transfer this salsa to a saucepan and add pre-cooked shredded chicken or chunks of uncooked beef or pork to make a hearty main dish.

---

Salsa with chile morita

Chile morita is first type of dried chile I learned to use in my salsas. (An ex from Veracruz introduced me to this delicious chile; at least I retained something positive from that doomed relationship.) Moritas are the dried form of a small varietal of jalapeño chile that grows in the southern half of Mexico. This salsa is particularly tart and smoky with a curious floral aroma imparted by these flavorful chiles.

These are moritas, a type of spicy dried chile that comes in a range of crimson shares. They are principally used by cooks in Veracruz, Puebla and Mexico City.

The process described here is very similar to that used in the previous recipe. That’s the magic of salsa—once you learn the basic steps, you can personalize your salsa any which way you desire.

Ingredients

500g [1 lb]`tomatillos
1/4 medium onion
2 cloves garlic, in their peels
2 morita chiles (use more or fewer chiles according to your tolerance for heat—see below)
2 allspice berries, ground (about 1/8 teaspoon—a generous pinch—of ground allspice)
Salt and pepper to taste

Mild, medium or spicy?

Moritas are an unpredictable chile. While they reportedly fall between 15,000 and 30,000 SHU on the Scoville scale, I have been tested by their volatility. Sometimes, they have proven to be exceedingly mild while other times they’ve left me watery eyed and desperate for a glass of cold milk. For this reason, I recommend that you add the chiles one at a time as your blend your ingredients until you reach the level of heat that’s right for you.

Instructions

1. Toast the dried chiles.

a. Preheat your comal or skillet over high heat. You’ll know it’s ready when you flick water with your fingers and it immediately beads up.

b. Wipe the morita chiles clean with a dry cloth or paper towel and remove the stems.

c. Quickly toast the chiles on the hot comal or skillet. As soon as they begin to blister, flip them over—about 10-15 seconds on each side or else they will burn (which creates a bitter flavor). Remove from heat immediately and set aside.

2. Char the remaining vegetables.

a. Disinfect the tomatillos. Here’s how.

b. On the hot comal or skillet, char the 500 g (1 lb) of tomatillos (leave them whole), the 1/4 onion and the 2 cloves garlic in their peels (the peels are left on to help prevent burning while on the stove top; remove them before blending). Turn the vegetables frequently so that they char evenly on all sides. You’ll know the tomatillos are ready when they have charred spots on all sides and are beginning to soften. Set aside in a bowl.

3. Grind the allspice.

Use a small mortar and pestle or an electric spice grinder to transform the allspice berries into a powder. Freshly ground spices always add more flavor to your dishes than bottled spices sold in powdered form.

4. Mix the ingredients in a blender.

Blend together the toasted chiles, charred vegetables and the allspice. If the mixture doesn’t blend easily you can add a small amount of water to get the blades going. Continue to blend until you achieve the desired consistency of your salsa; there is no “correct” texture aside from the one you like best!

5. Season to perfection.

a. While blending your salsa, you’ll need to check two things: the level of heat and the amount of salt. As soon as you have blended the ingredients together, taste a small amount to check the level of spiciness. Add more chiles, blending after each addition, until the salsa reaches your optimal heat level.

b. Once you have adjusted the heat, season your salsa with salt and black pepper to taste. Keep in mind that spicy foods activate many of the same parts of the brain as salt, which can result in spicy foods tricking your brain into thinking that they taste saltier than they actually are. For this reason, you may want to err on the side of adding less salt to your salsa than would normally use to season other dishes.

4. You’re done!

Use your salsa to complement anything on your plate. Its smoky taste goes particularly well with grilled meats and vegetables.

The American Dream

I  took this photo on the south side of Chicago back in 2004, just months before I moved to Mexico. When I found this unexpected message, I decided that it was a prescient omen—that the universe was allaying my fears and letting me know that I was making the right decision. I badly needed this, given that the majority of the Americans I knew doubted why I would willingly choose to leave the US for Mexico. Though most refrained from stating it directly, the message was loud and clear: you are lucky to live in the USA and you are giving it up to go and live in the Third World.

While I didn't know it then, growing up in the US had made me just as racist and chauvinist as everybody else in my country of origin. To think that I had somehow been protected from this fate is the ultimate folly. Being racist isn't a personal conscious choice; it's the result of living in a place like the US, whose national culture and institutions uphold white supremacy. Despite being Mexican-American, I had internalized the same negative messaging and arrived in Mexico thinking that everything about this country was second rate: its institutions, its culture, its people. 

Given that I arrived with this toxic attitude, it's no surprise that culture shock hit me hard and for a prolonged period of time. I looked northward with longing during the Obama presidency, when the promise of a fairer, more progressive nation made me question why I was still living in Mexico, a country ensnared in a brutal drug war and that saw endemic corruption at the highest levels of government.

And then, in 2016, Americans made Donald Trump president.

With the arrival of an openly misogynist, racist narcissist in the White House, I finally learned the lesson that had been such a long time coming: there's really nothing exceptional about the US. It's just another country on earth with a legion of intractable problems, from systemic racism to entrenched economic inequality to failed systems of health and public education to mind-numbing levels of violence. I finally saw that the US is not so different from Mexico after all. The principal difference is that many people in the US somehow still believe that they live in the best country on earth.

Now I look north with sadness and disbelief. I see more than 100,000 dead from a contagious disease thanks to the epic failures of the federal administration—and exacerbated by the perverse belief of some Americans that they don't need to follow basic health recommendations because they live in a "free country." I see people out of work and out of hope since financial assistance is almost impossible to access (well, unless you already have sizable assets). I see cities across the country on fire and under curfew as citizens fight back against the persistent racism that has formed the base of the nation’s culture since its founding.

It all makes me so very sad.

Make no mistake, Mexico has many, many problems of its own, which is well known to those of us who live here. I have done my best to navigate the minefields of violence, corruption, extreme inequality and xenophobia that exist here and in learning to do so, Mexico has become my home. I no longer think like someone who lives in the US. I no longer understand why people there think the way they do. And while I may not be a Mexican citizen, I do know that Mexico is where I belong.

Whoever spray painted that message on that wall in Chicago was absolutely right: the American dream is not the only dream.

Searching for traditional Mexican flavors? Try my recipe for tortilla soup.

This is my version of sopa de tortilla, one of the most popular soups in Mexico and a common restaurant offering at Mexican restaurants the world over. Said to have originated in the state of Tlaxcala, it’s a mildly spiced chile and tomato broth served over crunchy fried strips of tortilla and finished with chunks of cheese, avocado and other textured toppings. Despite growing up Mexican-American, this soup wasn’t served at home since our family members migrated from other parts of Mexico with different culinary traditions (like menudo). Once I moved to Mexico City, however, tortilla soup seemed to be everywhere and it soon became one of my favorite meals in a bowl.

