Lesley Tellez

How to cook, the old-fashioned way

September 24, 2009 by Lesley Tellez

Ever since I’ve been old enough to use the stove by myself — which was probably in seventh grade, when I took my first home economics class — I’ve been fascinated with old cookbooks. My mom had a small collection from the 40’s and 50’s, which she got from her mom. Many of them had funny covers, like this one.

Checa the hair! And the cute little salt and pepper shakers that fit into the stove!

As I’ve grown up, I’ve wondered what my grandmother might have cooked, and whether she enjoyed cooking like I do. (Funnily enough, this particular cookbook above wasn’t even hers. That’s not my grandma’s name scrawled on the cover.) I don’t ever recall her making muffins or cookies or meatloaf, although surely she must have. I just remember her quesadillas. They were crackly and golden-brown, and thick with Monterey Jack cheese.

If my grandmother were still alive, I would have loved to ask her if she knew of Josefina Velazquez de Leon. De Leon, a home cook with no formal training, wrote an amazingly prolific series of cookbooks (140-plus titles) for middle-class Mexican housewives in the 1940’s-60’s. Many dispensed practical advice about how to use leftovers and cook on a budget, but the most interesting thing was that they all dealt with Mexican food. At the time, no one had collected the country’s most authentic, regional recipes, and put them in one place.

She also opened a cooking school to teach her recipes, making her pretty much the Betty Crocker/Julia Child of her time.

I didn’t know any of this until a few weeks ago, when my friend Ruth. took me to a Condesa bookfair set up on a street median. A vendor there had at least a dozen Velazquez books on display, each with colorful covers depicting women with 1950’s hairstyles and aprons.

After Ruth told me about Josefina’s history, my heartbeat quickened. I wanted to buy all of them, but instead I picked five.

I’ve thumbed through most of them already, and I’ll probably end up making something from the antojitos book first. Although part of me really wants to put on a vintage apron and make a whole five-course meal from “Los 30 Menus.” Just found one I liked, on page 23: Sopa seca de pan (a layered, buttery, bread-and-tomato soup); tortilla florentina, an rolled-up omelette kind of dish filled with chicken livers and onion; hamburguesas con ensalada de papa (hamburgers with potato salad); taquitos de crema (small tacos filled with Mexican crema, poblano peppers and queso fresco… oh god), and gelatina de jamaica. If you want to join me — I have multiple vintage aprons in my drawer — let me know.

Also, I’m curious: Do you have a favorite old cookbook of your own, or have you secretly harbored a desire to cook like Betty Draper on Mad Men? Please tell me I’m not the only one.

Why hasn’t Mexico City embraced hip-hop?

September 22, 2009 by Lesley Tellez

Our view from the Goodie Mobb Reunion Show in Atlanta, on Sept. 19, 2009

We saw Goodie Mobb in Atlanta last week, and as we stood outside in the rain, listening to everyone around us yell out the lyrics, I wondered again why hip-hop hasn’t caught on in Mexico City.

The D.F. is a gritty place. It’s urban. There are plenty of people living in poverty, and there’s political corruption and drug violence. It’s gold-mine material for a hip-hop song, and that’s not even counting the fact that the U.S. is our closest neighbor, and you’d expect some of its mainstream hip-hop culture to seep in here.

It hasn’t. Lil’ Wayne may be blowing up U.S. urban radio, but I can’t find a single bar that plays him in Mexico City. (Or a single bar that plays any hip-hop, save for an ultra lounge in Polanco. But that doesn’t count because it’s an ultra lounge, and you have to wear heels and makeup to get in.)

Live rap shows aren’t too common here, either. A friend of mine who follows the tiny Mexico City scene says most of the hip-hop shows he knows of are in far-flung suburbs.

It’s sad, because I really miss hearing the music. I grew up in Southern California with my ear glued to the radio, listening to Tupac, Dr. Dre, DJ Quick, Lighter Shade of Brown. And then there was the R&B: Guy, Blackstreet, SWV, Xscape, R. Kelly.

