The Mija Chronicles

Mexican food and culture, on both sides of the border

Lesley Tellez

Apartment update

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Yesterday morning I called the broker’s wife, who was my original point of contact. She said someone else has already submitted a rental application. (This person looked at the apartment before me, if that matters.)

I said: “But I told your husband to call me if anyone else was even close to submitting any paperwork.”

She said: “Oh, he didn’t tell me that.” The deal still isn’t final; she promised to call me in the next few days if for some reason it doesn’t go through.

Both Crayton and I took this as a sign that the apartment wasn’t right for us — we haven’t spoke to the owner, and we’re not going to fight for a place that has already made us feel weird, before we’ve even moved in. So, this morning I called the Roma apartment broker and told her we’ll take it. Just waiting on a confirmation back.

I really, really appreciate everyone’s thoughtful comments on this whole situation. Even if the apartment hadn’t been taken, we would’ve made it known that the broker’s comments made us uncomfortable (even if recognizing housing discrimination is an Americanism, it’s worth mentioning to people who are courting foreigners as clients), and we would’ve definitely made sure that the Korean family wasn’t being bumped out of line because of us. In the end we weren’t willing to take the apartment and ignore the other factors.

Anyway: thanks, again.

Racism and classism in Mexico City

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Crayton and I have been searching for apartments for the past three months. There’s nothing wrong with our current place, but after more than a year here, I’ve thought it’d be great to have more space and more light.

A few days ago, we finally found a place we loved. It’s huge. Floor-to-ceiling windows. Hardwood floors, a master bedroom with enough space for a library/reading area, and a rooftop area where we could put our grill. The dining area has enough space to fit a table for eight people, which is a sueño of mine, because my current table only seats four. (I could have more dinner parties!) The apartment is close to Crayton’s job, our gym and my yoga studio.

When we were leaving, we told the broker that we were very interested.

“I’m glad to hear it,” he said. “There’s another couple who’s interested too, a couple with a baby, but I think the apartment owner will prefer you over them.”

“Why?” we asked.

“They’re Koreans,” he said.

I waited for him to go on. Like — they’re Koreans and they happen to be drug dealers. Or they’re Korean and they happen to have 12 children, and the family won’t fit in the apartment. But the man didn’t say anything else.

“What’s wrong with Koreans?” Crayton asked.

“Oh you know,” the broker said. “They’re very informal.” The word he used was “informales.” “They don’t pay their rent on time. Sometimes they vacate before the contract’s up.”
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The colors and flavors of Mexico’s Xochimilco market

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My friend Ruth leads culinary tours in Mexico City. Last week, after months of hearing her fabulous stories about the Xochimilco market — where one woman peddles frog-leg tamales, and ladies sell fresh blue-corn tortillas, and green, spicy chile atole sits in a big olla, just waiting to be tasted (this kinda blew my mind… there are savory atole flavors, too?) — I finally booked one of Ruth’s Xochimilco tours, since my mom was in town. And my mom loves food as much as I do, especially if said food is a Mexican gelatina.

A group of us went down in Ruth’s car. Xochimilco lies about 17 miles south of the city center; driving is definitely the easiest way to get there. Public transportation does exist, but there isn’t a direct route. You have to take the metro and then transfer to the Tren Ligero, and then get a cab.

It was a beautiful day, so we parked just a few blocks from Xochimilco’s main church and the market. In front of the car, a man sold embroidered Mexican blouses. (This is when my mom’s eyes started to sparkle. She loves shopping as much as gelatinas.) We bought a few things and then wandered inside the San Bernardino de Siena church, which dates to 1535. It was lovely. Here and there you could see patches of 16th-century murals, which had recently been uncovered in a restoration project.

We bought little cards with the face of the Niñopan, Xochimilco’s patron saint. The Niñopan is another story in himself — he’s a wooden figure of the baby Jesus who’s treated as a living God throughout the city. Different families care for him each year, and they dress him in different outfits. He has parades in his honor. You can even go down to Xochimilco and visit him, just by knocking on the caretakers’ doors. It’s fascinating.

Anyway. The best was yet to come, because then we hit the market.