I wrote this recipe after being asked for one by my lovely friend Sarah, who lives with her husband on a gorgeous homestead in the Australian bush. When I received her request, it felt like she’d caught me with my pants down because I had no recipe to share. So I sprang into action, reviewing dozens of recipes and experimenting in my kitchen—and this is the result. My version has a fuller, smokier flavor than many others because I char the vegetables before I puree them for the broth, which is then thickened with toasted tortilla powder, a “secret” ingredient that has become a staple in my kitchen.

Admittedly, this recipe can feel rather laborious, but that’s mostly due to making the toasted tortilla powder and fried tortilla strips. If you make these ahead of time, you can make this soup in about an hour—and probably even faster since I’ll bet you’re more organized than me.

I rely on traditional Mexican ingredients like chicken stock and lard. And while homemade chicken stock tastes best (I prepare mine with chicken bones, chicken feet and avocado leaves), many Mexican home cooks use powdered chicken broth or bouillon cubes so there’s no need to stress about the authenticity of your stock. And while many of you shun lard because we’ve been conditioned to avoid saturated fats, it adds that hard-to-pin-down flavor that tastes like a Mexican grandma’s cooking. Use it sparingly for its flavor—as you would butter—and you probably won’t give yourself a heart attack.

To be honest, it’s the toppings that make truly make this soup memorable. The more ingredients you top your soup with, the better it will be—just like a cup of frozen yogurt. The most traditional garnishes for tortilla soup are avocado chunks, cubes of panela cheese, pork crackling (chicharrón), fried strips of pasilla chile and table cream. That said, the range of toppings you can use are endless and you should be limited only by your imagination. Try adding shredded chicken, diced onion, cilantro leaves, squash blossoms, sautéed cactus strips or fried grasshoppers (chapulines). And don’t forget to include lime wedges on the side since the tang of citrus truly brings this soup alive.

This recipe yields four generous servings or eight small side portions.

Make it vegan!

If you prefer to avoid animal products, substitute vegetable stock for the chicken stock, olive oil for the lard and skip the pork crackling and dairy altogether. Top your soup with raw julienned vegetables and cubes of pre-cooked potato or chayote. Add a sprinkling of corn nuts or toasted pumpkin seeds (pepitas) for extra crunch.

---

Ingredients

Soup

500 g [1 lb] tomatoes (around 4 Roma tomatoes)
15g [½ oz] pasilla chiles (around 2-3 chiles)
15g [½ oz] guajillo chiles (around 2-3 chiles)
½ medium onion
3 cloves garlic, in their peels
1 tablespoon lard
2 liters [2 qt] chicken stock
¼ cup [50 g/2 oz] toasted tortilla powder
1 stalk of fresh epazote* or 1 teaspoon dried epazote (see below; omit if unavailable)
Salt and ground black pepper to taste
250 g [½ lb] tortillas (around 16 tortillas), preferably on the stale side
100 g [4 oz] lard

*While epazote is one of the most commonly used aromatics in Mexico, its unusual pungent flavor cannot be replicated by other herbs. So if you don’t have access to fresh or dried epazote, it’s perfectly fine to just leave it out—no substitutions required.

Garnishes

These are the ingredients for the most traditional toppings for tortilla soup in central Mexico. As mentioned above, there’s no need to constrain yourself to the garnishes listed here.

2 pasilla chiles
250 g [½ lb] panela cheese, paneer or any type of fresh white cheese
1-2 avocados
4 Mexican limes or key limes
50 g [2 oz] pork crackling (chicharrón)
200 ml [7 fl oz] table cream (such as sour cream or crème fraîche)

---

Instructions

1. Make the toasted tortilla powder.

2. Prepare the fried tortilla strips.

a.  Cut the tortillas into strips. Take a few tortillas, slice them in half, stack them on top of one another, then slice into strips (about 1 cm or ½ inch wide). Continue until all tortillas have been sliced.

b.  Melt 100 g lard (about ½ cup) in a small frying pan over medium heat. Once it starts to smoke, add a small handful of tortilla strips. Do not overcrowd the pan or the tortilla won’t crisp properly. Fry the tortilla strips, moving them frequently with a spatula to ensure uniform crisping. Once crisp and golden (about 1½ to 2 minutes), remove and let drain on paper towels.

c.   Save the hot lard for the next step of the recipe.

This is what your fried tortilla strips should look like.

3. Prepare the pasilla chile garnish.

a. Take 2 pasilla chiles and wipe clean and remove the stems. Then, cut an opening down the length of one side of each chile to remove the seeds.

b. Slice the chiles into strips (about 1 cm or ½ inch wide) across the width.

c. Using the hot lard you used to fry the tortilla strips, fry the pasilla chile strips for 20-25 seconds, moving constantly, until they start to blister. The chile will burn easily, so be prepared to remove the fried chile strips immediately. Let drain on paper towels.

These look about right—nicely blistered but not burnt.

4. Char the vegetables.

a. Preheat your comal or skillet over high heat. You’ll know it’s ready when you flick water with your fingers and it immediately beads up.

b. Take the guajillo and pasilla chiles (2-3 of each), wipe them clean and remove the stems. Then, cut an opening down the length of one side of each chile to remove the seeds. Set aside.

c. On the hot comal or skillet, char the 500 g (1 lb) of tomatoes (leave them whole), the onion half and the 3 cloves of garlic in their peels (the peels are left on to help prevent burning while on the stovetop; remove them before blending into puree). You’ll know the tomatoes are ready when they have charred spots on all sides and are beginning to soften. Set aside in a bowl.

d. Quickly toast the cleaned, seeded chiles. Toast them until they begin to blister, then flip over—about 20 seconds on each side or else they will burn (which creates a bitter flavor). Remove from heat immediately.

The tomatoes are ready once they are charred on all sides and are beginning to soften.

Once your chiles have blistered like this guajillo chile, immediately remove them from the heat source.

5. Make a vegetable puree for the soup base.

a. Preheat your stockpot over medium-high heat. Your pot should have a capacity of at least 3 liters (3 quarts).

b. Coarsely chop the charred tomatoes, onion and garlic.

c. Blend together the chopped charred vegetables and toasted chiles. Continue to blend until you have a smooth puree.

d. Add a tablespoon of melted lard to the stockpot. Use the lard that you previously fried the tortilla and chile strips—it will now be nicely flavored. :)

e. Pour the vegetable puree into the stockpot and fry in the lard for 3-4 minutes. Keep moving the puree constantly until it thickens and reduces slightly.

Once the puree can form soft ridges, it’s ready.

6. Finish the broth.

a. Add 2 liters of chicken stock to the stockpot to dilute the vegetable puree. Stir to blend and bring the broth to a boil. Once boiling, reduce the temperature to low and let simmer covered for 10-12 minutes.

b. Stir in ¼ cup of ground dried tortilla powder and blend well to ensure that there are no clumps. Season with salt and ground black pepper to taste then add the epazote. Let simmer uncovered 3-5 minutes more.

