The Mija Chronicles

Mexican food and culture, on both sides of the border

Lesley Tellez

Peanut butter tacos, and other secret tortilla behaviors

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The New York Times had an article on spaghetti tacos awhile back. Did you see it? It was about how popular spaghetti tacos have become among kids. The tacos are exactly what they sound like, by the way: spaghetti noodles and tomato sauce, stuffed inside a tortilla.

It got me thinking about all the stuff I used to put in tortillas as a kid. We didn’t always have bread in the house, but we always, always had a package of flour tortillas in the lunch meat drawer. One of my favorite after-school snacks was a hot dog wrapped in a tortilla. Or a slice of bologna in a tortilla. Loved a tortilla with a smear of crunchy peanut butter, or layered with Kraft singles and microwaved until the cheese bubbled out the sides.

These days, my tortilla preference has switched to corn, but I still eat corn tortillas with peanut butter all the time. Sometimes I even add a little jelly. (PB&J in a tortilla! Yes, I’m fully admitting that’s weird.)

I’m curious: What is your favorite odd filling to put in a tortilla? What about when you were a kid?

Fresh chamomile tea, and a new Mexico City organic market

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One of the perks of living in Mexico City is that fresh chamomile is available almost everywhere. Of course, when I first moved here, I had no idea what it was — I thought vendors were selling a miniature type of daisy. Figured it was some fresh herb that cleaned out your kidneys, or something.

Only recently did I realize that those daisies were actually wild chamomile. I’ve been trying to kick my coffee habit, so I bought a bunch for the first time on Sunday at the Mercado el 100, a new weekly outdoor market that specializes in organic products.

The market launched a few Sundays ago in Roma, and then it moved to Parque México in Condesa. It’ll move again this weekend to Casa de Francia in Col. Juárez.

The market is fairly small, but it’s got a decent variety of products for sale — two vendors sell fresh produce (scored some gorgeous basil at one stand a few weeks ago), while the rest offer ready-made goods such as tortillas, jams, dried xoconostle, agave syrup, coffee.

The neat thing is that there isn’t any other outdoor market like this in the city. The tianguis sells produce and other products, but most of it comes from the Central de Abastos, which gets in turn gets it from large industrialized farms in Mexico. Nick Gilman has a detailed article about the Mercado el 100 on his blog, if you want to know more.

As for the chamomile tea: the fresh version has a much grassier, herbal flavor than the dried versions I’ve bought in the store. Just be careful not to add too much, as chamomile is a mild laxative.

Fresh Chamomile Tea
Makes about 3 cups

Note: I’ve heard some folks say they throw in the entire plant into the pot, and not just the flowers. I tried it this way and the resulting tea turned out green! And it tasted much more strongly of grass. So I prefer the flowers only. The taste obviously depends on your palate, but a good rule of thumb is one tablespoon of flowers per cup of tea.

2 tablespoons fresh chamomile flowers, rinsed
About 3 cups of water

Boil water and add chamomile flowers. Let boil for one to two minutes, turn off the flame, and then steep for five more minutes or “hasta que tenga su colorcito,” as the vendor told me. (Translation: “Until it has it’s little color,” which means until it’s turned a deep yellow.) Strain the flowers and serve.

Introducing… my new electric corn grinder.

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I saw the Nixtamatic in the window at Casa Boker a few months ago, but I convinced myself that I didn’t need it. I didn’t operate a tortillería. I didn’t have a large family. Was I really going to make fresh corn tortillas every day, just for Crayton and I?

Then I couldn’t stop thinking about it. I Googled “Nixtamatic,” and saw that Steve Sando had one, and he’d created a video of him using it. It was mesmerizing, watching the machine’s metal plates squeak round and round, churning out squiggly bits of masa. He only had to add a bit of water to the dough, and boom. It was done.

Why was I hesitating here? Sure, corn tortillas were available on every corner in Mexico City, but if I ever left Mexico — heaven forbid — I’d be stuck with the carboard-tasting American versions. And I just had this yearning to make my own tortillas. With my corn that I purchased. Who cares if I didn’t make them every day. Even once a week would be fine. I could do that.

When Crayton asked me what I wanted for my birthday this year, I told him, “A Nixtamatic!”

(Well, first I said, “No, honey, seriously, you don’t have to get me anything.”)

So we went last weekend and picked it out together. It wasn’t cheap — about 3,100 pesos, or around $250 USD. I refrained from telling Crayton, “Yes, but this is an investment,” because he hates it when I use the word investment for something we’re buying. (Him: “It’s not an investment because it loses value the minute we buy it.”) The high price meant this was my birthday, anniversary and maybe Christmas present rolled into one.

But I really do plan to use it a lot. Tortillas, tlacoyos, gorditas, sopes — the masa-based possibilities are endless.

