Taco

A wildly popular Latin snack food throughout the Americas, chicharrones are made from pork belly that has been cooked for a long time with the skin on, and contains a little meat (what we think of as pork rinds in the United States). Though usually eaten as a crispy snack, they also make a tasty taco filling when heated in a sauce until softened and chewy. The most unusual chicharrones are those made from the whole pork skin fried in one piece—they’re about four feet long by two feet wide and resemble some dried prehistoric animal. You’ll see them for sale on weekends along the highways in areas of Mexico where there are a lot of pigs, sometimes next to a huge pot of pork fat boiling over an open fire. They’re almost always made to order; you stop and buy a piece or buy the whole thing. I’m guessing you only see them by the highways because they are so enormous you need a car or pickup truck to get one home.

The Sonoran landscape is riddled with mesquite trees, wild chile bushes, and barbecue pits. Not surprisingly, the Sonoran people are known for their fiery barbecued meats. Children and grownups alike gather wild chiltepin chiles from the bosque—the forested banks of rivers and streams—and sell them in the markets or next to the serious speed bumps in the road where you must slow down or lose your transmission. This recipe is typical of ranch-style cooking in northern Mexico except that a modern indoor oven replaces the traditional wood-fired barbecue pit. This recipe makes enough for a crowd. To halve, use two and a half pounds bone-out pork butt or four pounds country-style pork ribs, and halve the remaining ingredients, adjusting the cooking time accordingly. Note that the pork must marinate overnight.

This is a very simple country-style recipe, kind of like the old family standby of fried pork chops, and is quite tasty if prepared correctly. It is important not to overcook the pork or it will be dry and chewy. In Mexico, pork shoulder chops or other secondary cuts are traditional, but I’ve used pork loin here to make preparation as easy as possible. Leave any fat on the loin to help keep it moist. If your loin is very lean (and modern pork tends to be very lean), letting it sit in a brine made of 8 cups water, 2 tablespoons kosher salt, 1/2 cup plus 2 tablespoons sugar, and 1 head garlic, halved, for 2 hours will make the pork juicier and give it a nice aroma.

The chorizo that I’ve called for in this recipe is the soft, spiced Latin American chorizo made from fresh pork and easier to crumble once out of the casing, not the hard, cured salami-like Spanish kind (although obviously the Spanish tradition was the basis for the Mexican). Chorizo is very easy to make at home if you can’t find a good one locally. Use ground pork—preferably ground pork butt, which has the correct proportion of fat to lean. Ask at the butcher shop which cut they use; don’t get pork loin, as it is too dry to produce a juicy chorizo. Add good spices and keep the meat moist during cooking by adding water and a little vinegar, and cooking over low to medium heat. Mexican chorizo is available in bulk or links at supermarkets and Hispanic markets and butcher shops.

Bacon has become a culinary star again, and there are now so many flavors of bacon and ways to enjoy it—traditional smoked bacon, jalapeño bacon, turkey bacon, bacon candy, bacon salt, bacon cocktails, and—the most unusual—bacon ice cream! There are even bacon clubs that deliver different kinds to your door every month. It’s the bacon that gives these tacos their flavor. My preference is a natural, nitrate-free, applewood or hickory-smoked bacon that I buy as a slab, rather than presliced, so I can cut strips as I prefer them, about three-eighths inch thick. Most grocery stores and butcher shops sell thick-cut bacon. Also available is center-cut bacon, which is leaner with a higher yield of meat, much like very lean Canadian bacon (which is actually cured pork loin), in extra-thick slices. Wild boar bacon (see Sources, page 167) is particularly tasty for this recipe.

In Spanish, carnitas means “little meats,” and this is probably the most popular taco in Mexican cuisine. The pork pieces are succulent, juicy, and rich with a browned crust from frying—perfect for tacos. The best places in Mexico for this taco are at carnitas restaurants. Every town has one or more, some open only on weekends. You’ll see huge cauldrons—thirty gallons or more—of boiling pork fat holding whole pork loins, shoulders, and other big cuts like ribs. The chef closely monitors the frying temperature, pulling out the meat at just the right moment—when cooked, but still juicy. Customers say which cut they want and how much, always getting a mixture of lean and fatty meats, which make better tacos. The meat is weighed and chopped. Once you’ve paid, you take your carnitas to a table set up with fresh tortillas and bowls of salsa. Order a couple of cold beers and you are in taco heaven. This recipe is much simpler and easier, and the carnitas are great.