 7. Prepare the garnishes.

a. This recipe includes preparations for the six most common tortilla soup garnishes: lime wedges, table cream, avocado chunks, cubes of panela cheese, pork crackling and fried chile strips. The chile strips are already done, but there are five more toppings to prepare.

b. Cut the limes into quarters and place in a bowl.

c. Scoop the table cream into a bowl.

d. Cut the avocado in half, remove the seed and cut flesh into cubes. Arrange pieces on a small plate.

e. Cut the 250g (½ lb) of panela cheese into cubes and set on a small plate.

f. Put pork crackling on a small plate. If pieces are large, break them into bite-sized morsels.

g. Place fried chile strips on a small plate.

h. Put all garnishes in the center of the dining table.

 8. Ready to serve.

a. Place a handful of fried tortilla strips in each bowl.

b. Gently pour broth over the tortilla strips. Use about one cup for a small serving and two cups for a larger portion.

c. Let each diner garnish their soup as desired with the prepared toppings on the table.

A naked bowl of tortilla soup. It will taste so much better once dressed.

Mexico City braces for COVID-19 →

For the past three weeks, I’ve awoken to birdsong.

This is a far better way to greet the day than being slapped awake by the usual cacophony of my neighborhood. Before, my morning soundtrack was honking cars and shouting street vendors—¡pásale, pásale!—and the chuf chuf chuf of police helicopters rattling the windowpanes. Now, there is quiet. I rouse myself from the sheets and amble over to my rowing machine’s new spot in the middle of the living room. I use it daily and besides, no one’s coming over anytime soon, so there’s no reason to drag it to the back bedroom once I finish. I stretch for a couple of minutes, then sit down on the hard plastic seat before I can change my mind. Then I begin. The flywheel whirs as I pull the chain toward my torso, my body whooshes back—pause—and then I pull myself forward with a swoosh. Repeat. My thighs push me back with a whoosh, I fully extend my legs, then I scoot forward with a swoosh. Repeat. I continue my back and forth—whoosh, swoosh, whoosh, swoosh, whoosh, swoosh—creating a mechanical rhythm that relaxes my mind. The birds continue their morning concert, their songs reaching my ears through the open window. Sweat trickles down my temple.

This is my mindfulness practice.

---

The world is in the midst of a pandemic, which is why so many of us are doing some form of meditation these days—anything to tame the anxiety. We’ve all learned so much about pandemics recently, such as the fact that they come in stages. Mexico, by the way, is now in Stage 2 (which means that the virus is being transmitted locally). Compared to countries in Asia, Europe and North America, we’re late to the coronavirus party, which should come as no surprise since in Mexico, arriving late is part of our national character. In fact, it wasn’t until the very end of February that three men returned to Mexico from Italy and tested positive for Covid-19. On this same day, cases of Covid-19 were already approaching 84,000 worldwide.

During the month of March, we knew that a slow-moving hurricane was headed toward Mexico City. This stood in dramatic contrast from the previous month, when we were still enjoying the explosion of new memes and dancing to the “Coronavirus Cumbia”—our collective sense of humor still very much intact. And while China seemed far away indeed, we felt the threat coming closer. As we tried to digest the flood of online news from the front lines, the horrors of Wuhan gave way to new horrors reported in Milan, Madrid, London and New York.

Still, life in Mexico City continued. We had yet to learn the concept of social distancing. We went to work, packing ourselves into crowded buses and trains or maneuvering our vehicles onto gridlocked streets. We continued to go to the shops to buy stuff we didn’t really need, we ate tacos on the street, we got drunk and stoned with our friends, and we went to concerts. In fact, on the weekend of March 14-15, more than 115,000 attended the Vive Latino music festival. And why not? Our president, Andrés Manuel López Obrador (better known as “AMLO”), hadn’t raised any alarm and he was busy hitting the streets, still hugging supporters and kissing babies. AMLO even contradicted Mexican health officials, saying, “There are those who say we should stop hugging because of coronavirus. But we should hug. Nothing will happen.” Thanks for the reassurance, Mr. President. Now tell that to the families of the nearly 200 people in Mexico who have already died from COVID-19.

I noticed a change in the air after the music festival. Many of us were dumbfounded that such an event was allowed to proceed. Why would the authorities permit a gathering of thousands of people in close quarters? Many of us knew that the number of COVID-19 cases was rising in Mexico, yet the nature of the virus, whose carriers could transmit it without showing any symptoms for two weeks or more, meant that it was impossible to know the true extent of the pandemic in Mexico. Testing was scant nationwide and travel remained largely unrestricted, which allowed infected individuals to continue to arrive in the country—including waves of vacationing spring breakers from the United States and Canada. Party on kids and damn the consequences!

Instagram has become a fascinating repository of cultural expression in the Covid-19 era.

Even in normal times, living in Mexico can be hazardous to your health. The government’s war on drugs—now in its 14th year—continues its absurd trajectory. Thus far, it has left 150,000 dead and more than 60,000 disappeared. Mexico also has one of the highest rates of femicide in the world, with nearly a thousand women killed last year alone; this ongoing epidemic of gender violence that affects us all has seen the number of Mexican women killed annually double in just five years. If that wasn’t enough already, we’re also in the midst of a homegrown measles outbreak—the first such episode in Mexico in 20 years—with more than 100 cases reported in and around Mexico City. Measles, the most contagious virus known to mankind, has returned to Mexico thanks to anti-vaxxers. Moreover, with more than 40% of Mexicans living in poverty, and susceptible to medical conditions such as diabetes, hypertension, respiratory tract infections and pulmonary disease—and without guaranteed access to clean water—Mexico is all but guaranteed to see a brutal toll in infections and deaths once the number of COVID-19 cases skyrockets with the arrival of Phase 3 of the epidemic later this month. Nobody knows what will happen for sure, but we’ve been told that our fate will likely mirror that of Italy. Funny memes and songs will not save us.

For now, at least the streets are quiet. This provides introverted me with some consolation and peace of mind while I wait for the full horrors of the COVID-19 apocalypse to arrive. Normally, the sheer roar produced by this city of 22 million is soul crushing. For 12 hours a day, the urban racket outside my downtown apartment makes it difficult to work from home and impossible to concentrate on a book while kicking back on the sofa. Finally, in this city that never shuts up, there is silence—perhaps the only silver lining to this situation.

Time to check my privilege. I work for a company that has taken action to protect its employees irrespective of official mandates. With a dearth of meaningful guidance from the Mexican authorities, my employer approved working from home beginning March 17th—a full nine days before the government essentially made work from home mandatory for those who could. This was the day I posted a dumb photo of a burrito on Instagram, urging my followers to “make like this burrito and socially isolate yourselves starting NOW.” Since this time, I’ve ventured outside on only five separate occasions and all but once to buy food at the nearby public market. (The other trip was to take my cat to the veterinarian, because what better time to get an eye infection than during a pandemic? Meow.) I’m extremely lucky to live within a 10-minute walk of everything I could possibly need during this weird time: fresh food, at least a dozen pharmacies and (of course) the vet. My first trip outside, the outdoor city looked and felt much like it always had. Then, with each subsequent outing, I saw lighter traffic, more shuttered shops and fewer people on the streets.