Actually, I didn’t realize how much I missed R&B until we got to Atlanta last week, and I turned on the radio in our rental car and heard Johnny Gill’s “My My My” blaring. We were eating gyros in our laps, trying to make good time to Huntsville. I turned it up and sang along, my mouth stuffed with beef and lamb: “Put on your red dress… and slip on your high heels… and some of that sweet perfume…” No one could sing like Johnny.

I haven’t read a whole lot about why hip-hop isn’t big here, but I wonder if it has to do with the fact that in Mexico, there seems to be a culture of quiet acceptance when things go wrong. Politicians stealing again? Sigh, shake of the head. Yep, that’s what they always do. No water? Yeah, but that’s just the way it is. The general notion seems to be to keep your head down, and make sure your family is fed. Not strike back at The Man through politically aware lyrics.

That still doesn’t answer the question about why American hip-hop culture hasn’t seeped in more. Mexicans have embraced plenty of other aspects of American culture — fast food, sneaker boutiques, Wal-Mart.

In any case, I am not the only lonely, hip-hop depraved American here who misses her music. A few friends and I have groused about it together, and we’ve talked about renting out a bar and combining our various iPod powers. We’ll see if that ever pans out.

With that, I will leave you with one song we fell in love with in Atlanta: Soulja Boy Tell ‘Em’s “Turn My Swag On,” which upon first listen is eye-rollingly simple, but then you realize that’s what makes it so good.

[youtube=http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0Pga4ax5aus&hl=en&fs=1&]

My week of gluttony, Southern-style

September 21, 2009 by Lesley Tellez

I’m back from the South, and I feel like a stuffed penguin.

A few pounds is worth it, though. (Half of me just cringed. It is?) Yes. It is. Sometimes you have to ignore pesky little “calories” and submit to the lure of bacon, cheese and mayonnaise. Just for a few days.

Sometimes you gotta just order a pimento cheese sandwich for lunch, bulging with grated cheddar and mayo.

And then go home and make a buttermilk pie for dinner.

Sometimes you have to buy honey-roasted pecans from a small-town Georgia gift shop, because, well, it’s a small-town Georgia gift shop. And they serve the nuts in paper cones!

But all that doesn’t even come close to my most gluttonous of gluttony acts, committed while we were in Atlanta. My friend is a restaurant critic there, and last Friday, he took us out for a fabulous meal at Cakes & Ale, a “farm-to-table” style restaurant (in the parlance of our times) where most of the food is made with locally grown produce.

While we stuffed our face with fried okra with homemade ranch, smoked salmon with beets, rabbit terrine, trout, bean salad with bacon, and the most heavenly pork chop ever, covered in crunchy breadcrumbs and fried in clarified butter (somewhere, I just heard my mom gasp) — we happened to bring up hamburgers. My friend mentioned that a restaurant nearby had one of the best burgers in Atlanta. Would we be interested in dining there, after this meal?

Only someone as loony about food as I am would suggest eating dinner at two restaurants in one night. But I loved my friend for it. With stars in my eyes, and a burger-inspired flush in my cheeks, we headed to Holeman & Finch Public House in Buckhead.

The H&F burgers are kind of a cult thing in the city right now — they’re not on the menu, and the kitchen just rolls ’em out at 10 p.m. You get them while they’re hot.

At about 10:30 p.m. — even though I’d already eaten a three-course dinner — I had the juiciest, moistest burger I’ve ever had in my life.

The next day, I nursed my food hangover with salad and water. But Sunday, there was more.

For brunch, we dined at Greenwoods on Green Street, a home-cooking restaurant in Roswell, Georgia, just north of Atlanta. Our plates filled the entire table. You could seriously barely see the wood.

We had fried green tomatoes….

And corn muffins… made with white corn, not that blasphemous yellow stuff.

We had fried chicken, with a sheen of oil still clinging to its crunchy, hot flesh.

I ordered a truly insane slab of meatloaf, topped with a few curls of onion.

And then came the pie.

Apple. Buttermilk. And dark chocolate, topped with messy tufts of whipped cream.

When we got to the airport a few hours later, I could barely keep my eyes open. “Just let us win!” the pie whispered to me. “Just go to sleep!” But I stubbornly stayed awake. The pie and its sugar-coma powers would not take me down.

