The Mija Chronicles

Mexican food and culture, on both sides of the border

sweets

Calabaza batida from the Tlacolula market in Oaxaca

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We spent two hours at the Tlacolula market outside Oaxaca City this morning, and the dessert above is one of the best things we tried. It’s called calabaza batida and it’s squash — the tamala variety, as it’s known locally — cooked with water and piloncillo until it’s thick and saucy. The mixture is then topped with pozole corn.

I have lots more pictures to share with you, but I’m going to go read on the lounge chair while it’s still light outside. This is supposed to be a vacation, after all… even though I brought my computer.

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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Grinding chocolate on the metate, the traditional Mexican way

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Most people probably think of chocolate as being European, but the cacao bean itself — the bitter seed that gives chocolate its taste — is native to Mexico.

The Mayans were the first to domesticate the crop, thousands of years before the Spaniards arrived. (The name cacao actually comes from the Mayan word kakaw.) Later, Mexica priests and other upper-class Aztecs drank ground cacao as a beverage, mixed with water and spices. The Mexica venerated cacao so much, in fact, that they used it as a currency and imposed a cacao tax on conquered villages.

Yesterday at cooking class, Yuri told us we were going to make chocolate from scratch, in the traditional Mexican way. We’d each grind 1/4 kilo of cacao beans on our metates, drawing out the natural cocoa butter until the beans turned into a thick, glossy liquid.

In keeping with the way the nuns used to make chocolate in Mexican convents, we’d each receive a portable flame to place under our grinding stone. The flame would heat the stone and melt the cacao a bit, making it easier to grind.

I had no idea what lie ahead of me — a common theme in this cooking class — so I kneeled on my straw mat and began grinding with high spirits. The beans crackled and crunched under my metlapil.

We’d toasted the cacao beans in the last class, so pulverizing them produced this nutty, kind of toasted-walnut smell, mixed with aromas of intense dark chocolate.
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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.