Hopefully I’ll have an “Aaagh! Homemade tortillas with the Nixtamatic!” post for you next week. The manual is three pages long and seems easy enough to understand. I’m crossing my fingers.

A plain but lovely pan de muerto, or Day of the Dead bread

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Día de los Muertos is my favorite holiday in Mexico City. I love the orange cempasúchitl flowers that suddenly pop up in the street medians and parks, and the altars sprinkled with flower petals and candles. I love watching the seasonal fall foods finally arrive in the markets: pan de muerto, calabaza en tacha, tejocotes.

Sadly, the Día de los Muertos season pretty much passed me by this year. I was traveling in the States through most of October, and then I got home and promptly caught a head cold. I was too sick to visit the Sugar Skull Market in Toluca like I did last year, or wander around checking out ofrendas.

One thing I could do, though, was make my own pan de muerto. Last year I took a class on how to make the round, orange-flavored loaves, so I was already familiar with what the dough contained — basically flour and a lot of butter — and how to form the ropes on top to make “bones.” The bread has a delicate orange taste, which comes from a few spoonfuls of orange blossom water, known in Spanish as agua de azahar.

I wanted to use Fany Gerson’s Pan de Muerto recipe from My Sweet Mexico. But I had to tweak a few things, because I was too tired and/or I didn’t have enough time to seek out the proper ingredients. Watered-down orange blossom essence became my substitute for agua de azahar, because it was all I could find. I dipped into my abundance of mascabado — unrefined cane sugar — and used that instead of regular white sugar, even though it made the dough less sweet.

Once I started baking, more issues popped up. My yeast starter, made from instant yeast and not active-dry as the recipe had stated, didn’t bubble, sending me into a panic. I couldn’t tell if my dough was too sticky, or not sticky enough. The dough also rose sloooowly: three hours during the first rising, and a whopping five after the dough chilled in the fridge overnight. (Note to Future Lesley: Do not place buttery dough in an heated oven to speed things up, as it’ll turn it into a greasy, sloppy mess.)

While my loaves baked, I discovered my oven temperature was whacked-out. My first batch looked pretty and golden-brown. When I sliced into it, the insides were still doughy and chewy.

So yeah. What I’m trying to say here is that both of my pan de muertos turned out kind of flat and homely.

I didn’t care too much in the end. The bread was the centerpiece of my Día de los Muertos celebration this year, and I was going to enjoy it. I sprinkled one loaf with sugar and the other without, as an experiment. I actually liked the un-sugared one better — it was lightly sweet and perfect with a cup of hot chocolate. Crayton and I each had a wedge for dessert on Nov. 1, while the candles burned on our altar. (Yes, that’s a bottle of Coke below. It’s for Crayton’s relatives in South Carolina.)

Here are the shots of my flattish, but still tasty, breads.

For more pan de muerto adventures, check out Three Clever Sisters (she also used Fany’s recipe, resulting in these cute, plump little loaves) and Steven McCutcheon-Rubio’s post on Serious Eats. If you made pan de muerto this year, send me a picture of it and I’ll post it here.

UPDATE: Here’s a picture of reader Isabel’s pan de muerto…

And Don Cuevas’s bread:

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Inside the sweet world of Mexican desserts: A chat with Fany Gerson, author of My Sweet Mexico

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When I first moved to Mexico, I was amazed by the multitude of sweets available here. I’d eaten a few Mexican desserts in my life, but this was much more than flan, capirotada and tres leches cake.

A quick trip through my local market revealed syrupy, honeyed figs; waxy-looking crystallized fruit, and candied lime peels bursting with shredded coconut. Traditional candy stores sold delicate, powdery marzipans made from pumpkin seeds and peanuts, and milky fudge-like bars of jamoncillo de leche (they’re pictured above). There were slices of tropical fruit dusted in chile powder, and gummy nuggets of sweet-and-spicy tamarind.

At Dulcería de Celaya — one of my favorite candy stores, because it looks like a time-warp from 1899 — there were rows and rows of treats I’d never seen or heard of before. One candy, a crunchy puff of meringue, became a favorite based almost solely on its name alone: “suspiro,” or sigh.

I wanted to know all about these sweets. Where did they come from? Why are they made with certain ingredients and not others? But it was difficult to find sources, either in English or Spanish. This is why I’m so excited about My Sweet Mexico, a new cookbook of authentic Mexican desserts, beverages and breads, written by Fany Gerson.

The book features recipes for nearly every sweet I’ve seen and gawked at in the markets: the lime wedges stuffed with coconut, the bright jamoncillos, gaznates, muéganos, marzipans. Plus there are gorgeous full-page photographs, and short histories of each group of sweets to start off each chapter. Among the chapters are Dulces de Convento (sweets of the convent), Dulces de Antaño (heirloom sweets), Pan Dulce, Maiz, Postres.