So, now, finally back home in Mexico City, I am wearing my elastic-waistband pajama pants and wincing at the thought of putting on jeans to go to the grocery store. But I need detox food — veggies, fruit, tofu. Crayton rolls his eyes when I crow, “I’m going on a detox!” because I never stick to it, but this time I swear it’s true. It’s soups and salads for me, for the next few days. And I don’t want to see red meat again for two months.

Exploring my Southern side in Anderson, South Carolina

September 17, 2009 by Lesley Tellez

Every time we visit South Carolina, I marvel at how Crayton and I, two people with such different backgrounds, ended up together.

To get to my grandmother’s house in Pico Rivera, outside Los Angeles, we take the 10 to the 57 to the 60 to the 605.

This is the road to Crayton’s grandmother’s house. It’s outside Anderson, South Carolina, which is about 40 minutes from Greenville.

We call her Oma. In the South, grandmothers generally have nicknames.

At Oma’s house, which she shares with Crayton’s grandfather, Bpa, they usually eat poached eggs on toast in the morning. Today I hovered over her shoulder and watched. She cracked them into a small skillet half-filled with water, and then spooned the water over the top when they got runny. She served them on warmed plates, kept in the oven until serving time.

My own grandmother has been known to buy pan dulce from the local bakery, if her certain favorite granddaughter is visiting around breakfast time.

I just love coming here though. We talk slower, move slower. We’re more polite. Crayton develops a cute little twang in his voice, and tells me things like, “Mash that light.” (That means turn the light off.)

On Oma and Bpa’s sunporch, you can look out over their wide, green backyard, and listen to the breeze flutter the leaves on the trees. (I’m doing that right now.) Just noticed a spider sunning himself on the screen.

When we visit South Carolina, I’m reminded all over again how lucky I am to have married into a family that doesn’t know me entirely yet, but loves me anyway. That warmth is what I want to pass on to my own kids someday. (And they’ll be doubly lucky because they’ll have their Mexican-American side, too.)

“Your great-grandmother used to call me ‘dah’lin,’ ” I’ll tell them. “She had an accent that you could listen to all day.”

Five things to love about Huntsville, Alabama

September 14, 2009 by Lesley Tellez

One beautiful baby boy.

With the most luscious thighs, and plump little marshmallow feet.

The deviled eggs from Mullin’s Restaurant, a Huntsville classic. The filling is creamy, with just a hint of mustard.

BISCUITS. LOTS OF BISCUITS. Oh god these were good.

The lush, pretty trees growing alongside the road.

Spending time with some of our favorite people in the whole world.

We’re on to South Carolina next.

A concha taste test update: Am I missing something here?

September 11, 2009 by Lesley Tellez

Concha rolls are never far from my mind, seeing as I’m on a permanent quest to find the best concha in Mexico City. The subject came up again on Saturday night, when my friend Jesica urged me to give Maque another chance. We were sipping tequila at a local lounge.

“They’re really good!” Jesica said, as the music pumped at the bar. “I promise!”

I’d banished the Condesa bakery from my list a few months ago, after tasting one concha and finding it dry and bland. But it is possible I got a bum batch. So I went back to Maque on Tuesday morning.

As soon as I sat down, a waiter appeared and asked if I’d like a piece of bread.

“The concha,” I said, firmly.

He chose a particularly large chocolate concha from his basket, and set it on my plate. It looked beautiful. (That’s it above.)

I took my knife and fork, and gently sliced off a piece. Took a bite, and….

The chocolate coating was powdery, almost sandy. Like they’d wiped the concha around the floor as a Swiffer. I poked away at the coating with my fork and tried a piece of the bread. It was… okay. Soft enough, but almost… papery tasting. And an off-buttery flavor lurked in the background.

I declared it dead after four bites.

The point is: I really trust Jesica’s opinion, and Maque has a great reputation here in Mexico City. Am I missing something? Are the conchas at Bondy actually Americanized, and I just don’t know it? I had them again about a week ago, and they were the stuff of dreams. A toasted-sugar, almost creamy chocolate coating lay on the bread, which was so soft, you could probably mash it with the underside of your fork and it would stick. It was like the center of a cinnamon roll. (But without the cinnamon.) Oh man, oh man, oh MAN.