Then the looting began. As we neared the end of March, news reports began to circulate that the criminally minded were using WhatsApp and Facebook groups to organize mass looting events targeting retail stores in mostly poorer neighborhoods and suburbs of Mexico City. Their pretext? To counter possible shortages of essential goods in the face of the COVID-19 pandemic. As alarmist as these reports sounded, they proved to be true. To date, there have been more than 50 episodes of organized robbery and looting of grocery stores and department stores around the country—mostly in and around Mexico City. Did the criminals clean the shelves of toilet paper, bleach and hand sanitizer? Nope. Mostly they stole electronics, mobile phones and alcoholic beverages.

Nowadays, Mexico City is a shadow of its former self. Back in February, no one could’ve predicted the empty streets and surging economic fallout with which we now must contend. On March 23, the federal government declared a “National Day of Safe Distance,” a campaign to underscore the importance of social distancing and to announce the temporary closure of schools and large-scale public events. The campaign introduced Mexico to Susana Distancia, a superhero who teaches the importance of maintaining a minimum distance of 1.5m between people. Her name is Spanish wordplay that translates to “Your Safe Distance” and it’s one of the more accessible public health education campaigns I’ve seen. The municipal government of nearby Metepec even produced a live-action video of Susana Distancia, who is portrayed by the town’s very own mayor. The video has, predictably, gone viral.

Wait, are we still describing videos as viral?

A Susana Distancia poster hangs over an empty Plaza de las Vizcaínas in central Mexico City. The public health campaign features a superhero designed to teach citizens how to socially distance and stay safe during the COVID-19 pandemic.

In the Centro Histórico—the city’s ancient heart—additional preventive measures have been introduced. This dense network of narrow streets has been my home for nearly a decade and it teems with humanity, drawing up to two million visitors on a typical weekday. Given the heightened risk for coronavirus contagion in such densely inhabited places, the local government has begun power-washing and disinfecting public spaces in the neighborhood on a daily basis.

And though there are orders to stay at home, you can still observe people walking about and working in the Centro, but please don’t shout at them from your apartment window to stay at home. Despite a decade of rapid gentrification, this isn’t a wealthy enclave like Polanco, Condesa or Santa Fe; it is a district still largely defined by the poverty of its residents, who cannot eat if they do not work. Most of my neighbors do not share my good fortune and can’t do their jobs from home. For this reason, the focus has been on discouraging non-residents from visiting the area. Last week, the Zócalo—the city’s large central plaza—was cordoned off along with Francisco I. Madero street—the busiest pedestrian corridor in Latin America, which draws 350,000 visitors on an average day. Today, an incredible 80% of the businesses in the Centro Histórico have closed.

When the “Day of Safe Distance” was declared, it seemed that all of Mexico headed straight to the shops for fear they would shut down. Some of the products that saw the highest rise in demand were rice, pasta, bleach and canned vegetables. Strangely, whiskey and tequila saw significant drops in sales, which makes no sense to me because when the caca hits the fan, I’m not gonna want to be sober. As an ambitious home cook, my cupboards are usually fully stocked with various types of dried beans, chiles, rice, corn, nuts and flour. My weekly shopping trips are primarily to replenish fresh produce. There is so much in season in Mexico in April—cauliflower, beets, mamey, chayote, pineapple, spinach, nopal, mango, potatoes, carrots and strawberries—and these healthy foods provide us the nutrients our bodies need during stressful times like the present. The family who has supplied me with fruits and vegetables for nearly a decade has pledged to remain open for business and now offers home delivery. This, along with frequent hand washing and staying indoors, is the closest I have to an insurance policy to stay healthy. I try to avoid the news and focus on cooking instead because unlike gloomy media reports, cooking brings me joy.

---

Though it appears that the world is falling apart around me, I feel quite calm—like the dog surrounded by flames in the This is Fine meme. This is not what I would characterize as an appropriate reaction, though my therapist assures me that there is no “appropriate” reaction to current times. And while I certainly understand that this moment we’re living through is ushering in tremendous pain and disruption for people everywhere, I can’t help but feel a tiny bit hopeful.

For more than two years, I’ve been living with profound depression and anxiety that has pushed me to isolate myself as a form of self-preservation. These feelings of hopelessness and dread that you’re now experiencing? They have been my constant companions for too long now. And yet, here I am. I’m still breathing. I’m still alive. Nowadays, I no longer have to explain to others that I feel emotionally fragile—that things are difficult. I don’t need to explain my choice to coop myself up at home and avoid social gatherings. These days, everyone can empathize with me because we all feel the same way.

This is my fourth pandemic. I came out of the closet in the 1980s, back when AIDS was still a mysterious death sentence and HIV was infecting queer communities far and wide. (At that time, most people could care less and were content to let us die.) Then, in 2003, the SARS virus came to Toronto while I was in the city to complete a professional certification course. There was tension and fear in the air, but mostly, urban life remained hectic and continued without interruption. Next, H1N1 arose in Mexico in 2009; I was working as a teacher in the northern city of Monterrey and while schools were closed temporarily, the turmoil was short lived.

I don’t claim to be an expert, but it’s hard to refrain from drawing conclusions about the current pandemic based upon my past experiences. It seems certain that things will grow worse—perhaps unbearably so, leaving me with dozens of dead friends all over again—but then, slowly, the pandemic will begin to fade away. Then, it will flare up again before once again waning into the background. When humanity emerges from the other side of the COVID-19 pandemic, we will be different, but we will still be human. The world will change in ways that we cannot predict, but I doubt that it will change very much. We’ll still have inequality, we’ll still have hunger, we’ll still have hate, we’ll still have violence.

But maybe, just maybe, we’ll also have more empathy for our fellow human beings.

#StaySafe #StayHealthy #WereInThisTogether

The best poster I’ve seen to encourage citizens to stay at home comes from the municipal government of Guadalupe, Nuevo León (a suburb of Monterrey). It states simply, “We’re not asking you to go to war” and is followed by a hashtag that translates to #StayAtHome.

19S

It happened two years ago, but it’s fresh enough that I still jump when I hear a car alarm.

Last week marked the second anniversary of the 7.1 magnitude earthquake struck Mexico City on the afternoon of September 19, 2017, toppling some 40 buildings and killing more than 200 people in the city. The quake struck on the anniversary of another much more powerful earthquake that devastated the city back in 1985. That quake, with a magnitude of 8.1, released 30 times more energy than the more recent quake and killed anywhere from 12,000 to 35,000 people—to this day, nobody knows for sure.