Now, I’ve seen some markets in my day. But this one. THIS ONE. I think it might be my favorite yet. Yes, even beating out the Central de Abastos.

There were mounds of quelites, stacked on tables. Corn cobs speckled with black kernels. Rows of women selling tortillas and tlacoyos. (At my tianguis, there is just one tortilla stand.) A group of vendors sat outside the market building, displaying the most beautiful produce I’ve ever seen in Mexico City, all of it extremely cheap. And then inside the building: antojitos sizzled on hot comals, and you had to squeeze past them on this narrow aisle, so close to the grill you could feel the warmth of it on your hips. So close to the lady spooning oil onto a gordita, you could have reached out and swiped some with your finger.

In the barbacoa aisle, goat meat with glistening, crispy skin sat inside glass display cases, and goat-head skulls rested on countertops. Vendors yelled, “Take this!” and offered me chunks of soft, greasy goat meat on squares of gray paper. A tortilla maquina churned out corn tortillas, one after the other after the other, so you could have something to eat with your barbacoa sample. An old woman with gray braids sold the tamales de rana, and when I expressed interested, she opened up the husk to show me a meaty, froggy thigh…

All of it was kind of unbelievable. Made me again realize how lucky I am to live in Mexico.

Pictures — a lot of them — below.
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Mexican “sopa” with spinach and panela cheese

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“Sopa” technically means soup in Spanish, but in Mexico there are two types: sopa seca, which often refers to dry rice or noodles, and sopa aguada, which has a traditional, soupy base.

My mom made the noodle sopa a lot when I was a kid. She’d fried conch shell noodles and onion until they were a deep golden-brown, and then steam the crispy mixture in a mix of tomato puree and water. I always loved the moment when the water hit the hot pan. The pan would hiss loudly — sssssssss! — and I’d stare at the stove, wondering what had caused the dish to become so angry.

When made right, the noodles end up plump and al dente, with bits of tomato sauce clinging to their insides. I love this dish topped with sauteed spinach and crumbles of Mexican panela cheese.

Ingredients

1 200g package of dry conch shells (about 1 1/2 cups)
4 slices of onion
1 210g box tomato sauce, known in Mexico as tomato puree (about 1 cup)
3 cups water
6 to 8 cups spinach leaves
A hunk of panela cheese, or any other mild white cheese, crumbled
Salt

Directions

In a heavy-bottomed sauce pan, heat a few glugs of canola oil over medium-high heat, until shimmering. Add onion and noodles and cook, stirring almost constantly for 1 to 3 minutes so they don’t burn. Cook the onion-noodle mixture for about five minutes, or until the edges start to turn a deep golden brown. (It’s okay if the onion burns a little, my mom says.)

Working quickly, add your tomato sauce and water to the pan, and salt to taste. Stir to combine. Cover and lower the heat; simmer for about 15 minutes, or until noodles have soaked up all of their sauce. Feel free to take the lid off and peek on it once in awhile, if you’re unsure; it won’t hurt the dish.

When the pasta is done, rinse and spin dry the spinach leaves, and heat a small amount of olive oil in a skillet. When the oil is hot, add your leaves and sauté until they’re wilted but still a deep green color. Scrape the hot sautéed spinach into separate bowls, top with few scoops of sopa and the crumbled panela cheese. Serve warm.

Our neighborhood pancake vendor

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A few weeks ago, Crayton came home from his Portuguese class with an important announcement:

“The pancake guy’s there!”

I scooped up my keys and ran out the door. The elusive pancake vendor — I was finally going to meet him!

Crayton had told me about the pancake guy about a month ago. Every Wednesday, this vendor set up shop on the corner of Rio Sena and the Reforma service road, selling hot pancakes with various toppings. During the day, that portion of Rio Sena bustles with food vendors. But by 8 p.m. most of them have gone home. And boom, that’s when the pancake guy arrives.

I had so many questions. Why pancakes at night? Isn’t that a breakfast food?

So that Wednesday, even though I’d already eaten dinner, Crayton and I walked over to his stand. A gray-haired man of about 55 stood behind a small grill. A large plastic bowl of batter sat on his left side; in front of him, a golden-brown pancake cooked on a griddle. Most enticingly, a stack of hot pancakes lay on the front counter of his stand, beckoning visitors with their doughy goodness. (That’s them in the picture above.)