Unlike Baja fish tacos, which are deep-fried in batter, those made Maui-style are grilled. In all my travels, whenever I’m near the ocean—whether it’s in Hawaii, Mexico, Alaska, Thailand, or Australia—there has always been a small stand somewhere that serves the local catch in an affordable, portable (usually grilled) form. One of my funniest fish taco experiences occurred in a small town in Alaska where we had stopped for supplies during a sailing trip through Prince William Sound. There in front of us was an old school bus painted in bright, tropical colors now converted to a walk-up kitchen selling, of all things—Maui tacos! We were a long way from Hawaii, but the methods were the same—the local catch (salmon and crab, in this case), simply grilled and served with salsa on fresh tortillas. To reduce the heat of this dish, you can substitute Tabasco for the habanero hot sauce. If necessary, to prevent the pieces of snapper from falling through the grill grate into the fire, use a seafood grilling screen. The pineapple can be grilled ahead, if you prefer, and held at room temperature. Both the pineapple and snapper can also be grilled indoors on a nonstick ridged grill pan. For the pineapple use medium heat, 5 minutes per side; for the fish, very high heat, 3 to 4 minutes per side.

An achiote rub is the classic Yucatan way of marinating fish. I tasted this rub for the first time in Isla Mujeres in the early 1970s, when you could still live on the beach in a palapa and hammock, eat great seafood, and drink cold beers for a few dollars per day. The fishermen would rub fish with an achiote-citrus paste and grill them on the beach over fires made from coconut husks. When I worked at Chez Panisse in the late 1970s, I duplicated this rub from my taste memory for some of their famous garlic festivals. The light citrus flavors of the achiote paste are a beautiful contrast to the oily texture of the swordfish. If you don’t have swordfish, use another meaty ocean fish such as wahoo or mahi mahi.

The tuna for this recipe must be sashimi grade as only the edges will be thoroughly cooked. Sashimi-grade tuna is difficult to find unless you patronize a premium fishmonger or even better, a Japanese fish market, which typically carries it. (If you don’t have either in your area, ask at your local sushi bar if they would sell you sashimi tuna. I’ve bought fish that way.) To be sashimi grade, the tuna not only must be amazingly fresh, but it must be cut from the bottom of the loin, where there is no connective tissue. It should be free of any visible lines (no semicircles within the flesh) or blood, with even color. Its limited supply has made it very costly. The tuna for this filling is quickly seared, a technique known as tataki in Japanese cooking. With each mouthful, you enjoy the delicious contrast between the spicy-smoky seared crust of seasonings and the cool raw center of the tuna. Cucumbers add a nice crunch, as does a garnish of colorful sliced radishes.

This is a very basic and traditional ceviche from coastal Peru. There is an ongoing argument in South America about who first invented ceviche, with both the Peruvians and Ecuadorans vying for credit. The Pacific Ocean fisheries that run along the western coasts of these two countries are the most productive in the world. They are the meeting place of some of the greatest deep-sea currents that bring the Arctic waters, full of life, to the surface for feeding the large schools of migratory fish. This recipe is a great way to enjoy the bounty of the sea while still preserving the integrity of the flavors. Try serving these tacos in smaller crispy shells. Guacamole, avocado slices, or diced boiled potatoes are traditional garnishes used to subdue the spicy effect of the chiles.

The best, most interesting ceviches in the world come from Peru, specifically Lima. Peru is blessed with three completely different geographies—coastal, Amazonian, and highland, with a different ecosystem—and cuisine—for each. Peruvian chefs create ceviches using exotic fish from the coast, potatoes and corn from the highlands, and wonderful tropical flavors and ingredients like hearts of palm from the Amazon region. Typical of a ceviche, the snapper in this taco filling is cooked not with heat, but by chemical action of the acid in the citrus juices. True red snapper, one of the great fishes of the world, is very expensive and rare, distinguished by its large head and red flesh. Most fish that is sold as snapper is actually rock cod or some other rockfish and does not have the subtlety of the genuine article. If you can’t get true snapper (you can tell only by seeing the whole fish, with its bright red and pale yellow markings), striped sea bass or halibut will work well. Candied ginger makes a nice garnish.

One of the best lunches I’ve ever had was at the centuries-old Waterside Inn, a Michelin three-star restaurant situated on the banks of the River Thames in Bray, England, and owned by the renowned Roux brothers. Dressed in formal attire, as I was attending the Royal Ascot horse races nearby, I sat down to an unforgettable salad of briny Brittany lobster, rich avocado, tender mâche, sweet mango, and earthy fresh black truffles, all washed down with vintage Krug rosé champagne. I’ve recreated that memorable combination on many festive occasions and took it as inspiration for these most elegant tacos.

What Mexicans call a cóctel de mariscos is similar to what most Americans think of as a mixed seafood cocktail. Every port city of Mexico, even inland Mexico City, offers them (look for a sign advertising mariscos or shellfish). Mexico has some of the freshest seafood in the world, and definitely some of the spiciest. Look for stands where you can smell the ocean and see the seafood without a blanket of sauce so you can judge freshness by color and aroma. The classic accompaniment is crispy tortilla rounds—either chipotle or corn-flavored (usually found next to the tortilla chips in a Mexican market; saltine crackers are another option). You need the crunchy texture of the fried tortilla against the softer, juicier texture of the seafood—so this works great in a crispy taco shell as I’ve done here.

