Hot Chocolate, Two Ways (Mérida, México)

A few years ago, I took a road trip with some friends around southeastern Mexico, starting and ending in Orizaba, Veracruz, ultimately getting as far as Cancun.  As I may have mentioned before, Mexico – thus far – is one of my top three countries for eating…thus, I was not only looking forward to exploring more of the country with locals, but also to trying new and familiar foods along the way.

For instance, there’s chocolate.  I’ve wondered why Mexican chocolate doesn’t get much attention around the world, in spite of being the ancestral home of Theobroma cacao, the Latin name for the original cacao tree.  Of course, colonial empires and globalization have played a role in spreading the harvesting of cacao throughout many tropical countries, namely the Ivory Coast, Venezuela, and Ecuador.

Fast forward to my road trip, and the city of Mérida, located in the state of Yucatan.  Although counting nearly one million inhabitants in its metro area, its downtown area has a cozy feel to it.  Mérida is hot year-round, has boulevards lined with mansions built almost entirely thanks to rope, and owing to Mayan tradition, unique foods found nowhere else in Mexico.

Plus, due to its recognition as being one of the safest cities in the country and with that, a sizable expat population, they’ve got some fine places eat and drink.  Places like Ki’XOCOLATL, a small chocolate shop adjacent to Santa Lucia Park.

Hot Chocolate, Two Ways, Ki’XOCOLATL (from left to right, “brown sugar, cinnamon, achiote, allspice, and habanero;” honey is in the container on the central plate)

Though there are some debates as to the origins of the word chocolate, it no doubt stems from Nahuatl, a language spoken for centuries in rural parts of central Mexico; xocolia means “to make bitter,” and atl refers to “water.”

When it was first discovered nearly 4000 years ago by pre-Olmec cultures, it was consumed in its naturally bitter state, ground into a paste with water.  Subsequent civilizations started to add in what was organically found at the time in Mexican jungles and rain forests, namely honey, chilies, and vanilla.

After a long stroll through downtown Merida, I wanted to sit down and relax with some sweets.  Ki’XOCOLATL offered hot chocolate, two ways, I as I deem it.  The first method was the contemporary style, sweetened with sugar.  The latter, evoking how Olmecs and Mayans may have enjoyed it, started off by merely being the bitter cacao seed heated up with water.  The waiter served it alongside honey, brown sugar, achiote – a yellow-orange seed typically used to add color to foods, allspice, habanero, and cinnamon, although cinnamon hails from Sri Lanka.

Although the ancient hot chocolate took a bit of getting used to, I admit that the modern one was the best cup of it I have ever tried.

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Where did you have your favorite cup of hot chocolate?  Whether it was in Mexico or somewhere else, let me know!

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Tejuino (Mexico)

It may not be well-known outside of that region, but that’s the point; going all-in on new (for me) discoveries to share (with you) is one of the cornerstones of Finding Food Fluency.

Today’s spotlight may taste like a coarse tamarind shake — i.e. something sweet and sour — but there’s none of that legume floating anywhere near this Mexican drink.

Tejuino, a Prehispanic drink attributed to the Nahuas people of northwestern and central Mexico — roughly, Colima, Jalisco, Nayarit, and Sinaloa — comes from the Nahuatl word tecuín meaning “to beat/palpitate.” It is used for ceremonial purposes by the Yaqui of Sonora and the Tarahumara of Chihuahua as offerings to sacred deities; you may even see it consumed at a typical Mexican fiesta in Jalisco and Nayarit.

Tejuino at a Street Stall, Culiacán, Mexico

I encountered tejuino for the first time in Culiacán, Sinaloa. Having no idea what it was, I further went down the rabbit hole by trying it at a street stall where everything was baking in the sun.

And yes, tejuino is an alcoholic beverage, though has a low alcohol content.

Although some of its ingredients may vary depending on who’s preparing it, tejuino counts as its staples corn masa — you know, the stuff used to make tortillas, piloncillo/panela — that is, unrefined cane sugar, water, and a small amount of lime juice. Boil it all, let it chill out for a bit, then cover it with something breathable. Fermentation will happen, and then you’re done!