But maybe that isn’t Mexican at all.

Well. The next steps in my Best Concha of Mexico City test are visits to Sak’s, La Casita del Pan in Coyoacan, Pastelería Suiza in Condesa (just because I want an excuse to go there), and on the advice of reader Alice, La Casa del Pastor. And need to make my own conchas, just so I can figure out how difficult this really is.

Palacio de Hierro: My new favorite place to spend an hour, drooling

September 10, 2009 by Lesley Tellez

Alice had told me about the greatness of Palacio de Hierro’s food department, but I wasn’t prepared when I walked in to the Roma branch for the first time a few days ago.

Baskets brimmed with golden-brown loaves of bread, and mounds of candied, chili-powder dusted fruit. Exotic salts and truffles and jams (lime cardamom!) piled up on a shelf, each bearing the name of famous Mexican chef Monica Patiño. (Who knew she had her own food line?) Dazzling rows of chocolates sat inside glass cases. And then there were the bonbons.

“Bonbon” means chocolate-covered marshmallow, and these things looked so perfect, I wanted to dump a basket into a blanket and walk out, Santa-Claus-style. They were plump, chewy little tufts of cotton, covered in chocolate and nuts. I couldn’t resist buying one.

Palacio also has traditional Mexican candy, and after I came down from my bonbon high, I realized this would be a great place to buy a few gifts. Can’t tell you what I bought, because the recipients may be reading. (Heh heh.) But on display were much of what you’d see in a typical candy store: jamoncillo, cocada, obleas, puffs of meringue, amaranth bars, and piles of waxy-looking, candied camote and chilacayote.

You can see the sweet potato at the left.

Apple slices, rolled in chili powder.

They’ve also got an extensive wine department (bought a Shiraz from Parras for about 220 pesos), and a deli that sells sandwiches, salads and chiles en nogada. And there’s a fresh cheese and meat department, with big ol’ jamon serrano thighs hanging from the ceiling.

After about 30 minutes of mindless wandering — I admit I stared lustfully at the jamón serrano thighs — I paid for my purchases and left. But when I got home, I unwrapped my bonbon. You don’t want to know how good it was.

INFO
Palacio de Hierro
Durango No. 230, at the corner of Durango and Avenida Oaxaca.
Col. Roma, C.P. 06700. México, D.F.
Telephone: 5242-9000
Open Monday through Saturday, 11 a.m. to 9 p.m.; Sunday, 11 a.m. to 8 p.m.

Note: Palacio is a high-end department store, and the gourmet section is inside. It’s located on the first floor (planta baja), right off the main Oaxaca Avenue entrance.

A plane hijacking, and how to live in a country less stable than your own

September 9, 2009 by Lesley Tellez

If you didn’t hear, a group of men hijacked a Aeromexico plane returning from Cancún today. They demanded to speak to President Calderón, or said they’d blow up the plane. The standoff ended peacefully maybe an hour ago, when federal police surrounded the plane and took the men into custody.

No one was harmed, thank god. UPDATE: CNN now says a 44-year-old Bolivian man was solely responsible for the hijacking, believing God was trying to send him a sign because of today’s date, 9-09-09. (Sigh.)

But upon hearing the news — Crayton told me quickly over the phone — I felt… weird. I was walking home from a wine store, and looked around for signs of panic. No one looked any different from any other day.

The dude in front of the Zona Rosa Starbucks was still playing his saxophone, with his lobotomized Strawberry Shortcake piñata set in front of him to collect change. People rushed across the street in front of oncoming cars. A man outside the Plaza Insurgentes said over and over, “Me regalas una moneda. Me regalas una moneda.” (“Give me change. Give me change.”) You know, the usual stuff.

It hit me that human beings are pretty resilient creatures. I wasn’t suddenly tense, or deeply scared about the hijacking, because everyone around me was conducting their normal, daily routine.