The morning of September 19, 2017 was the same as any other day. Once I made it to the office, my colleagues and I began to whine that we’d have to scurry down 20 flights of stairs for the citywide evacuation drill that’s held every September 19 to commemorate the 1985 quake. When our building’s PA system sounded, we ambled to the emergency stairway and made our way to the street below, where we waited impatiently for building management to give us permission to return to our offices. “Are we done yet?” many of us moaned, eager to get back to ticking items off our daily to-do lists.

Two hours later, as I sat in a meeting, our office tower began to sway. We scrambled to the elevator lobby, where we sheltered in place as the building began to pitch ever more violently, like a ship on the open sea. Panic. Cries. An interminable wait. Finally, when the PA system directed us to evacuate the building, we wasted no time.

After evacuating the building , my colleagues and I were rattled by the quake, yet we had no real idea as to the extent of the damage. We waited in the hot sun for three hours, checking our phones for information and trying to get in touch with our loved ones.

We waited outside for three hours until building management told evacuees that each tenant could send representatives to collect the personal belongings left behind in our rush to escape. Once a colleague returned with my laptop and backpack, it was time to finally leave and to head out into the city.

I’d initially accepted a ride to my boyfriend’s place from a co-worker, but decided to get out and walk after advancing only five blocks in 20 minutes. Power was out across much of the city and, given that neither public transportation nor traffic lights were working, streets were gridlocked. I’d later learn that there had been a spike in assaults on drivers in the first hours after the quake as opportunistic criminals targeted those unlucky enough to be trapped in traffic. So much for our shared humanity.

I made my way on foot to Colonia Cuauhtémoc, the neighbourhood where my boyfriend lived in the heart of Mexico City. I saw buckled streets and piles of rubble, though I soon realized that much of this destruction was actually gentrification-fuelled construction debris rather than earthquake damage. I felt a bit better, until I reached Ismael’s block, cordoned by yellow tape. It looked like the eight-storey building across the street would collapse at any moment.

Once inside, I joined Ismael and two other shell-shocked friends who had gathered in his apartment. Nobody wanted to be alone. We anxiously posted status updates on Facebook and checked our Twitter feeds for information, only to encounter one disturbing video after another—each more horrifying than the last—showing scenes of urban carnage. Destruction was far and wide, with collapsed buildings reported as far north as Lindavista and as far south as Coapa—a distance of 30 km. Neighbourhoods devastated by the 1985 quake, like Roma and Condesa, were pummelled once again, while other parts of the city like Del Valle, which was largely unscathed in 1985, saw numerous apartment towers fall.

I couldn’t tell how the city’s historic centre had fared, and I was growing increasingly nervous since that’s where I live. I needed to get home to see what had become of my neighbourhood and my apartment.

As we walked the 4 km to my apartment, Ismael and I passed many damaged structures like this building in Colonia Juárez. It was one of the most unsettling walks I’ve taken in my life.

I finally arrived at my place some six hours after the quake had struck.

“Ready?” asked Ismael, who had walked with me to my place so I wouldn’t have to face it alone. I unlocked my door and we stepped inside. Greeted by broken crockery and tumbled books, I saw my houseplants naked atop potting mix on the living room floor. What a relief! This was so much better than I’d expected! I wouldn’t notice the broken windows and numerous cracked walls until I returned in the light of day.

Feeling overwhelmed and impotent in the face of disaster, Ismael and I made sandwiches for the volunteers working to free quake victims. I still don’t know what prompted me to take this photo—though the effects of shock likely played a role.

Now it was time for me to retrieve clothes and the other things I’d need while I sheltered at Ismael’s place, as his building had already been declared structurally sound by the authorities. I no longer felt safe in my familiar old neighbourhood, especially after passing the chaotic scene of a four-story building that had pancaked just three blocks from home. But instead of collecting my things, I looked around my apartment for anything useful for the rescue effort. I had an extra lantern and I could buy some batteries. But what more could I do?

“Let’s make sandwiches,” said Ismael, seemingly out of nowhere, reading my thoughts. Sandwiches—for the volunteers digging through the rubble in my backyard. “Yeah,” I said. “Sandwiches.”

We had to visit four different convenience stores to find enough supplies to assemble four dozen sandwiches. Already, food supplies were vanishing from the corner shops, but we managed to buy everything we needed to make Mexican-style ham sandwiches: white sandwich bread, mayonnaise, queso panela, ham and pickled jalapeños. After assembling sandwiches in near silence for 40 minutes, we set off for the disaster site around the corner laden with four bags of sandwiches—the same ham-and-cheese sandwiches made daily by millions of Mexican mothers for their school-bound children. Comfort food. We walked out onto my street, crowded with people carrying shovels, pick axes, and buckets. I was humbled to see so many of my neighbours rushing to save lives.

It took us less than five minutes to reach Chimalpopoca street. We turned the corner and waded into the pandemonium. At the end of the block beyond the crowd of hundreds was a floodlit pile of rubble 10 metres high, rescuers shouting atop broken slabs of concrete. Ismael and I were invited past a police line of riot shields and dropped off our contributions at the collection tent. The noise and the chaos stung and, with no reason to linger, we headed back to my apartment.

I burst into tears the minute we stepped inside.

---

In the days following the quake, Mexico City became a kinder and gentler version of its normal self. Traffic was lighter and drivers mostly stopped honking their horns to express their frustration at others. Even the normal autumn smog had dissipated. We lined up at hardware stores to buy pick axes, gloves, helmets, safety vests, nylon rope, bolt cutters and crow bars. We lined up at pharmacies to buy medication, syringes, electrolyte solution, diapers, baby formula and bandages. When our bank accounts ran low, we turned to fundraising to get more money to buy more things—whatever we could—for the rescue and recovery effort.

We were told to stop donating food. So many of us wanted to feed the rescuers that food was now piling up and going uneaten.

Us Chilangos also saw our stress and anxiety metamorphose into physical symptoms—like sore muscles and gas. I thought I was the only one suffering from leg pains and uncontrollable farting, until I asked around and found that I was not alone. Although most of the gas leaks in buildings had been fixed, gas leaks of the human kind continued unabated.

We were shaky and skittish—and not only because of our collective mental state. The ground continued to move beneath us, sometimes strong enough to set off the earthquake alarms and sometimes not. By early October, we had been rattled by more than 6,500 aftershocks. Our nerves were shot.

"What doesn't kill you makes you stronger," some say.

Bullshit. What doesn't kill you gives you PTSD.

Genova Street in the Zona Rosa on September 20, 2017. The damaged high-rise building on the left has since been demolished.

Within a week, a new sort of normal had settled in.

