BCE (the before times)
People often ask me how I like the food in México, and what my fave dish here is.
Is it tacos? Not quite, though they’re probably a close second or third.
Sidenote (because I can never write anything without going off on some meandering linguistic tangent): I learned the word ‘guiso’ as just meaning ‘taco filling’, like, totally interchangeably. Many taco stands list their filling options on a sign with the header ‘guisos’. But to some, ‘guiso’ specifically refers to stewed dishes, e.g. meats and/or beans cooked in salsa. To others, ‘guisar’ is just the general verb for cooking something, regardless of whether it’s stewed or not. And, yeah, many taco fillings are stewed meats, but there are plenty that aren’t (al pastor/de trompo are cooked kebab/gyro-style, puré de papa is potatoes boiled and mashed, etc.). Taco taxonomy is a mess, and that’s the way it should be. Try to control it and you’re no better than the México City mayor who forced thousands of taquerías to remove hand-painted art from their stands in the interest of ‘beautifying the neighbourhood’. A ‘guiso’ can be a dish with or without the stewing process; with or without the tortilla. A guiso can be anything. You or I could be guisos. Who knows?
Half a decade in, my fave guiso is picadillo, which autocorrect keeps trying to change to ‘Piccadilly’. Everyone makes it differently, but typically, it comprises ground red meat, diced tomatoes, and cubed potatoes (and, occasionally, little chunks of carrot). Sometimes it’s dry, other times it’s ‘jugoso’ (juicy and stew-y). I’ll happily disappear 10–15 picadillo tacos on a Sunday morning. It’s very much a breakfast-time taco, which makes sense — my fave dishes always tend to be breakfast foods. I’ll just as happily down it by the bowlful as if it’s cereal. Shit’s righteous.
When I was first dabbling in salsas during my first couple of trips, I got a little too confident. Kass and I were with some friends at a… y’know, I’m not sure what to call this place. I guess it’s a bar. But it’s literally a patio with a small DJ booth, a little indoor area, and a car park with some chairs and a taco truck. Like the definition of ‘guiso’, the taxonomy of nighttime spots here is quite fluid. Sometimes the lights will come on, you’ll look around, and realise you’re pretty much just in some guy’s house. So we’re at this place, in the queue for the taco truck, and I spy a skull-shaped bottle of sauce on the serving hatch. Perhaps the shape of the bottle should have clued me in that I maybe wasn’t ready for that yet, but no, this white boy had to prove he could handle spicy food. I learned plenty of new Spanish swear words from the walls of the toilet cubicle that night.
Once the fires had subsided, I began to dabble more sensibly, and found myself on the green side of the salsa verde/salsa roja schism. If you have pacifistic inclinations, you can actually opt to have both at once; there’s a breakfast dish known as ‘huevos divorciados’ — literally ‘divorced eggs’ — with fried eggs served beneath lashings of both red and green salsa, but I’ve never been fond of it. My therapist might have an opinion on why.
So, team salsa verde. I had my favourite sauce. But what about my fave dish?
Was it burritos? No. I was surprised at how scarce burritos are in Monterrey. They’re more of a staple in further-north cities like Chihuahua and Juárez, I’m told, and may have even originated from the latter. Burritos here are also about a third of the size of the Tex-Mex-style ones I was used to, and they don’t typically include rice, sour cream, or guacamole. If there are beans, they’re usually refritos — refried and mashed. Controversially, and much to Kass’ disdain, burritos are pretty much the only dish of Mexican origin for which I prefer the Tex-Mex bastardisation. Forgive me. Then again, I’ve yet to try the ones in those northern cities, and I’m always open to finding new ways Americans are worse at things.
Many other dishes have vied for my number one spot. Carne asada, of course (essentially grilled meats, but that’s selling it short). Machaca con huevo (thinly-shredded dry beef mixed with scrambled eggs). Enchiladas Suizas (literally ‘Swiss enchiladas’ — cheese and shredded chicken rolled up in tortillas, laid out on a tray, covered in more cheese, baked, and drowned in salsa and cream). Milanesas de pollo. Tamales. And these little tostada-like things which Kass’ family make when we all get together. Can’t quite remember what they’re called. Not sure I’d be permitted to share the name if I could remember. Family culinary secret.