What was a bit odd about this street stall was that after trying it as is, the vendor insisted on adding a little Squirt Soda to the tejuino. Honestly, I wasn’t a fan of it either way, and in that heat I was that much worse off. Nevertheless, I’d try it again … at a restaurant, when not on a 10-mile trek!

Delightful Seafood at Marajillo in Puerto Vallarta, Mexico

Pulpo Zarandeado, Restaurante Marajillo, Puerto Vallarta, Mexico

I’ve got to show a hint of appreciation to a lackluster Airbnb for having introduced me to one of the best octopus dishes I’ve ever tried.

Marajillo, a small, noisy restaurant and bar in the middle of nowhere touristy Puerto Vallarta, Mexico, was mostly a bright spot during my brief stay in that tourism hub. Although I cannot recommend the comparatively bland and insipid ceviche Vallarta, the pulpo zarandeado, chicharrón de pescado (fried fish resembling pork rinds), and aguachile were excellent.

Although the verb zarandear generally refers to shaking and jostling something, in cooking, it refers to a style from the central western Mexican state of Nayarit. In this case, it means to split something — usually fish — from head to tail, and grilling it on a rack over hot coals. My dish at Marajillo was pulpo, or octopus, one of my favorites from the wide world of mariscos mexicanos, or Mexican seafood:

Three Tamales and a Cup of Atole in Atzacan (Mexico)

In 2019 I visited the small municipality of Atzacan, about two hours west of the eastern Mexican port of Veracruz.  For the budding linguists out there, the name Atzacan derives from three Náhuatl (a group including the Aztecs) words— atl, or water, tzaqua, or stop, and can, or place; in other words, “the place where the water stops.”

Founded in 1825, Atzacan is best known for its maize (corn) and beans, as well as an annual festival in April celebrating Santa Ana (Saint Anne), its patroness saint.

City View of Downtown Atzacan, Mexico

Of course, I was there to eat.  Given the spectacularly diverse terrain in this part of Mexico – among sloping hills and tropical valleys, volcanoes and thus, fertile soil also pepper the landscape – I was tipped off about tamales and atole as being local specialties.

This was a cool find for at least a trio of reasons.  One, it’s Mexican food, so it’s mostly likely going to be delicious.  Two, it’s a locavore’s delight.  And three, my tamale knowledge was woefully limited until that day.

Beans Vendor at a Food Market in Downtown Atzacan

Although the tamal can be found in countless forms stretching from Mexico to Chile, I couldn’t believe how many types there were just in Atzacan!  

Again, given the terroir of the region surrounding this pueblo, ingredients as diverse as berries, chocolate, coconut, pineapple, bananas, and many other things could be mixed in with the masa, or nixtamalized corn dough, to prepare the tamal.

Chocolate Tamal, Strawberry Tamal, and a Cup of Corn Atole (not seen, the Rapidly Devoured Coconut Tamal)

As for the atole, the hot drink made of masa, cinnamon, water, and often raw cane sugar (piloncillo), it’s a particularly heavy pairing with tamales, though no less tasty.  Over time, atole, too has come to be prepared with guavas, pineapple, nuts, and other naturally sweet ingredients…to wit, its most famous cousin, champurrado, is made with masa, water, and chocolate.

My short visit to Atzacan was something of an eye-opener.  Not only did it provide more context to the breadth of hyper-local Mexican cuisine, but it also made me appreciate a bit more places that take pride in what they produce for themselves.

Oaxaca’s Crunchy Tlayuda (Mexico)

After meeting some affable Mexican folks in my travels – including through becoming an impromptu translator in China – I started traveling more throughout their country, increasing my awareness of regional Mexican cuisines. I will cover more of these food discoveries stories in later posts, but for now, we’re going to take a look at the tlayuda, the Oaxacan specialty affectionately known as the “Mexican pizza.”  Hmm.

In Oaxaca, the word tlayuda generally refers to a fried or toasted giant corn tortilla.   They were first consumed in pre-Hispanic times — that is, before Hernán Cortés started marauding civilizations in the 1500s; in the native Nahuatl language, tlayuda is derived from tlao-li, or husked corn, and uda, or abundance.

