The Mija Chronicles

Mexican food and culture, on both sides of the border

Streets & Markets

The glorious, messy Mexican torta

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The other day, I was really craving a torta. This doesn’t happen to me that often (I’m much more of a tlacoyos girl) but this craving was undeniable: I needed a stack of meat, melted cheese and avocado piled between layers of soft bread.

Since I don’t eat tortas that often, I don’t have a favorite variety. I asked my Facebook friends which type I should choose. The response was swift. “Cancún!” said my friend Hugh. “Anything with quesillo!” said Alejandra.

There are about 10 torta stands within walking distance of my house, but I wanted the best. So I went downstairs and asked the portero which one he preferred. He made a vague motion across the street. “Allí,” he said.

The only thing I’d seen across the street was a fonda, so I thought he meant across the street and down the block. I peered over the parked cars and didn’t see anything. And then, walking toward the corner, I saw it: a torta shop tucked next to the fonda, behind a tree, with a cheery sign.

The sign looked like someone had taken a bite out of the side.

Standing inside the cramped space, I kind of felt like being in a panadería for the first time. There were so many flavors! So many different meat and cheese combinations!

The long torta menu at ¡Tortas! in the Col. Roma

Even more options on a second torta menu at ¡Tortas! in Mexico City

I ordered the Cancún — a mix of chuleta, cheese and pineapple. (Thanks, Hugh.) But the shop had run out of chuleta. So I thought a bit and instead went with the Holandesa, which was the same as the Cancún, except with pierna. Of course it came with all the other torta fixins, too: beans, avocado, tomato, and a shmear of chipotle salsa.

I can’t tell you how excited I was when I took this thing home and unwrapped it. The greasy paper. The oozing cheese. The smell. I was so excited, in fact, that I managed to take only two pictures before taking a bite.

Since then I been thinking about tortas much more often, and I’m thinking this might be regular thing for me.

Next time I’m at the tortería, what kind should I get?

Street-side Mexican quesadillas

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One of the most uniquely Mexican things to do in this town is to watch a quesadilla being made on the street and then bite into it while it’s still hot.

The women — it’s almost always women making quesadillas — slap a ball of masa into shape, or press it inside a tortilla press. The tortillas cook on the comal until they’re golden and crisp. And then, once the tortillas are firm but not overdone, the fillings are spooned (or tossed with one’s fingers) inside: anything ranging from squash flowers to huitlacoche to chicken tinga. The first few mouthfuls of a street quesadilla might be tortilla-only, and then the filling comes on like a little gift, warming your tongue.

I used to have a quesadilla lady in my old neighborhood whom I liked a lot. But I didn’t know what was available in my new ‘hood until a few days ago, when Jesica and I were poking around in Condesa for possible tour stops.

We asked a newsstand vendor if there was a place to buy quesadillas around here, and she motioned to some blue plastic stools that I could vaguely see in the distance. “Son muy ricos,” she added.

And man, as we got closer, we could see they definitely were ricos: maybe six or seven people sat on the stools, eating quesadillas. A few more were standing up and eating, and yet a few more folks were placing their orders. This place was slammed.

A team of three employees kept things moving. One woman grabbed handfuls of masa and pressed them into shape. Another woman hovered over the buckets and filled the cooked tortillas, somehow without burning her hands. The lone man of the bunch clutched a long spatula and flipped the quesadillas as they cooked, occasionally drizzling them with oil.

I think I may have murmured “Órale.” (I’m starting to get a lot better at using that word.)

We ordered one with half huitlacoche, half rajas with potatoes. We didn’t specifically ask for cheese and so because this is Mexico City, the quesadilla arrived without it.

After we turned in our plate and paid, we had to ask: How long has this place been here?

The answer was more than 40 years. Now that deserves an órale.

If you’re interested in going to this stand, it’s at the corner of Juan de la Barrera and the Viaducto, where it intersects with Avenida Chapultepec. In addition to huitlacoche and rajas with potatoes, they also had chicken tinga, mushrooms and maybe three other options that I can’t remember.

More photos below.
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A trip to La Nueva Viga, Mexico City’s main seafood market

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A few weeks ago as part an Eat Mexico tour, Jesica and I ventured out to La Nueva Viga, Mexico City’s biggest seafood market.

It’s also known simply as “La Viga,” which is confusing, because there’s another market in Mexico City — a smaller one — that sells seafood and is also called Mercado de La Viga. This Nueva Viga took its place.

I hadn’t been before, although I’d been to the Central de Abastos, which is directly adjacent to La Nueva Viga. The market sits a few streets over from the Central’s main fruit-and-vegetable complex, behind a long row of seafood empanada stands.