“These recipes are being lost,” says Gerson, whom I was lucky enough to meet in New York recently. “It’s part of a very strong oral tradition. Many people don’t even have written recipes, they’re passed down from grandmother to grandmother. Like many crafts in Mexico, it’s threatened. It’s not just the recipe — it’s the act of eating an artisan sweet.”

Gerson, a Mexico City native, studied at the Culinary Institute of America in New York. She’s worked in the kitchens of Eleven Madison Park and Rosa Mexicano, among others. Right now she makes paletas, aguas frescas and other Mexican treats for her company (and soon-to-be shop in Manhattan), La Newyorkina. You can also find her paletas at La Esquina and Marlow & Daughters in NYC.

Gerson was nice enough to field more questions from me last Sunday, while she sold her homemade aguas frescas at the New Amsterdam Market near South Street Seaport. Here’s more from our conversation.

Also, I plan to make her pan de muerto recipe in the next few days, so look for it soon!
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Hug or handshake? The proper American goodbye

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A weird thing kept happening to me in New York.

Whenever I’d meet someone new, if we talked for more than five minutes, I took this to mean the person deserved a hug goodbye.

In 90 percent of the cases, I was wrong. My new friend would stick out a hand for a goodbye handshake, while I charged ahead with my arms open, like Vince Vaughn in Wedding Crashers. A fleeting “what are you doing?” look often crossed their eyes. I tried to ignore it, but after like the third time this happened, I started wondering — am I missing something here? Did I forget the proper way to say goodbye?

I talked to Crayton about this last night, and he says I’ve always been a hugger.

“You’re from California,” he said.

I don’t know. To me, I was misinterpreting these goodbyes, which meant that I’d lost a teensy bit of my American-ness. Before I moved to Mexico I could easily discern who got a hug and who didn’t. But now, as an expat who’s been gone for 1 1/2 years, it never even crossed my mind to shake someone’s hand goodbye. Handshakes were so sterile! A hug conveyed warmth, and was still impersonal.

It’s funny because before I noticed the hug thing, I was actually proud of myself for ignoring my urge to kiss folks on the cheek. Kissing is a common Mexican greeting. It’s way too intimate for the States. And I guess hugging is, too.

What about you? Are you a hugger? Do you ever feel like you have to adjust how you greet people when you travel?

Five things I’ll miss about New York City

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I’m finally back in Mexico City! We got in from New York late Sunday.

I meant to post some of these photos during my trip, but I was too distracted and busy. People kept asking me while I was in the city, “So what have you seen, where have you gone?” And I realized I hadn’t actually seen too much, besides that one time I went to MoMA for the Abstract Expressionist exhibition. I was eating most of the time. And relaxing.

Here are some of my favorite things I ate and saw while I was in NYC.

1. Fresh Maine Lobster Roll from Lobster Pound in Red Hook, Brooklyn

I took a bus to Red Hook by myself, just because I was really craving a lobster roll. It was 3 p.m. on a Saturday and the streets were practically empty, which felt kind of surreal. (No people in New York? Where am I?) I ate on a bench outside the restaurant, because I didn’t realize there were chairs next door. (I was actually prepared to eat standing up, until a bench seat opened up.) The lobster roll was just what I wanted it to be: chewy, messy and bursting with these thick, robust pieces of lobster. The only thing it needed was pickled jalapeños. Or Valentina sauce.

2. Jewish deli sandwiches

I would like to point out that the above photo only depicts half a sandwich. My dad ordered this for dinner one night, while we were staying at a hotel and decided to order in. It’s a pastrami, corned beef and tongue sandwich from Ben’s, a Jewish deli on W. 38th Street. I tried to be healthy and order a salad and hummus from another place, but I kept sneaking nibbles of my dad’s corned beef because it was absolutely fantastic. Paper-thin slices of tender, salty meat, taken up a notch when dipped in spicy mustard. My dad is still talking about this sandwich. I think there might be a future in corned beef or pastrami tortas.

3. Real American french fries. Real American potatoes.

You can’t get good potatoes in Mexico City, so when I saw “homemade french fries with curry mayo” on the menu at The Farm on Adderley, a Brooklyn restaurant where I went with my lovely new friend Gaby of Gabriela’s Kitchen, I absolutely had to order them. The french fries were good, but the main dishes were spectacular — I got roast chicken with buttery purple cabbage that was pretty much most succulent roast chicken I’ve eaten, ever. (Sorry no photo, it was too dark.) Everywhere I went, though, the french-fry craving followed me. Usually I just relied on Crayton to order them and then I’d steal off his plate. Thanks honey.