Several plastic jars of toppings stood nearby: strawberry, cajeta (goat’s milk caramel), honey, pineapple and lechera, a sweetened condensed milk.

“What are you going to have?” the vendor asked. He poured a spoonful of batter on the grill. It bubbled.

I asked what was the most popular, and he said the cajeta. (Also, he pronounced his wares “hotcakes,” pronounced HOTE-cakes. Apparently there is not a Spanish equivalent for this word.)

I chose the cajeta.

“Do you want lechera on it, too?” he asked me.

“Oh no, no,” I said. Lechera and cajeta seemed a little too decadent. “Just the cajeta,” I told him.

He gave me a “it’s your loss” kind of look, and flipped the pancake.

He grabbed one of the big spoons from the jars, and slathered the caramel sauce over the top. It melted and oozed, until a little lagoon of cajeta had formed in the center.

I took a bite.

WOW.

How did he know, this pancake guy? How did he know that a hot, fluffy pancake smeared with caramel was exactly perfect for this time of evening?

“Mmmmmmm,” I moaned.

Crayton took a bite, too. “It’s good,” he said.

While we ate, I asked the man a few more questions. He said he sold pancakes on Wednesdays only, from 8 to 10 p.m. Other days, he set up shop at various locations around the city.

The mix did not come from a box. He made it himself. And he got quite a few customers, despite the late hour — they were usually people on their way to the metro, returning home from work.

I asked if I could take his picture. He said no. So we finished up our pancake and bid him goodbye.

I haven’t been back since, considering I can no longer fit into my jeans. But as soon as I resume my workout regimen, I am so buying another pancake. This time with lechera.

Samosa-inspired croquettes with peas and potatoes

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Alice had a crazy idea after I got back from India: the two of us should get together and make an entire Indian meal from scratch.

The subject line of her email was “dal experiments.” It had a mysterious ring to it, which pretty much signifies the way I felt about Indian food before I went to India — that it was just too hard to master (or even attempt to master) if you didn’t grow up eating it. The flavors were too complex.

Now, armed with my spices that I bought in Bombay, I’m a lot more comfortable than I used to be. I’ve been currying a lot lately — mostly garbanzos with some mustard seed, ginger, green chiles, chile powder and cumin. The thought of coming up with an entire Indian menu seemed like the next logical step, especially since I had a cookbook I’d picked up in Kodaikanal filled with recipes for sambars, idlis, pulaus, rasams.

So one day over a curry lunch, Alice and I came up with a relatively simple menu: dosas and sambar for the main dishes, because they’re typical of South India and famous throughout the country. For dessert, mango rice pudding, because mangoes overfloweth from Mexico right now. And for the appetizer, potato-and-pea croquettes.

The idea behind the croquettes was to mimic the flavors you’d get in a samosa, without creating something super fritanga. (Fritanga is a word I just learned in Spanish. It means “fried things.”) We’d pan fry the croquettes instead of deep-fry. (I voted for deep frying, but Alice convinced me otherwise. Calories, Lesley, calories.)

I’ll write about the rice pudding, dosas and sambar in another post. This post is all about the croquettes, because they deserve their own spotlight.
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I’m back!

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I’ve been feeling much better, gracias a Dios. Crayton’s urging me to “take it slowly,” so I will be working at about half my normal speed. (Which means: No crazy cooking, no sitting at my computer for six hours and no intense workouts at the gym.)

I am super excited to get back to the blog, though. I cannot wait to tell you about the pancake guy. And the potato-pea croquettes! And my trip to the Xochimilco market.

Normal posting should resume tomorrow. Hope everyone had a great weekend!

Another week off

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Wow. I take a week off and Crayton writes the web’s definitive treatise on Hot Mexican Weather Girls. This ended up being the most traffic-drawing post on this blog, ever.

I’m hoping he has a few other fun ideas up his sleeve this week. I’m still not feeling well, so I’m going to take another week off to rest.

Because umm… to be completely honest… I didn’t rest every single day last week. I cooked Indian food with Alice and went shopping at Green Corner and met up with friends for lunch. Paid for it toward the end of the week, when I was so tired, I had to sit in bed all day. This week: I PROMISE. I am not going anywhere. I’m under strict orders from Crayton. (Who is probably watching the hot Mexican weather girls at work right now.)