While the Central is a maze-like collection of tunnels and hallways, La Nueva Viga consists mostly of two long concrete rows with small booths carved out along the length. Shipments of seafood from all around Mexico and elsewhere are trucked in daily; El Universal says up to 2,000 tons a day. Buyers from restaurants and fondas around Mexico City flock there in the mornings to purchase their catch.

The market is open to the public, so if you want to buy even one piece of fish, you can bring a little cooler and do that. But get there early — a lot of the freshest stuff is gone by mid-day.

The great thing is that even if you’re only buying a half-pound of shrimp, the vendors are still really nice. They’ll explain where the shrimp came from and whether it was previously frozen, and any other different varieties they might carry.

It’s a fascinating, if smelly, place to visit. Slabs of fresh fish lie on ice, along with slippery pieces of octopus. Vendors troll about in white apron coats and rubber boots and yell the usual, “¿Qué le damos?” There is red snapper, bags of whole shrimp with their crispy heads still attached, crabs, frozen scallops, sole, and many other strange-looking ocean creatures that I didn’t know the names of.

In the center of the nearby parking lot, oblivious to the reeking-fish-guts smell, food vendors sell tacos and other snacks.

We visited on a cool, overcast day; I wouldn’t want to be near La Nueva Viga on a hot day. Thankfully, the fish itself, once we got up close, smelled of nothing. The pieces looked slick and wet and plump. I really wished I would’ve brought a little cooler, to take home some crab meat or huachinango. Or pulpo.

I’d highly recommend a visit there, if you’re looking for the best seafood the city has to offer.

Here are some pictures of the place. For more, check out this neat YouTube slide show. If you’ve been to La Nueva Viga and have any information you want to share, please do — couldn’t find much history on the place on the Internet. I’m especially interested in the history of the old La Viga, the seafood market that came before La Nueva.

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Sorry spinach, you’ve been booted for wild quintoniles

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Last Sunday I stopped by my old neighborhood tianguis, where I found man and a woman with a particularly fresh batch of produce for sale.

Everyone else’s curly-leaf lettuce looked wilted that day, but theirs was bright green and perky. They had fresh huitlacoche and spinach. And, in one big basket, a mess of dark-green, heart-shaped leaves. Some had purple splotches. I’m a sucker for greens, so I went over and stared. Crayton stood nearby, probably thinking, “Can we go now?”

“Epazote?” I asked the vendor.

“Quintoniles,” he told me. He pronounced them keen-toh-NEE-less.

My heart leapt a little bit. Mind you, I didn’t entirely know what they were, but they sounded like quelites, a wild Mexican green with a spinachy flavor.
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A Mexico City taquería, in pictures

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The first time I saw Taquería Jalisco, it was right after we moved to Cuauhtémoc, and Crayton and I were walking down Rio Lerma at night, checking out our new environs. (Or “rumbos,” as Mexicans say.)

Taquería Jalisco looked charming: it was a tiny fonda-slash-puesto, half indoors, half out, situated next to a parking garage. A few plastic tables and chairs had been set up near the driveway. Four orange stools, accented with chrome, stood in front of a small counter area. A big bunch of greens sprouted from a tin can.

Steam wafted about about the taqueros heads as they moved about, chopping and scooping and slicing. I was across the street, but I could almost smell that greasy meat smell. I wanted that greasy meat smell.

Taquería Jalisco offers several types of tacos, but my favorite is their suadero, a tender, fatty cut that comes from the area underneath the cow’s skin. (The definition from Ricardo Muñoz Zurita’s Mexican gastronomic dictionary.) When suadero’s cooked, it’s greasy, crisp, meaty. Topped with a spritz of lime juice and a spoonful of red salsa, it’s very hard to eat just two, which is my usual limit with street tacos. Last time I visited Taquería Jalisco, I ate four.

Really, it’s not just about the taste for me, but the way taco-making works in Mexico. The precision of it, the efficiency. The taquero tosses a handful of meat onto the comal, and watches the fat bubble and sizzle. He palms a few barely silver-dollar-sized corn tortillas, scoops up the meat, and tosses it, meat-side up, onto a plastic plate that’s lined with a square of paper. He asks: “Con todo?” and that’s a shortened code for “Do you want cilantro and onions?” The whole transaction — the making of the taco itself, whether you’ve ordered one or four — is done in under 30 seconds. It’s like this everywhere.