Then again, maybe Mexicans are just used to this. We’ve had a string of bad luck this year. Swine flu. Earthquakes. Economic recession. Police officers killed in drug violence. Screaming U.S. State Department Travel Alerts urging Americans to stay away from Chihuahua and Tijuana and Michoacán. And that’s just this year. I’m happy there hasn’t been a peso devaluation, or things would really be in the crapper.

Anyway, this is all just a long way of saying that living here is tough sometimes, in ways that I never thought it would be. I expected the language problems and cultural issues. What I didn’t anticipate was how conflicted I’d feel when things go wrong. I’ve fallen for this country, hard, and it’s a little scary to think that maybe things aren’t as organized here as I’d hoped.

In no way does that mean I want to move back to the U.S. (Sorry, mom.) In a weird way, it’s almost like all this stuff is bringing me and Mexico City closer. She was my heady, beautiful, spazzy crush when I first arrived, and now I’m seeing her realistic side. But I’m still in love. Been thinking lately about taking a beach trip to the Riviera Maya with Crayton in November, and this doesn’t change my plans.

For more details on the hijacking: Check out The New York Times’ coverage, the BBC and, in Spanish, El Universal.

Discovering tepache, or the juice of fermented pineapple

September 9, 2009 by Lesley Tellez

I first read about tepache (teh-PAH-chay) in a Mexican cooking magazine a few months ago. It’s a beverage sold widely on the streets, made from pineapple rinds that’ve been left to ferment in water.

I was intimidated to try it — my first thought was, “Is this going to make me sick?” — but a few weeks ago, urged on by a friend who swore it was delicious, I bought some. The plastic baggie at the left cost 5 pesos. (By the way, do you now see what I’m telling you about plastic bags?)

My friend was right: It was cold and sweet, with a vague pineapple taste in the background. It was sunny and hot that day, so it was tough not to swig the whole bag in a few minutes.

When I got home, I figured tepache would be one of those weird Mexican foods that few people know about, like nicuatole, which is also on my mind lately. But no. Googling revealed detailed, step-by-step instructions on how to make tepache on the Chowhound Home Cooking message board, including whether or not you should add beer to speed up fermentation. (The basic recipe calls for leaving pineapple rinds in a pot of water for three days, and then adding sugar and spices.)

Others have posted recipes too. Rachel Laudan’s recipe calls for leaving out the sugar for a more tart tepache, which seems more my style.

So this tepache stuff is super easy. Next time I make a pineapple pie, I’m saving my rinds.

My jamaica flower honeymoon

September 8, 2009 by Lesley Tellez

I think I’ve told you of my deep admiration for the jamaica flower. Called hibiscus in English, they’re dried, deep purple flowers sold in supermarkets here, and all you do is toss them into a pot of boiling water and sugar. Maybe 15 minutes later, boom, you’ve got two edibles: the slightly tangy agua de jamaica, to drink, and the plump flowers, which you can then sauté and toss in just about anything.

Seriously, in this economy, how cool is that? You’ve got two things for the price of one. And these babies are pretty cheap as it is.

On Sunday, when cuñada and cuñado were in town, I whipped up a batch of whatever’s-in-the-pantry noodles and tossed in some jamaica flowers that I’d sauteed in butter, onion, olive oil, balsamic vinegar and sugar. Added some roasted asparagus. Topped that with a handful of fresh parsley, literally overflowing at the tianguis that day, and a sprinkling of shredded manchego cheese.

We all dug in, and no one really talked, except for the occasional, “Mmmmmmm.” I was amazed at how many textures could fit into one dish. The flowers were buttery and toothsome, which made the whole thing feel hearty, as if I’d added meat. The parsley added a nice, vegetal crunch, and the creamy manchego glued everything together. Overall, every ingredient felt useful and important. This stuff was good. And I had created it. Me!

Of course, at the table, I couldn’t stop babbling about what else I’d do with jamaica flowers. If I could somehow harness them into one dish, to where they were on full display…

“A jamaica flower tart!” I declared.

Just now thought of another one: jamaica flower empanadas.

My sis-in-law was equally as enchanted, which lent credence to my jamaica-flower honeymoon theory. Once you try these things, that’s it. Your life will never be the same.

Recipe below.
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