Holy Mole - Food as a Road Map through Mexico

by Nick Gallo 

Nick Gallo is a Seattle writer with longtime travel experience in Mexico. He contributed an article on Rincon de Guayabitos for the May 2000 issue of Mexico File. 

For much of my life, I thought I knew Mexican food – crispy tacos, goopy nachos, bunker-busting burritos. There’s nothing wrong with that – I rank Tex-Mex food right up there with garlic mashed potatoes as essential desert island fare – but then I started making regular visits to Mexico. 

South of the border, I was surprised by all kinds of things. Tacos didn’t have hard shells, iceberg lettuce or heaping servings of ground beef. Usually, they were soft, small discs that held nighttime snacks. Hot sauce wasn’t the lifeless stuff slathered on chips, but instead came in so many sumptuous varieties and bright colors that they sometimes stole star billing.   

In fondas, the humble food counters found in every market, I discovered quesadillas filled with flores de calabazas (squash blossoms); pozole, a thick, savory, pork-and-hominy stew; and the comida corrida, a four-course, mid-day meal that introduced me to dishes that ranged from soulful (tortilla soup) to sublime (huitlacoche, or corn fungus). 

In Jalisco, I saw the light. A state famous for its charros, its cowboys, Jalisco is known as a carnivore’s kingdom where you smell restaurants before you see them. Wander around Guadalajara and you can subsist on the wafts of pit-cooked cabrito (kid). But my memorable moment occurred at a small, homey restaurant. 

“You should try something truly Mexican,” a Mexican friend commanded, ordering for me. 

A plate arrived with what resembled a chile relleno except that it was bathed in a white cream sauce and sprinkled with ruby-red pomegranate seeds. With my first forkful, I tasted the crunchy pomegranates, followed by a blast of fresh walnuts. One bite into the chile pepper brought a delicious explosion of chopped pork, garlic, and tomato. With each succulent forkful there was another eruption of flavor – raisins, almonds, fresh peaches and apples – all of them contributing to a robust interplay of flavors. Most surprising of all, the fabulous dish was served cold.  

The dish was chiles en nogada, and it was a revelation. Mexican food – real, authentic Mexican food – was richer, bolder, and more complex than I realized. Formerly, Mexican food seemed as subtle as the Chihuahua dog in the TV commercial who proclaimed, “Yo quiero Taco Bell.” But this dish was refined and balanced. It was exuberant, colorful, almost baroque in presentation. It was meant to be savored. 

Few Mexican dishes are as elaborate as chiles en nogada, a seasonal specialty, but as I began to travel throughout Mexico, I discovered a repertoire of intriguing dishes. In Oaxaca, I encountered mole (MO-lay), an indigenous word meaning mixture. Oaxaca is famous as the land of seven moles – seven vastly different dishes, with dozens of variations. The most celebrated is mole negro (black mole), a complex dish that makes whipping up French sauces seem like a snap.  

In Oaxaca, I joined Susana Trilling, a chef who runs the Seasons of My Heart Cooking School, for a day of marketing, cooking, and feasting. No masochist, I didn’t attempt to create mole, which involves laborious preparation of a long list of ingredients – sesame seeds, chiles, garlic, almonds, nuts, a touch of chocolate, and more – but I hung out at the comal, Mexico’s version of the wok, and pestered Trilling with questions about Oaxaca’s cuisine.

In the following days, I rambled through town to sample the specialties Trilling mentioned. In little time, I found chapulines, fried grasshoppers; entomatadas, tortillas in a red sauce; quesillo, a stringy, pungent mozzarella cheese; tasajo, thinly-sliced dried beef; clayudas, frisbee-sized tortillas dabbed with pork drippings, bean paste, and grilled meats; and hot chocolate, flavored with cinnamon and nuts.  

I was beginning to understand. When it comes to food (and many other aspects of culture), there isn’t just one Mexico, but multiple Mexicos. With 32 states in about a dozen regions, Mexico contains a wide array of distinct, regional cuisines, each shaped by different ancestral habits, customs, and geography. 

The northern states have hearty “cowboy” fare: fire-smoked steaks and “drunken beans” (pintos cooked in beer) wrapped in flour tortillas. In Veracruz, the Spanish- influenced cooking includes huachinango a la veracruzano – red snapper smothered with a zesty sauce of tomatoes, chiles, olives, and capers. In the Yucatán, Maya-inspired dishes are flavored with achiote seasoning, made from a local seed and spices, marinated in bitter orange juice, and wrapped in banana leaves before being baked. 

Not long after visiting Oaxaca, I found myself in Mexico City where I tracked down Patricia Quintana, author of The Taste of Mexico (Stewart, Tabori & Chang, 1986). I had many questions. Why are some tamales heavenly and others taste like dog food? What’s up with corn fungus? How did French rolls get to Mexico?  

Deciding I needed a lesson in the basics, Quintana took me to Fonda El Refugio, a Zona Rosa restaurant renowned for its sage kitchen staff of elderly women. 

“Here we have the pre-Hispanic diet,” Quintana said, as if she were summoning the nation’s ancient Aztec soul as she offered me a spoonful of nopalitos – diced cactus – accompanied by warm tortillas, guacamole, beans, and tomatillo sauce, all foods that predated Cortés. 

“And here,” she cooed, nodding to a platter of quesadillas, “come the Spaniards. Milk, cheese, fried foods – this is the legacy of the Europeans.”  

The history of Mexican gastronomy is entwined in the union of Aztec and Spanish foods, she said. Indigenous people relied heavily on corn, beans, and squash – the holy trinity – along with chiles, tropical fruits, the turkey, and crunchy insects. (They also introduced vanilla and chocolate to the world.) The Spanish brought the wheat culture, adding beef, pork, dairy products, sugar cane, olives, onions, and garlic to form a combination plate for the ages. 

“Our foods are a product of our history,” Quintana said. “They tell us where we came from.” 

And perhaps where Mexico is going. In recent years, Mexican chefs have embraced global culinary trends. In some cases, this means the nouvelle approach – tony restaurants elevating authentic regional specialties with the royal treatment and contemporary cooking techniques. In others, it means fusion fare. As if to symbolize the country’s 21st-century yearnings, chefs unveil cross-cultural adventures such as tenderloin of beef and chipotle chiles in a sauce of port wine and fresh figs. 

I have nothing against the latter trend – I never met a jalapeño mousse I didn’t like – but over the years, my tastes have grown simpler. Paradoxically, as I’ve come to appreciate Mexico’s rich traditions, I’m happiest when I’m at a beach cafe eating ceviche or back in the fondas, slurping vegetable soups that don’t make it into tourist restaurants.