My pictorial tribute is below. Oh, and here’s the info on the place, should you ever be in the ‘hood:

Taquería Jalisco
On Rio Lerma, between Rio Sena and Rio Tigris
Col. Cuauhtémoc
They’re open 10 a.m. to 2 a.m. Monday through Saturday.
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Tostilocos: The Mexico street food nacho, Frito-pie hybrid

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A few days ago, my friend Jesica told me about a video she’d seen on YouTube. A Mexican guy had filmed a short segment on Tostilocos, a street food in which a bag of nacho-flavored Tostitos are cut open along the vertical and then topped with the following: cucumber, pickled pork skin (known as cueritos), lime juice, Valentina hot sauce, chamoy, tajín chile powder, salt and Japanese peanuts. Japanese peanuts are a popular Mexican bar snack — they’re regular peanuts covered in a brown, crunchy shell.

“Es una bomba de sodio!” Jesica exclaimed, a little gleefully. Translation: It’s a sodium bomb!

We are both advocates of eating healthy. But, you know, this whole idea of taking a bag of chips and topping them with various condiments fascinated me. This dish recalled Frito Pie — the Texan specialty in which chili and cheese are poured over an open bag of Fritos — but it was so much crazier, all the salty condiments so insanely Mexican. I wondered if I could recreate this magic dish at home, maybe using bacon instead of cueritos. It’s not that I didn’t want to use cueritos — I personally enjoy their rubbery texture — but I wasn’t exactly sure where to find them at my local supermarket.

Before I get to the recipe part of this post, you really must watch the Tostilocos video. My favorite part is the end, when the host chews thoughtfully and says, in a manner that recalls an Iron Chef judge, “Wow. This is a completely new taste. The mix is — just spectacular. You can become addicted to this.”

[youtube=http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jU4N-METflY&hl=en_US&fs=1&]

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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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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.

Where’s the beef: Steak and rib tacos in Condesa

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I tend to favor pork, chicken or veggie tacos over red meat. But on Tuesday, my friend Ruth and I were ambling about town, and she had a craving for steak.

Ruth knows a thing or two about food, and I don’t want to deny her cravings, ever. So we stopped at Las Costillas, a taco joint on Pachuca and Juan Escutia that she’d been wanting to try.

It was a comfy, neighborhoody spot, with maybe five small tables, a cook and a waitress who was peeling vegetables for that afternoon’s menu. (The menu comprised three tacos, soup, rice and a drink for about 60 pesos.)

We ordered rib tacos to start and an order of black beans. Ruth also got some soup, which the cook graciously served even though it wasn’t supposed to be offered until after 1 p.m.

The tacos — which arrived in about four minutes — were smoky and flavorful, and Ruth said they weren’t greasy like so many tacos de costilla are. They also came with a bone, in case you wanted to gnaw on that for a bit.

After that, we ordered cecina de res tacos with grilled spring onion bulbs. Cecina is a salty, cured, thinly sliced cut of meat, and it was juicy and glistening and just gorgeous. The grilled onions were the perfect extra touch. Do you see those burnt bits? Yum.

Las Costillas also had quesadillas with mushrooms and cheese, made with pita bread instead of corn tortillas; and tacos with poblano, bacon, cheese and onion. (Getting those next time. Can you imagine all the gooey goodness contained in there?)

I didn’t see nopal on the menu, but the cook threw several paddles on the comal while we were there.

There was also a mirror tacked high up against the ceiling, so you could watch TV even if your back was to it. Very nice customer-service touch.

Lastly, they have a Lenten menu, so there’s no reason you can’t go on Fridays. Next time I’m in the area, I’ll definitely be back. Only downside is that they offer sodas only — no aguas frescas.

INFO

Las Costillas
At the corner of Juan Escutia and Pachuca, in the Condesa neighborhood of Mexico City
Open daily except for Sunday; I believe hours are 10 a.m. to midnight
Prices: Around 30 pesos for an order of three tacos

Adventures in Mexican produce: The granada china

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I first bought a granada china — literally, a “chinese pomegranate” — a few months after moving to Mexico. I had no idea what it was (I’d been suckered by a tianguis vendor, oh naive extranjera that I was), and so I asked my Mexican landlady.

She said it contained a mucous-like sack of seeds. You cut the fruit in half and suck them out with your tongue.

The mucous idea scared me. The china slowly rotted in the fridge, and I never bought one again.

In India, we ate passion fruit right off the tree. The granada china bears a striking resemblance to passion fruit — actually, they’re related — and so at the tianguis a few weekends ago, I confidently asked for “dos maracuyá.”

A man behind the table laughed. “That’s not a maracuyá,” he said. “It’s a granada china.”

I bought a few anyway. Came back, sliced them in half — they opened with a satisfying crack — and dug into the gelatinous center with a spoon. It tasted similar to a passion fruit, but a little more musty — sweet, but without the bright, lemony, mangoey notes you sometimes get with passion fruit.

Eating it was so much fun. I used a wee spoon, and scooped out the soggy flesh from each half. We still have some Leblon Cachaça left, so when I feel better, hubby and I must try granada china caipirinhas on the patio.