The new normal meant walking past piles of broken glass and concrete in the streets. We had to walk in the streets because so many sidewalks had been cordoned off to protect pedestrians from falling debris. The new normal brought thousands of tents around the city that served as collection points for food, medicine and emergency rescue supplies. The new normal meant people living in tents on the street, along landscaped medians and in city parks. Shelters popped up haphazardly; my own neighbourhood’s emergency shelter was set up at the site that used to be home to Butterflies, a gay bar celebrated for its elaborate drag shows and that was also the first gay bar I ever visited in Mexico City.

Given the need for housing, I decided to offer my spare bedroom to someone who had been made homeless by the quake. Within 24 hours of posting an ad online, I had a roommate—my first in 15 years. Fanny used to live on the 16th floor of an apartment in Tlatelolco, a sprawling housing estate where entire towers pancaked in the 1985 quake. After the recent earthquake, her apartment tower was declared in imminent danger; she wasn't given much time to get out and had to leave behind most of her belongings. I was old enough to be her father, but we got along fine and I felt happy to be able to offer her shelter during such tumult.

This is the site of Bolivar 168, a four-story commercial building that collapsed around the corner from my apartment. I’d walked past this building hundreds of times, yet it was so unremarkable that I couldn't even remember what it looked like. At least 21 people—mostly immigrants—died here, employed in precarious circumstances. It took just three weeks to clear the rubble. Within two months, the site was being used as a parking lot, the victims already largely forgotten.

One month after the earthquake and the goodwill among citizens had largely disappeared. Mexico City returned to normal far more quickly than I was prepared for. By "normal" I mean drivers leaning on their horns while narrowly missing pedestrians, cyclists riding down the middle of crowded sidewalks, and everyone pushing and shoving in the Metro—which was no longer offering free rides. Cops went back to shaking down citizens and, once again, we reverted to our well-founded suspicion of strangers. It was all too much and worse than before, since the urban chaos was now framed by a dystopian panorama of mounds of rubble and makeshift shrines to the dead.

Implausibly, tourists continued to visit Mexico City. They strolled the streets of Roma, Condesa and the Zona Rosa taking selfies in front of condemned buildings to post on Instagram. Residents posted signs imploring visitors to not take photos; such written pleas were soundly ignored. Even I found myself soothing the nerves of my own visitors, who asked me whether it was okay to do the sorts of touristy things that wouldn’t have raised eyebrows before the quake. But after the quake, their actions seemed wrong. Everything just seemed wrong.

---

Two years after the quake, many in Mexico City have recovered and returned to their former selves and former lives. Some of us, however, are more depressed and anxious than we used to be, and we still jump at the sound of a car alarm. We are more likely to have emotional problems that interfere with our ability to enjoy life. We wonder when we will feel normal again.

Before the earthquake, I had been working on my drawing skills and had dreams of making comics. I drew this comic nine days after the earthquake. To date, it’s the last comic I ever made.

Happy birthday Señor Nacho!

I don’t pay too much attention to Google Doodles. Don’t get me wrong, they’re certainly charming, but my need to search for something else generally takes precedence over interacting with the illustration on my search page. But today, Google got my attention.

Today, I opened my web browser and was greeted by an animated illustration of a man making nachos.

Yes, nachos.

I’d already heard the story that a man named Nacho invented nachos in a border town restaurant in Mexico as a way of placating hungry customers, but I was surprised that he was being honored with a Google Doodle—the online equivalent of having a monument raised in your honor.

Don’t get me wrong, the doodle made by Alfonso de Anda is wonderful. Moreover, I like nachos just fine and I’m sure that Mr. Nacho Anaya García was a lovely man. It’s just that since moving to Mexico, I haven’t had any good nachos—except for the ones I make myself. Unlike in the US, where you can find fairly decent nachos on the menus of many casual restaurants and sports bars, here in Mexico, nachos are what you buy when you go the movies. Or when you’ve been drinking and you walk past a convenience store and are in desperate need for empty calories.

In Mexico, nachos are almost always served like this: first, you have to open your own bag of tortilla chips and dump them into the tiny plastic tray with three compartments: one for chips and two others for whatever you want to fill them with. (In my case, pickled jalapeños.) Then, you have to pump your own cheese from a plastic dispenser filled with lukewarm cheesy goop the color of disappointment. If you’re lucky, there will be enough to generously cover your chips; more likely, you’ll have to smack the pump repeatedly so that you can decorate your chips with the last remaining globs of orange that you have wrung from the machine.

And obviously, when you take your first bite, the cheese will dribble onto your shirt, leaving a greasy reminder of your unsatisfying snack.

Keep in mind that these movie theatre nachos have been worked over by a food stylist before being photographed and photoshopped, and yet they still provoke sadness.

What I never realized about Google Doodles until today, is that you can access all of the doodles in an archive. This is how I learned that the nacho doodle is not the first time that Mexican food has been celebrated. On September 16, 2014—Mexican Independence Day—the Google Doodle featured an illustration of a chile en nogada, a feat of gastronomic alchemy in which a poblano chile is stuffed with spiced ground beef, glazed with a walnut cream sauce and sprinkled with pomegranate seeds.

Mexico’s Google Doodle on September 16, 2014

The chile en nogada doodle was only programmed to appear on Google’s Mexico website. The nacho doodle, on the other hand, appeared today in Mexico and 18 other countries around the world. Of course, it appeared in the US, but also in Venezuela, Argentina, Germany, Slovakia and…Vietnam.

They eat nachos in Vietnam?

I had to find out for myself. So I returned to Google and entered two search words, only to learn that the Vietnamese eat nachos at the movies too.

Apparently, bad nachos are also a thing in Vietnamese movie theatres.

How to cure a clay pot

I just bought my first ever cazuela de barro—also known as a clay pot. Even though I didn’t grow up in a family that used these cooking vessels, I’d wanted one for many years but never bought one because I’d been scared off by scary articles like this one and this one. It’s true: many of the glazes used in Mexican pottery contain lead. That said, for generations, women in Mexico have cured their clay pots to remove lead residue in the glaze and to make the clay more heat resistant.

Let’s be honest—I have my doubts that the curing process I learned actually removes all traces of lead, but who am I to argue with centuries of tradition? Many Mexicans will tell you that food cooked in cazuelas de barro tastes more delicious than food prepared in a metal pot. I find myself caught between the desire to uphold time-honored Mexican cooking techniques and the warnings issued by international health agencies about lead poisoning. What seems clear is that the harmful effects of lead are far more pronounced for young children; early exposure can lead to problems with the brain and central nervous system and a host of other serious complications. That said, since I am a middle-aged man and not a child, I’m going to take my chances and cure my clay pot so I can use it for cooking from time to time.

So, while I am in no way claiming that you will be able to avoid all exposure to lead if you cure your clay pot before you use it, if you’re comfortable assuming some risk here, here’s how to do it.