4. The view on the High Line

Multiple New Yorkers recommended that I check out the High Line, a new elevated park that traces an old railway route on Manhattan’s West Side. I wandered over by myself one weekday afternoon, and there were lots of tourists taking pictures, and people just sitting in chairs and zoning out. It’s a pretty place — you get to gaze out at New York from a perspective that’s two- to three-stories up. And there are interesting art installations to see along the trail. I highly recommend a stroll there if you’re ever in New York.

5. A wonderfully serene East Village apartment (thank you, Peter and Jonathan) and its equally serene kitchen:

I made an apple pie in this kitchen. And kale-and-corn tacos with homemade tomato salsa.

Other things that I’ll miss, that I didn’t get pictures of: Strictly Roots, a fantastic vegan soul food restaurant in Harlem (get the collard greens, and the stewed pumpkin); American cookies, which I ate with wild abandon (I especially missed anything with white-chocolate chips); and quiet, early-morning moments in the city. And of course my family and friends, who, I don’t care if I’m being hyperbolic, are just the best ever. Thanks, you guys.

It’s good to be back.

Making homemade concha rolls for the first time

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I’ve mentioned a few times that I’m a big fan of conchas — they’re round, fluffy Mexican sweet rolls covered in a quilted or striped sugar topping. When I first moved to Mexico City, I was so amazed by them (they’re sold in the U.S., but are rarely any good there) that I lauched a concha taste test to identify the best concha in Mexico City. The test is still ongoing.

A few weeks ago, I was rushing in late to cooking class when I realized that our guest instructor for the day was a professional baker. He casually mentioned that we were going to make conchas, which made me feel like being on The Price is Right and watching the door open to reveal a new car. We were going to make conchas! For the first time!
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The ever-evolving Latina identity, and meeting other paisanos in New York

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*Photo by artist Dulce Pinzon, taken from her new Superheroes series, which depicts Mexican immigrants in superhero costumes. Check out more on her website.

I’m staying in New York City with family for the next few weeks, and yesterday the building’s doorman stopped me as I was walking out. He was a young guy, maybe late twenties.

He introduced himself as Napoleón and asked for my name. I told him. He said, in English, “Are you of… Hispanic heritage?”

I said yes.

“From where?”

“Mexico. I’m Mexican-American.”

His eyes lit up.

“Me too!”

My eyes lit up.

I wasn’t always so happy to meet other Latinos on the East Coast. In Boston, when I was in college, people would occasionally come up to me and make small talk in Spanish. They’d ask where I was from, where my parents were from, where I was born.

These exchanges usually made me uncomfortable, because they highlighted how much of a fake I was. I couldn’t speak Spanish and didn’t know where my family was from in Mexico. Plus, dude — my parents and grandparents were born in California. Did great-grandparents being born in Mexico (and only half of them, the other side is from New Mexico) even count for anything?

Of course, now I know that it does, and living 1 1/2 years in Mexico makes a world of difference. Excited at meeting another Mexican in the Village in New York City, I smiled and spoke to Napoleón in Spanish.

“De dónde eres?”

“Soy de Puebla.”

“A poco!” I said, secretly proud of myself for using slang. (A slang phrase that, incidentally, I first heard from a Oaxacan man in Seattle.) “Vivo en México!”

“En serio? El DF?”

We chatted and he told me that he was born in New York, but he visits Puebla once a year. I told him I moved to Mexico City almost two years ago from Texas. I left feeling like I’d made a new friend, even though we only spoke for maybe five minutes.

The past three or four times I’ve visited the States, it’s been me who’s been in Napoleón’s position, seeking out other paisanos and asking where they’re from. I purposely eat at American Mexican restaurants (the ones that purport to be authentic) and shop at Mexican markets, because I can speak Spanish with other people and find familiar food products.

Yesterday I walked by a few guys who looked like Mexican immigrants and my eyes lingered for a few seconds, just because they just looked so normal, like people I’d find in my neighborhood in Roma. I know it sounds ridiculous, but part of me really wanted one of them to glance over and make eye contact with me, so they would know that hey, they’ve got another paisana in the Village. They ignored me.

Napoleón called me “Chicanita” upon learning that I was born in L.A., which was funny, because I haven’t heard the diminutive version of Chicana before. (And I still feel kind of weird describing myself that way, for the same Chicana Falsa reasons I stated above.) Still, yesterday I found myself telling him, “Sí, sí,” because hell… it was true, wasn’t it?

Lately more than ever, I really do feel both Mexican and American, with the former occupying a large place in my soul. I’m happy and grateful to be a part of two cultures. And I accept the fact that my identity might someday change again. (A fact that never occurred to me in college — I thought you were who you thought you were, forever.)

As a side note, I loved hearing the Spanish pronunciation of Broadway. The “d” kind of dissolves, leaving this sexy-sounding “bro-way,” with the emphasis on the second syllable. “Vivo en la Catorce y Bro-way.”