All these dishes hold a special place in my heart (in particular, the cholesterol deposits), but only one wears the crown.
Chilaquiles.
The exact day I first ate chilaquiles is lost to history, but if we’re going by when I first tweeted about them, it was January 2019 — a full two years after my first trip to México, and a year before I moved here. I do, however, know precisely the journey they took to become my fave Mexican dish.
When Kass and I were quarantined together for the better part of a year during the outset of the pandemic, we ordered food via delivery apps a lot. A coffeeshop owned by one of our friends quickly became a breakfast go-to. We wanted to support them however we could. One time, I ordered their chilaquiles on a whim.
And I never looked back.
When the pandemic began to relent and we were finally catching up with our friends again, we headed to their coffeeshop and I had the chilaquiles fresh from the kitchen. They were, naturally, even more divine without a 20-minute motorbike commute.
Then Kass and I got our own apartment together, and started exploring taco spots within walking distance. At one of them, I’d always order the picadillo tacos. Again, I’ll happily disappear 10–15 picadillo tacos in one sitting. But I must have been picadillo’d out one day, because I glanced at their menu.
And saw… chilaquiles.
I wonder if they’ll be as good as the ones from our friend’s coffeeshop, I wondered.
A few minutes later, the taquera hands me a polystyrene vessel brimming with destiny and promise. I accept her blessing, and am made anew.
A holy sunburst of crisp tortilla chips, flecked with spatters of oil that wink in the mid-morning light. The nest of shredded chicken, where offerings of finely-grated cheese, cilantro, and salsa verde are laid to rest. Zig-zags of cream mark the hallowed ground, and smiles of red onion seal the covenant.
The crunchy tortilla is the horns to the pollo deshebrada’s halo; the salsa is fiery ambition, kept in check by tides of cream; the queso gratin makes you think it’s all over, then the onion reminds you it’s just beginning. Ascension in every forkful. Revelation in every bite. The universe finds balance in a takeaway tray.
I am become one with the chilaquiles. But the trinity is not yet complete. One fateful weekend, we walk to the sacred taco spot. I’m unsure what I want: picadillo, or chilaquiles?
Something stirs within my soul. A force greater than I, or any man. I give in to it. Through me, a prophecy is fulfilled, a covenant made. I say unto the taquera:
“Chilaquiles, with picadillo on top, please.”
CE (Chilaquiles Era)
There are a few things pinned to the top of my iPhone Notes app. A grocery list Kass and I share. The wedding vows I recited through a KN95 when we got married in the throes of the pandemic. And (most importantly, some might argue): a journal of all the places I’ve eaten chilaquiles, ordered from best to worst.
It includes everything from taco trucks and coffeeshops to a DIY takeout spot where you assemble the chilaquiles yourself and a restaurant decorated floor-to-ceiling with little wooden canvases they hand out and invite you to scribble on with packs of crayons. There are hundreds, maybe even thousands of tiny scrawled artworks depicting everything you can think of: anime and cartoon characters, crude recreations of famous paintings, memes, the mountains on Monterrey’s horizon, calligraphy, and so on. I drew a shitty impression of my hometown.
The list continues to grow, thanks in part to friends always recommending new places I should try, because, yes, everyone knows chilaquiles are One Of My Things™.
Chilaquiles entered my world at a time when I started making healthier decisions in all aspects of my life, so in a way, they were the first culinary infatuation I had that didn’t turn toxic. Chilaquiles and I respect one another. We’ll see each other on Fridays sometimes, when the working week has worn away my desire to cook. But mostly we’ll catch up on the weekends, when Kass and I brunch with friends on Saturdays, or recover from late nights on Sunday mornings. The distance makes it all the more special.
We’ve spent time together during family catch-ups…
…at my desk…
…on reading dates with Kass…
…and reading dates with friends…
…in airports (ft. chopsticks)…
…during hungover breakfasts…
…and on skyscraper rooftops.
The bestseller ‘The Song of Achilles’ by Madeline Miller is titled ‘La canción de Aquiles’ in Spanish, so you can imagine the meme I made when I spotted the book.
Nowadays, when people ask me how I like the food in México, and what my fave dish here is, I don’t have to say anything. My friends know me well enough to answer on my behalf.