Here’s what you’ll need:

A cazuela de barro

Corn flour (masa harina) or corn starch

A heaping tablespoon of calcium hydroxide (cal)

A clove of peeled garlic

Tap water

1. Cut garlic clove in half and rub it all over the bottom of the pot.

2. Rub garlic over sides of pot as well.

3. And also on the inside of the pot.

4. Add a cup of water to the calcium hydroxide and stir to combine.

5. Use a brush or cloth to apply the calcium hydroxide solution to the bottom of the pot.

6. Once finished, let the pot dry for around five minutes to allow the clay to soak up the solution.

7. Add a second coat and let dry.

8. Fill close to the top with tap water and set on stove.

9. Add around six heaping spoons of corn flour and stir.

10. Keep stirring until you have a milky solution. Add more corn flour if necessary.

11. Bring to a boil, stirring to prevent flour from accumulating on bottom.

12. Boil for twenty minutes.

13. Discard liquid and rinse out any corn flour.

14. Let dry. And you’re done!

:)

How organized criminals caused a tortilla shortage

My previous post was about crime and my penultimate post was about tortillas, so it’s probably fitting that this post is about crime and tortillas.

Today, El Universal reported that the city of Celaya, Guanajuato is experiencing a tortilla shortage as a result of ongoing protests by tortilla makers, who have shut their doors to call attention to the climate of fear in which they operate. Since last year, violence has skyrocketed in Guanajuato state, which has made Celaya one the most dangerous cities in Mexico. Organized criminals, have been targeting tortillerías to pay extortion demands in the form a monthly “operating tax” that can range from $3,000 (CAD 200; USD 150) to as high as $50,000 (CAD 3,400; USD 2,500)—amounts impossible to pay for businesses that make only a small profit. A full 95% of tortillerías in the city report being victims of extortion.

Most of Celaya’s tortillerías closed Saturday through Monday to highlight the need for improved security. Despite this, at around 5 o’clock on Monday afternoon, three women at Tortillería La Indita were gunned down in their shop, which had remained open during the protests. As a result, most of the city’s tortillerías remained shuttered through today. Residents walking the streets in search of tortillas lamented the situation; one woman grumbled that since none of the tortillerías were open, she’d have to buy tortillas at the supermarket—something no self-respecting Mexican would do since everyone knows that supermarket tortillas are the absolute worst.

El Paso

Since I moved to Mexico in 2004, there have been 80 mass shootings in the United States, which have killed a total of 677 people. In Mexico—despite widespread violence of our own—there have been zero mass shootings at schools, festivals or Walmarts.

I have nothing to say that hasn’t already been said, so let me turn this over to the experts: Mexican political cartoonists from La Jornada.

Children of the corn: Maizajo helps to save real tortillas

“I don’t like corn tortillas.”

My mom said this to me the other week while we spoke on the phone. They’re unexpected words, coming as they did from the mouth of a Mexican-American woman born and raised in California, but if you’ve ever tasted the industrial corn tortillas available in the state’s suburban supermarkets, you’d probably form the same opinion. I guess this is why we usually ate flour tortillas at home. When we did buy corn tortillas, it was only to fry them into taco shells.

Moving to Monterrey, Mexico 15 years ago did little to alter my perception of corn tortillas. Then again, it’s not surprising given that flour tortillas—not corn—form the basis of the northern Mexican city’s cuisine. Moreover, most of the corn tortillas you’ll find in Monterrey are made of processed corn flour and are just as flavorless as the corn tortillas I grew up with.

I don’t think I tasted a truly good corn tortilla until I took a 500 km road trip from Monterrey to the Huasteca Potosina, a beautifully lush but impoverished region of the country, where corn firmly remains the foundation of local cuisine. In the Huasteca, the tortillas tasted of earth, of life. Sure, you could fill them with a scoop of beans or a few slices of avocado, but really, they were perfectly delicious eaten plain or with a sprinkle of salt.

My lowly opinion of the corn tortilla was changed forever.

When I moved to Mexico City, I assumed that good corn tortillas would be available throughout the capital. Nope. Most of the corn tortillas you’ll find here—even at most neighborhood tortillerías—are just as flavorless as the rest. If you want good tortillas, you have to do some research.

Which is how I learned about Maizajo.

The interior of Maizajo, with millstones displayed at left.

In an unassuming warehouse in Mexico City’s Azcapotzalco district, you’ll find Maizajo. It’s yet another tortillería in a city that’s home to thousands—but this place is different. Santiago Muñoz founded the organization together with a small group of friends and colleagues who were alarmed by the forces transforming Mexico’s traditional corn-based culture—and destroying the tortilla.

For 5,000 years, the inhabitants of Mesoamerica have used the process of nixtamalización to transform dried native corn into into pliable corn masa, which is used to make tortillas and other dietary staples. Dried kernels are cooked and soaked in an alkaline solution, which improves their flavour and aroma, boosts their nutritional value and makes them easier to grind into masa. It’s an arduous process that has traditionally required vast inputs of labour—almost always by women—to produce the essential component of any Mexican meal. And, because masa needs to be used the day it is made, women had to spend hours every morning nixtamalizing and grinding corn to make tortillas.

Co-founder Santiago Muñoz demonstrates how to remove corn kernels from a corncob using an olotera.

Although “good” corn tortillas made of nixtamalized corn were commonly sold in Mexico City tortillerías into the 1990s, today, they are hard to come by thanks to the rise of the corn flour tortilla in Mexico. First developed 70 years ago to ease the burden of tortilla-making, corn flour (masa harina) is masa that has been processed and dried to make it shelf stable. Just add water and voilà!—you’ve got instant masa ready to press into tortillas.

Unfortunately, tortillas made of corn flour have an insipid flavour and break apart quite easily. Even worse, as Santiago explained, a single batch of corn flour produced in Mexico can contain dozens of varieties of corn, including low-grade, genetically modified corn, which US agribusinesses have been dumping in Mexico for more than two decades under the terms of the North American Free Trade Agreement (NAFTA). This is particularly worrisome, given that Mexico prohibits the cultivation of GMO corn on Mexican soil.

To nixtamalize corn, the dried kernels are cooked and left to soak in an alkaline solution of calcium hydroxide.

Despite these drawbacks, 90-95% of the tortillerías in Mexico City now use corn flour. The corn flour can be combined with nixtamalized masa or used by itself. Many tortillería owners acquire their production equipment at low or no cost from companies like Monterrey-based Gruma—the world’s largest producer of corn flour and tortillas—which then require their clients to purchase corn flour from them alone. This creates a self-perpetuating cycle that precludes these small businesses from making traditional tortillas with nixtamalized corn.

Furthermore, guaranteed high demand for corn flour places pressure on small-scale farmers to abandon the low-yield varieties of multi-hued Mexican native and creole corn for the dependable hybrids preferred by corn flour manufacturers. The rise of corn flour hasn’t only destroyed the tortilla; it is also wreaking havoc on corn biodiversity in Mexico.

Álvaro prepares to grind nixtamalized corn.

