The wonder and mystery of Mexican cooking

Mexican food is my comfort food. My devotion stems from memories of my mother’s enchiladas. I used to love watching her fry the tortillas in oil. They would bob about like lily pads, sizzling gently. Then when the bubbles formed with little pops, Mom would lift each tortilla out of the hot oil and place it on a paper towel. At the same time, she’d be heating salsa roja on the gas stove and, when it was ready, she would dip a spoon in the pan and put a dollop on a tortilla, swirling the spoon to coat the whole tortilla, then turn it over and do the same on the other side.

She was such a careful cook, and neat. The bowls of fillings sat ready and waiting on the kitchen island, each with its own spoon. Spiced beef first, then shredded jack cheese, black olives, lettuce and diced tomatoes. Mom would wrap the tortilla tightly around the fillings and press the enchilada against the baking dish. The lovely rolls would nestle against each other, eight to a dish. She would drizzle the salsa roja over the top until everything was covered in the rich, tomato-spiced sauce. Cheese and olives sprinkled on top, then into the oven.

Enchilada night meant a special family night. My grandma would come over because enchiladas were her favorite as well. At the end of her life she visited our house regularly, oxygen tank in tow and her tiny pink bottle of California white Zinfandel emerging from her purse.

When she was more mobile, Grandma used to take my mom, sisters and me to Amigo Lounge for lunch. The children’s menu at Amigo Lounge bears little resemblance to real Mexican cooking — in 1990s Montana, few places did — but during our trips there I sensed a whole world of more sophisticated Mexican food still undiscovered.

My mother always ordered the same thing, a cheese enchilada and a chile relleno. The latter was especially exciting — a thick Puebla poblano pepper stuffed with melted queso Oaxaca, wrapped in light masa batter and fried. The sharp pepper was mellowed by the smooth cheese and even better with a mouthful of the spiced enchilada from the other plate. Mom would share with me graciously until I’d eaten half her meal, then ban me from the vicinity. Retreating to my Indian taco was a bit of a letdown after the delights of her chile relleno. In childhood I could sense the difference between commercialized Mexican cooking and the real thing. Even then, I yearned for the flavors of authentic Mexican food.

Now I live in rural southern England, far from any restaurant that can satisfy this craving, so I decided to embark on my own journey of Mexican cooking at home. The problem is that so many of the basics are hard to track down. I once told an English friend how much I miss proper tacos. “What is a taco?” she replied.

I cannot buy a corn tortilla here for love nor money. The Tex-Mex brand Old El Paso sells flour tortillas everywhere, but their limp forms are no match for a tortilla made from masa harina. I would love to make succulent cochinita pibil tacos, full of slow-cooked pork and pink pickled cabbage. But I can’t even get to the first step, finding or making satisfactory corn tortillas. After trawling Amazon, I found a one-kilogram pack of tortillas from Mexico, but the shipping seemed excessive. I decided to try to make corn tortillas from scratch to see if that was cheaper. Given the amount of time and confusion this process involved, I think I’ll stick with Amazon.

It could be that the book I chose as a guide is overly complicated. I turned to the Mexican cookbook Nopalito which my husband bought me several years ago. We’ve both gazed at the pages and dreamt about attempting the recipes, yet every recipe contains at least one ingredient which you must look up first.

The “basics” section at the beginning suggests you start with masa, but you mustn’t use store-bought masa because it isn’t flavorful. Make your own masa. For this you will need high-quality dried corn, a corn grinder, calcium hydroxide and roughly twenty-four hours of your life. The dried corn must be “nixta- malized,” soaked for eight hours in an alkaline solution of calcium hydroxide, which is “technically safe to touch.” Then you need to get out your corn grinder. I really wanted to do this properly, but I don’t really want to buy my own corn grinder or handle calcium hydroxide regularly. There must be a middle ground between heating up Old El Paso flour tortillas and nixtamalizing your own corn kernels. No matter how much Nopalito cheerfully suggests this can be easily done in an average home, it just can’t.

The wonder and mystery of Mexican cooking has yet to be unlocked at our house. I’ve come to the realization that pursuing true authenticity in cooking is pointless. I’m no Diana Kennedy. As I contemplate making my own chorizo, I am reminded of the infamous recipe in her cookbook Oaxaca al Gusto: “Put the iguana in a large pot…”

This article was originally published in The Spectator’s April 2023 World edition.