Tlayuda are eaten either with granulated sugar, or with any number of savory ingredients…

Time for the good stuff! 

Savory tlayuda are first, smothered in a mix of refried beans and pork lard, the latter called asiento.  Then…whatever!  For the one above, I ordered it with ground chorizo, squash blossoms, quesillo (Oaxaca cheese; roughly similar to mozzarella), radishes, avocados, tomatoes, and a couple of flora unique to the region.

On the left, the green pod is called guaje.  Although the pod is inedible, the seeds have an eclectic flavor profile, something of a grassy pumpkin seed.  More importantly, the guaje, being plentiful in the region during the time of Cortés, lent present-day Oaxaca its name.  Since the Spanish couldn’t pronounce Huāxyacac, the Nahuatl word for the plant, they abridged it to become Oaxaca.  So much easier, right???

And on the right, pipicha, or chepiche.  Does it bear a striking resemblance to tarragon?  Yes…but the flavor is more like a citrus cilantro, with a hint of minty licorice.  Used by Aztecs and other ancient tribes to treat the liver, pipicha also are high in antioxidants, and can be used to cleanse the palate after a meal.  I felt that the flavor was quite strong, so I would recommend using it sparingly.

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What would you put on your ideal tlayuda?

Desserts: Calabaza en Tacha (Mexico)

For all of those Mexicophiles out there, you probably already know that the Día de Muertos (Day of the Dead) festival is approaching at the end of October.  In fact, it’s a days-long celebration, with lots of dancing, music, and face-painters, all in honor of the dead that return for a brief period to be with their relatives.

However, it was the Spanish conquistadors that shifted the festivities to coincide with Halloween (aka All Saints Day, a day of Catholic remembrance of the deceased).

Originally, the Aztecs celebrated their “great feast of the dead” (called Xocotlhuetzi) in present-day July/August, offering to their deities seasonal native crops such as beans, corn, and pumpkin.  The pumpkin -more commonly known as Cushaw squash and specifically Cucurbita argyrosperma (from Latin, “silver-seeded gourd”), was at that time prepared with honey in a fire pit.

When the Spanish Queen Isabel of Castile (Castilla) tried the pumpkin for the first time, it became a hit, even adopting one of her titles as its name– calabaza de castilla.

Isabel…that name sounds familiar.  In short, she was the queen of Spain when Columbus set sail for the western Atlantic.  Along with Spanish marauders, Columbus took sugar cane to the Caribbean, which eventually made it to Mexico in the early 1500s. Now that we’ve got our two main ingredients, let’s explore the dessert du jour, calabaza en tacha.

Calabaza de Tacha

Whereas calabaza refers to pumpkin, the tacha is a bit more confusing.  Formally, tacha means blemish, or tack (as in thumbtack).  To get more esoteric, a tacha is another name for a pot that is used to boil certain foods.

Water and cinnamon (cinnamon is actually from Sri Lanka) are first boiled in the pot, then a heaving mass of piloncillo (unrefined brown sugar) gets added. Thereafter, the only must is the pumpkin, and typically its seeds.  The version I tried, at the Mercado de San Juan in Mexico City, was a real treat, counting sweet potato (camote) and guava (guayaba) as bonuses.  Cloves are often added near the end of the preparation.

Calabaza de tacha is a delicious blend of autumnal, international, and tropical flavors with a touch of local history that helps keep Mexico among my top spots for culinary travels.

Vuelva a la Vida (Mexico)

Ciudad del Carmen, in the Mexican state of Campeche, is not a star in Mexico’s tourism constellation.  It’s a petrol-oriented city on the Gulf of Mexico, hot year-round, and lacking in terms of attractions– its most-visited point of interest is Puente El Zacatal (The Zacatal/Pasture Bridge), the longest in the country.  Coincidentally, I had driven over this bridge in 2018, but didn’t stop to check out the city.

But, then you must remember, Ciudad del Carmen is still in Mexico, so the food’s probably good.  Considering that Campeche is the center of the shrimp industry on Mexico’s gulf coast, as long as you stick with seafood, you’re in good hands.