This week I’m going to sit on my bed with a few good books and my laptop, and watch endless episodes of The Closer, because Crayton hates that show. (He compares Kyra Sedgwick’s faux-Southern accent to fingernails on the blackboard.) Gonna watch a bunch of movies, too.

If you have any movie recommendations, let me know! I’m running low on titles.

See you in another week, hopefully healthy.

The ladies of Mexican weather forecasting

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Lesley’s husband Crayton is filling in this week with a few posts.

Allow me to introduce you to Angie González.

[youtube=http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ROLCR9LzHDg&hl=es_ES&fs=1&]

González is the afternoon weather presenter (I am going to try to avoid using the term “weathergirl” or “chica de la clima,” as they’re known around here) on Milenio, one of Mexico’s 24-hour news channels. Google doesn’t turn up much about her, except that she’s from Monterrey, like many of her female colleagues. Regias, as women from Monterrey are known, have a reputation in Mexico for exquisite beauty.

At my place of work, we have Milenio on all day long on mute, and González caps off an all-day parade of heavily made-up, scantily clad young women telling us whether to expect rain. Other networks also employ attractive women, but Milenio clearly pushes the boundaries farthest in terms of attire and invitation to ogle.

I’m accustomed to the U.S. version of the weather presenter, a guy in a suit with very white teeth and a hokey sense of humor, Willard Scott-style. But that’s not to say that the U.S. is immune or above this sort of thing. Bobbie Keith kept morale up during the Vietnam War. Jill Nicolini is a traffic reporter, but appears to serve the same purpose at New York’s WPIX (and with excellent screen presence and a good sense of humor, I must say).

Weather presenters have been around almost as long as TV. (Chicago’s Clint Youle was the first national weather presenter in the U.S. in 1949.) And people are supposed to be relatively attractive on TV. As long as that’s the case, broadcasters are going to push boundaries, especially with something like weather forecasting that doesn’t require a particularly serious or grave presence. (I think well-researched post about this weather-presenting cheesecake being more common in warm-weather climates, but I think it’s probably because those places have fewer weather disasters, like snowstorms, that might require a weather presenter with more gravitas.)

I’m not going to act like I don’t enjoy seeing González and Milenio’s other presenters appear on the screen. It would be disingenuous of me to say that. But the lengths to which Milenio has gone in its objectification are disconcerting. González is a pretty lady, but she’s also an animated person on TV and would do just fine in more professional attire. Milenio ought to cut this out.

I leave you with Chicago’s “weather bunny,” Kelly Bundy:

[youtube=http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=32YKaPxAxwA&hl=es_ES&fs=1&]

On the mezcal hunt in Roma Norte

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Lesley’s husband Crayton is filling in this week with a few posts.

Mezcal with orange slices at Red Fly

There is a plant in Mexico called the maguey. (Americans sometimes call it a century plant.) It’s a variety of agave, a cousin to the blue agave from which tequila is made. But maguey and other agave family members produce their own special drink, called mezcal, with a sharper, smokier flavor than tequila.

While top-shelf tequila stopped being an oxymoron decades ago, mezcal has had an undeserved reputation as tequila’s redneck cousin. (This probably had something to do with some misunderstandings involving a worm.) This is starting to change as people discover mezcal’s world of flavors and tones.

At the end of the day, what you need to know about mezcal is that it tastes good and it will get you toasty.

Here in Mexico City, one of the best places to find a good variety of handcrafted mezcal is in the Colonia Roma Norte, where a cluster of businesses are doing a good job of promoting products from small distilleries, mostly from the state of Oaxaca to the south, but also from Guerrero, Michoacan, Tamaulipas and others. (Coyoacán, the beautiful Mexico City neighborhood to the south, is another mezcal lover’s paradise.)

Roma Norte is closer to me, though, and thus became the site of Mezcalapalooza (thanks, Leslie Limon!), an alcohol-tastic journey I took recently with friends Martin and John. Martin took all the photos you see in this post, and they are his and his alone, so no thieving!

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