nixtamal

Rustic quesadillas de xocoyol, in the Estado de México

July 3, 2013 by Lesley Tellez

A xocoyol quesadilla, made from a plant in the Estado de Mexico

This past weekend, I visited some new friends at their home in Xalatlaco, a small city in the State of Mexico. For breakfast — a late breakfast for me, around 11 a.m. — they made quesadillas de xocoyol. The plant, which grows in nearby corn fields in June and July only, has a sharp, citrusy, sour taste, as if the leaves had been dipped in lime juice.

My friends, three women, mixed the greens with curls of white onion and a few thin veins of chile de árbol. They made blue corn tortillas from fresh nixtamal.

They laid the tortillas on the comal in thin sheets, then, once the tortillas had cooked, topped them with big handfuls of the xocoyol mixture, sprinkled with salt. There was no cheese. Everything steamed under the hood of the blue corn tortilla, and eventually, after several minutes, we had a soft, soft mixture without a single drop of oil.

“Te enchilaste?” one woman, Sra. Rosa, said after I took a bite. I shook my head. The quesadillas were lovely. Sort of like nopal in terms of the acidity, with a little punch of heat.

Apparently you can find xocoyol in Tlaxcala and the State of Puebla, too, although I’m not sure it’s the same plant. Does anyone out there know it?

How dried corn becomes masa, or nixtamal

March 26, 2013 by Lesley Tellez

Nixtamalized corn, ready to be ground, at a mill in Mexico City. Photo by Keith Dannemiller.

One of my favorite places in the Centro Histórico is an old corn mill on Calle Aranda. It’s one of the few places left in the neighborhood that still grinds dried corn into nixtamal, the dough that forms the base of tortillas, sopes, huaraches, tlacoyos, gorditas and countless other Mexico City street foods.

Nixtamal is made from dried corn that’s soaked in a mixture of water and a mineral called calcium hydroxide. The mineral, which can be white and powdery or rock-shaped depending on where you buy it, adds important nutrients to the corn and better enables our body to digest it. Upon contact with the kernel, the calcium hydroxide pulls at the kernels’ hard outer skin, which eventually sloughs off and makes the corn smoother and easier to grind.

Because of the fluctuating price of corn — and the unpredictable nature of a Mexico City mill, which may or may not have the nixtamal ready by the time customers want or need it — many tortillerías in the capital now use packaged nixtamalized corn flour, like Maseca or Minsa. When I lived in DF, I’d always ask before approaching a new tortillería: “Es de maiz maiz, o Maseca?” If they replied “Cien por ciento maíz”, I’d buy there.

A lot of people are increasingly worried about processed nixtamal flour completely supplanting real corn tortillas someday. To be honest, I’m not entirely sure where I stand, considering that Maseca and Minsa both provide cheap, quick alternatives (and nutrients) to families that may not have time to make their own tortillas daily. I prefer the taste of real corn tortillas, so I seek them out. Most mills in Mexico City still use thick discs made of volcanic rock to grind the corn, so that adds an extra layer of flavor.

The last time I was in Mexico City, I passed by the mill and caught a quick video of the grinder in action. A trickle of water from the faucet makes the dough come together into a solid mass. The bicycle wheel in the bottom-left corner of the frame shows how the workers distribute the masa to fondas and taquerías throughout the neighborhood.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=lYYO5V2dC_I

Gorditas de maiz quebrado in Querétaro

February 8, 2011 by Lesley Tellez

Crayton and I decided last-minute to go to Querétaro this weekend, with our friends Jon and Ale.

We booked our hotel the morning we left, so I didn’t have time to research where we’d eat. Thank goodness for the Querétaro marketing machine — at one of the tourism kiosks in the Centro Histórico, I found a small pamphlet decorated with cookies that listed markets, restaurants and some of Querétaro’s typical foods.

The gorditas de maiz quebrado sounded particularly interesting. They were fried discs made of coarsely-ground masa, stuffed with either chicharrón — in Querétaro it’s called “migajas” — or cheese. A wallop of lettuce went inside. Chilangos, by comparison, don’t eat lettuce in their gorditas. The masa is smooth, the same as tortilla masa. As an aside, there are endless varieties of gorditas in Mexico. Some are baked, some are fried, some are sweet. Ricardo’s dictionary devotes 2 1/2 pages to explaining their differences.

Per the cute Querétaro tourism booklet’s recommendation, we hit the Mercado de la Cruz in the Centro Histórico. Eventually we found Gorditas El Guero y Lupita.

It was a madhouse. Every seat at the medium-sized puesto had been taken, with people sitting along the bar and crowded onto benches. A queue snaked between the register and the fryer, while the owner — El Guero himself — scribbled orders on small pieces of paper. Customers who’d finished eating cried out for more — “Seven more gorditas de queso!” — and El Guero wrote down those orders too, in a messy script.

Equally impressive were the women making the gorditas, who grabbed scoops of masa and stuffed them with cheese and chicharrón, patted them thin, and tossed them into the fryer. They were focused and quick, shaping the masa for only a few seconds before moving onto the next palm-full.

The gigantic fryer

That's masa in the large bowl, and cheese and chicharrón (migajas) in the buckets

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Introducing… my new electric corn grinder.

November 8, 2010 by Lesley Tellez

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.

The Zen of bug-infested tortilla dough

July 30, 2010 by Lesley Tellez

A few weeks ago, my cooking class instructor gave us our first major homework assignment. For the July 29 class, we were to bring one kilo of nixtamal, or dried corn that’s been soaked in a mixture of water and slaked lime. (Slaked lime is known in Spanish as “cal.”)

We could either soak our corn the night before class or do it Thursday morning. But the corn had to sit undisturbed for eight hours.

Luckily I already had my corn — I’d bought a kilo at the Central de Abastos about a month ago, before my cooking course even started.

I didn’t have time to make the corn Wednesday night. So at 9 a.m. yesterday, I padded into the kitchen, bleary-eyed, in my pajamas. I took out my corn from the pantry and poured it into a bowl.

I tweeted that I was about to make nixtamal. And of course I took a few photos.

Innocent-looking corn, before things turned ugly

The recipe I used, jotted down in class

I rinsed the corn under the faucet and shuffled the kernels with my fingers. And that’s when I spotted them: tiny black bugs, about the size of bread crumbs. My stomach dropped. There were bugs in my corn.
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