This is precisely why Maizajo was founded: to help reverse the dominance of corn flour while helping Mexicans understand that the foundation of their country’s traditional foodways is under threat. Despite its importance to national identity, city-dwelling Mexicans know next to nothing about corn. While many will recognize a field of corn when passing one on the highway, most don’t know that corn is planted in November so that it can be harvested in the spring. As for nixtamalization, it remains a process shrouded in mystery.

Moreover, many urban Mexicans don’t realize that today, their country’s heritage cuisine has essentially become a luxury good. Those of us who live in Mexico City have to visit the countryside to access many of these foods. (So common is this activity, there’s even a verb for it—pueblear—which literally means “to small town.”) Our other option for quality Mexican cuisine is to eat at one of the city’s renown restaurants that charge up to $4,000 (CAD 257 / USD 207) for a traditional tasting menu with wine pairings—a cost equal to 40 times the daily minimum wage in Mexico.

Maizajo provides tortillas to around 70 such high-end restaurants in Mexico City. They also sell tortillas to the public; the retail price for one dozen quality tortillas is $25 (CAD 1.70 / USD 1.30). Given that the price for a kilo of tortillas—about four dozen tortillas—at a neighbourhood tortillería is just $14 (CAD 0.97 / USD 0.73), Maizajo’s tortillas might seem expensive. But trust me, there is value in this price. The amount of work required to produce each tortilla is considerable and, if anything, prices are lower than the real cost of materials and labor.

Taste one of their amazing tortillas, and you’ll be convinced.

Fresh masa from the mill.

A tortilla press is used to form tortillas.

The best way to cook a good tortilla? Flip it three times on the comal.

---

 

Maizajo
Soledad 556
Col. El Jaguey
Azcapotzalco
02519 Mexico City
contacto@maizajo.com
+52 1 55 7959 8540

Welcome to my neighborhood

Eight years ago, I moved to the corner of Nezahualcóyotl and Isabel la Católica in Mexico City’s Centro Histórico. It’s a poetic name for an intersection, suggesting an embrace between 15th century contemporaries from opposite sides of the Atlantic: the philosopher king of Texcoco and the queen of Castile and León. Despite the allusion to royalty, it’s a plebeian corner of Mexico City’s historic core, where apartment building façades are decorated with graffiti and overhead power lines wear athletic shoes. Gentrification is coming, but it doesn’t yet have the momentum to cross busy Izazaga street, one block to the north.

Nezahualcóyotl street wakes just before seven o’clock, when tables are clacked open up and down the gutters facing the sidewalk. Already, the vendors have been chopping, slicing, mixing, kneading, spreading, scooping and pouring for hours—toiling in distant, tiny kitchens. One by one, they arrange their outdoor offerings as carefully as any greengrocer. There is no time to feel tired. Working quickly, tablecloths are draped, plastic crates emptied and their contents arranged for a quick sale to passing office workers. Blue-and-white boxes from Pastelería Ideal are propped open, revealing individually wrapped sweet breads and pastries.

The eleventh-floor windows of the water department catch the first sun from the east, reflecting the rays onto the asphalt below. The pavement is cracked and pocked and like an alcoholic looks terrible in the morning light. It is strewn with plastic bottle caps, cigarette butts and gray patches of chewing gum. Soon, a steady stream of slow-moving traffic will hide its most glaring flaws, restoring its virtue.

At seven-thirty, I make my way downstairs and step onto the sidewalk prepared for the sensory onslaught. Colors pull my eyes to brilliant shades of citrus, tropical fruits and cactus pears piled in tall plastic cups. As I move to my right, yielding to a man with a cane, my shoe finds a divot in the concrete and my ankle folds, nearly clipping the ground. Ouch! A car honks, goading another to do the same. A man laughs upon seeing a friend and shouts ¡Cabrón! ¿Qué haces aquí? before pulling him into an improvised embrace. A woman in too-high heels shuffles past, brushing my arm with her purse. I see a massive cardboard box overflowing with crunchy bolillo rolls that will be stuffed with fried tortillas simmered in salsa and bathed with cream to form spicy carb sandwiches: tortas de chilaquiles. A cloud of burning oak rises from a pair of squat braziers; it smells of the camping trip I took last April. A man ladles chocolate from a ceramic pot into a Styrofoam cup. I see transparent plastic clam shells containing salads topped with cheap protein—hard-boiled eggs, chicken nuggets, and fried mozzarella sticks—and wonder Who buys these? I feel the heat of a blazing griddle and slap-slap-slap-slap fills my ears as the woman pats out a gordita. As I step away, I hear the hiss as she slides the perfect disk of blue corn into the hot oil. The Pavlovian response is immediate.

By eight o’clock, men and women dressed for a morning cooler than this crowd the sidewalk. A tow truck holds a delivery truck in its claws, waiting to enter the central impound yard, where it will dump its victim before hitting the streets to find another. Parked cars fill every bit of curb, except for the spots taken by motorcycles or reserved by the entrepreneurs who stake their pavement claims with plastic stools and splintered packing crates.

Traffic has come to a standstill as usual, given that the traffic signal at the end of the block is set to permanent malfunction. The patrol car double parked to offer a jump to a colleague in a civilian sedan causes more congestion. An indigent man in a dirty Redskins jacket pushes a cargo bike stacked with naked mattress coils and an enormous sack of scavenged PET bottles. Cars stop in the middle of the street to release the low-paid office workers about to embark on their ten-hour slogs—godínez, they’re called mockingly. But unlike the higher-paid godínez like me who work on Paseo de la Reforma or out in godforsaken Santa Fe, on Nezahualcóyotl street there’s no AAA office space and no Starbucks. Here, there’s only homely concrete boxes housing floors of city utilities and their bleak bureaucracies.

The chill of morning is gone and the garment district at the far end of the block has come to life. Shopgirls in tight denim and midriffs raise the corrugated security blinds of cut-rate boutiques and wrangle mannequins onto the sidewalk. The insistent bass of high-energy music hemorrhages from open doorways. Catalog sales showrooms occupy the upper floors, trading in maternity wear, uniforms, girdles and, especially, lingerie. A banner advertising Tania undergarments shows a woman with red lips and black heels leaning against her bed, tousling her own hair. Fall in love with your sensuality as never before promises the slogan.

A young man in saggy pants wheels a garment rack down the sidewalk—freshly sewn samples from a sweatshop around the corner being delivered to a wholesaler. Two men in kippahs step out of a doorway and walk in tandem, each in a private conversation with his mobile phone. Jewish traders still dominate the downtown rag trade—a fact hinted at by the presence of Kosher tacos al pastor in local lunch spots—though every evening, they retreat to their homes in the verdant western hills.

Honestly, I’d leave too…if I could. Even though Nezahualcóyotl street has grown safer since I moved here, it’s also grown noisier, with even more police sirens, shouting street vendors and cars trying to honk their way out of gridlock. I’d love to escape the noise and chaos, to feel less anxious and on edge. But for the time being, this is home and whether I like it or not, it’s my ombilgo del mundo.