Shrimp Traffic Circle, Ciudad del Carmen, Mexico

Eager to try the local version of one of my favorite crustaceans, I randomly stopped for a bite at a restaurant called Coctelería Cajun, located right by El Zacatal Bridge.

Now, if you’re a fan of ceviche, you will find that the Mexican variety is quite different from the Peruvian.  In Mexico, ceviche and cóctel go hand-in-hand, offering up a mix of fish and seafood submerged in Clamato/tomato juice/ketchup and served in a glass or bowl.  Although I’m partial to the Peruvian exemplar, I’ve got a weakness for mariscos (seafood), so I had to try something.

That something became Vuelva a la Vida.

Meaning “return to life,” it is a popular hangover cure throughout Mexico.  Throw in a whole range of things from beyond the shore…think shrimp, squid, clams, mussels, and then on top of that, add in red onion and cilantro, and if you’re like me, some wildly spicy salsa.  Don’t fret, for the sweetness of the tomatoes in the liquid base will help soothe some of the spiciness.

Though I really don’t ever want ketchup unless it’s beside a french fry, I couldn’t resist the assortment of marine life swimming in the glass.

Next time, I will see if they can add crab to the motley crew.

Calamari Hot Dog at Casa Kun, Mexico City

Mexico City is thus far, one of my favorite cities in the world.  It has some precious architecture, both classical and modern, the temperatures are great, and the food.

Oh, the food.

Today’s pick comes to us from the Renacimiento neighborhood of the Mexican capital, close to the city’s main boulevard, Paseo de la Reforma.  After a mostly filling lunch of quesadillas, I was still hankering for a botana, or snack.

Randomly, I had passed by a restaurant called Casa Kun; on its menu was a dish of octopus prepared in peanut sauce.  I was not peckish enough for that, but given that the menu sounded delicious, I did a search online for meal recommendations.

That’s when I found out about the squid hot dog, or hot dog/jocho de calamar.

I’ve had my share of mystery meat hot dogs, and even an eel dog in Tokyo, so there was no way I could turn this one down.

Calamari Hot Dog, Casa Kun, Mexico City, Mexico

If you’re sensitive to “fishy” tastes, then the calamari hot dog would not offend you.  You are able to enjoy the flavor of the squid, the house-made mayonnaise, and the surprisingly tasty bun without any one flavor overpowering the others.  It was served with fried baby octopus, roasted potatoes with scallions, and chile de árbol salsa.

Want to watch me try the calamari hot dog for the first time?  Check out my YouTube.

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Address:
Río Amazonas 73, Col. Renacimiento,
Renacimiento, Cuauhtémoc, 06500
Ciudad de México, CDMX, Mexico

Huitlacoche, the Caviar of Mexico

Welcome to the world of Mexican corn smut, better known as h(c)uitlacoche.

Huitlacoche Tortilla, Cancun, Mexico

What is huitlacoche?

Also called corn mushroom, Aztec caviar or Mexican truffle, it’s a fungus that the Aztecs knew about; the name derives from the Náhuatl words cuitlatl, or droppings, and cochi, sleeping.  The corn kernels become entirely consumed by the fungal disease, swell, turn grayish and surprisingly, wind up in your street food; when the huitlacoche is still white, you can eat raw, but if it has already turned gray/black, it should be cooked. It doesn’t ordinarily devastate whole corn crops at one time, so a visit to a cornfield might take you a while to find husks that are infected.

In Mexico, huitlacoche is lauded for its nutrients – it is low in fat and high in fiber and antioxidants – and health benefits, but in the USA, you’re more likely to see it canned in Mexican supermarkets.

Credit: https://world.openfoodfacts.org/product/7501017004881/huitlacoche-la-costena

I first tried huitlacoche in Cancun, Mexico; the flavor was earthy and nutty, and even a bit salty, though that may have been due to the melted quesillo (Oaxaca cheese).  It is normally found at the height of the Mexican rainy season, in July and August, but given its popularity, some agronomists are experimenting with growing the Ustiligo maydis fungus year-round.