Mexico is blessed with one of the largest coastlines in the world, touching two oceans and two seas. Consequently, it has a very rich and diverse seafood culture. One of the centers for great seafood eating, including crab, is the Atlantic port Veracruz. Seafood vendors populate the market, their counters painted in the hottest tropical colors and the marinated catch of the day displayed in huge sundae glasses. Order mariscos of just one type or mix and match—the vendors compete with one another to make bigger cocktails in their own special way. When shopping for fennel, look for ones with tops intact; they add extra freshness to a recipe and a more complete fennel taste. If you cannot find fennel with tops, garnish with one teaspoon chopped fresh tarragon. For extra splash at a more formal party, slices of black truffles (if you want to splurge) or a few drops of truffle oil add elegance.

Before the development of canning, pickling was one of the most important preserving methods, along with salting, drying, and smoking. Particularly in warm countries, pickling was favored for the way it used acid to stop or retard the growth of bacteria. Some historians credit the Egyptians and Romans for developing this technique, which was brought into Spain and then to Mexico. Turkeys, especially ones raised naturally, have a rich, dense flesh and dark, meaty flavor that can stand up to—and are improved by—heartier, more complex flavors like this escabeche. My favorite garnish for each taco serving is a slim feathery frond—no more than two inches long—from the top of a small stalk of fennel. It looks pretty, has good flavor, and is delicious with this filling.

Native to North America, turkey has always been a celebratory bird (or at least it was celebrated by those who dined on it). Turkey (guajolote, in Spanish) was used for special feasts in pre-Columbian times and was a favorite food of the American Indians. In Mexico today, turkey in mole is still the preferred holiday dish. For Thanksgiving dinner one year at Coyote Café, we raised almost thirty wild turkeys (so much better than the modern domesticated turkey) on open ranchland so they were free to go anywhere and eat anything. The flavor of those turkeys was magnificent! This recipe is a tempting taste of what awaits any traveler to Oaxaca or Puebla, two of the great Mexican mole capitals. Commercially produced mole sauces are widely available throughout most major grocery store chains in the United States. We have used turkey breast for this recipe, but any part of the turkey will work. Note that the turkey must marinate overnight before cooking.

After Mexican cuisine, Thai is the one that I consider the most expressive. I find its freshness, sharp chile accents, and cool citrus flavors habit-forming, so much so that I travel to Thailand at least four times a year. One of the most distinctive of Thai flavors is that of kaffir lime. It resembles a large key lime with deep green, warty skin and leaves that have a marvelous, haunting perfume unmatched by those of any other lime or lemon. In this filling, I use the leaf to perfume the coconut sauce that cooks the shrimp. The fruit only grows in tropical climates and the lime itself is very hard to find here, but its fresh or frozen leaves are sold at all Asian markets that stock a lot of Thai ingredients. For this filling, the leaves should be minced very finely (remove the rib) or, preferably, ground to a fine powder in a spice mill, as its flavor is so strong that any large bits of leaf will dominate every mouthful.

Along Mexico’s Pacific coast, calamari is commonly prepared in homes and restaurants. That area of Mexico was particularly influenced by the so-called Philippine trade routes, where the Spanish ships crossed the Pacific to Acapulco to trade the goods of Asia with the colony. The cuisine has a definite fusion edge—you’ll see Asian ingredients like ginger used there, as well as dishes with rice. This recipe comes from the Jalisco region in southern Mexico. It is simpler and more traditional than versions originating from other port cities like Veracruz, the original Spanish port and the area with the most exposure to Spanish influences, including cuisine. The mint is a refreshing and unusual complement to the robust flavor of the blackened tomatoes. The pairing of basil and mint is not traditional, but is one that I like as I think the two herbs work well together.

This combination of sweet shrimp and smoky chipotle has been the absolute favorite at Coyote Café for more than twenty years. The pairing of chipotle and seafood is common throughout Mexico. My most memorable (and outrageous) version was at a party thrown by Patricia Quintana, the famous Mexican chef and writer, for her birthday in her home state of Veracruz. She invited fifty chefs, food writers, restaurant owners, and winemakers to a feast spread out on a river bank where huge pots filled with enormous amounts of crayfish cooked over open wood fires. I must have eaten 200 crayfish, which were cooked with chipotles, roasted garlic, grilled tomatoes, and served with warm tortillas on wood tables and beer trays—and almost disappeared behind a mountain of shells. The shrimp are best when marinated for 1 to 2 hours—any longer is not necessary. For a deliciously smoky flavor, grill the shrimp rather than sautéing them on the stove.

Ground nuts or seeds are the singular ingredient in the sauces known as pipiáns, which are sort of like Southwestern pestos. Peanuts, native to South America, were first used, as were pumpkin seeds, but regionally, cooks would incorporate what was available—in the American Southwest, for instance, it could be pine nuts or pecans, or wild hickory nuts in other parts of the country. The richness of the duck is perfectly complemented by this rich, complex sauce that I created to use New Mexico pecans, a wonderful local crop. It’s very versatile, a great condiment for grilled satay skewers or as a sandwich spread or a party dip. It’s much easier to prepare than it sounds—a whirl in a blender, then a quick turn in a skillet to marry the flavors.