There is no one American cuisine, and I suppose you can say there is no one Bittman cuisine either. The nation developed without respect for what was here before the Europeans flooded in, and what might have been was supplanted by anything goes. This culinary manifest destiny can be fascinating, of course; my block has Turkish, Southwestern, Tex-Mex and Italian, all within 100 feet of one another. (That’s before you cross the avenue.) None are very good, but you can’t complain about variety.
My own story is one of rejecting, or at least subsuming, a limited culinary heritage that I saw, and continue to see, as inferior to those of much of the rest of the world. Oh well, it’s not inconceivable that in the course of their threatening, perhaps horrible, early years and subsequent difficult journey across the Atlantic, my grandmothers lost many of the better elements of the cooking of their mothers and grandmothers. I’ll never know.
What I do know is that in coming from a culture in which the food was just not that interesting and in living in a place of such endless choices, I found most cuisines equally alluring when I was learning to cook, and I happily buzzed from one to the next, sometimes cooking Mongol food on Monday, Okinawan on Tuesday and Catalan on Wednesday, rarely tackling the same thing twice. My kitchen is like my block, although modesty aside, my food is usually better.
I’m not sure whether I’d like to settle into a cuisine and stay there, or if I’d even know how. But it’s not really an option for me — the demands of food writing, especially cookbooks, mean that I’ll long be developing new recipes.
The anything-goes routine is a joyful challenge, but it’s also what makes it so refreshing to occasionally cook in a place where the options are circumscribed. This could be as intrinsic as a coastal community dominated by gardens and fishing boats, as luxurious as a weeklong apartment stay in Paris, or as exotic as what has become an annual trip to the Caribbean coast of the Yucatán. Once here, my cooking becomes decidedly Maya/Yucatec, or my perhaps lame but certainly well-intentioned interpretation of it. (I actually don’t know enough to distinguish between the two, though I do know that there’s a difference; for a discourse on this, see the new book “Yucatán” by David Sterling.)
In my experience, the cooking of this part of the world is chili-dependent but rarely hot. Historically, this may be because chiles are not a locally important source of nourishment; there is always the holy trinity of beans, corn and squash. Mild rather than mind-blowing, chiles are appreciated mostly for subtle flavor. This doesn’t mean you don’t see habaneros; you do. But the Mayan cooks I’ve seen use them include about a tenth of one at a time. That adds a tiny bit of heat and a distinctive fruitiness.
No doubt much of the Latino part of our population, especially people who’ve immigrated, understand all of this, but those of us who grew up gringo don’t. We think of chiles as jalapeños, serranos, Thai and then the dried, red-hot specimens like chili de árbol and cayenne. These are all fine if used sparingly (or intentionally not), but they can turn a dish one-dimensional if allowed to dominate.
The milder chiles add complexity as well as (and sometimes instead of) heat, and may be thought of more as a subtle spice that results in mysterious flavors you can’t duplicate otherwise. They’re fun rather than fearful.
And for the most part, we simply don’t use them enough. We don’t understand them, and that lack of understanding results in a limited pantry. Learn to love them — and tame them — and you can use them daily.
The first thing I do upon arrival here, then, is to lay in a supply of chiles, most of which are dried, 95 percent of which are mild and some of whose names I couldn’t tell you.
For example, there are always chipotles that are clearly not made from jalapeños. By definition, a chipotle is a smoked dried jalapeño, so it is misnamed; but no matter where you go in Mexico, you will find these mild chiles that were held over or next to a smoldering fire for hours, or maybe days. Used judiciously, they add warmth, flavor and smokiness — but not much heat — to just about anything.
To me, there is no prettier sight than a counter loaded with chiles: long, mild, fresh red or green ones. (In New York, we’d call the former “Korean” and the latter “Anaheim.”) And then a few of the never-ending supply of fresh and incredibly inexpensive poblanos, those gorgeous dark green babies that so perfectly straddle hot and not, as well as anchos, which are the same models, only dried. And finally, a variety of dried chiles, California or New Mexico, guajillo, mulato and pasilla in all colors: red, black, beige or the characteristic burnt black chiles, a result of a process I’d not recommend trying at home; it can bring on a form of instant bronchitis. Buy them already blackened.
There are a couple of steps before you plunge in; one is optional, one essential. The optional one is roasting, or toasting. This makes a difference even with dried chiles, and even if you’re going to be cooking them anyway. Just a few moments over a gentle fire, or in a skillet, or even in a hot oven, will release complex aromas that may otherwise remain hidden. Fresh chiles, of course, benefit mightily from roasting because although it isn’t essential, it’s nice to discard the skins, just as it is with roasted bell peppers.
Which brings us to heat. Any chili, even a mild bell pepper, can contain some heat. And that heat is stored variously in the seeds, stems, veins and skin, all of which can be removed. With dried chiles, the process is easy: Just break the thing open, get rid of the seeds and stem and, if the chili is moist enough, tear out the veins. By doing this, you’ve really disarmed the thing and rendered most chiles safe to eat in the quantity that will allow you to enjoy their flavor without blowing the top of your head off.
Then you’re ready to expand your cooking repertoire. I have yet to find a stewlike dish that doesn’t benefit from adding the shells — that is, what’s left after removing stems, seeds and veins — of several kinds of dried, mild chiles, especially if one has some smoke. They don’t add substance in the form of bulk or texture, but for that you use fresh mild chiles. Then, if you want heat, it’s optional, and easy. But it isn’t imperative.
SCRAMBLED PEPPERS AND EGGS
Time: About 30 minutes
Yield: 2 to 4 servings
2 Tbsp. olive oil
1 small onion, chopped
2 red bell peppers, chopped
2 poblano or Anaheim chiles, chopped
1 fresh hot green chili (like jalapeño), chopped, optional
1 Tbsp. minced garlic
Salt and ground black pepper
4 eggs, beaten
1. Put oil in a large skillet over medium-high heat. Add onion and cook, stirring occasionally, until it’s translucent, 1 or 2 minutes.
2. Add peppers, chiles and garlic, and sprinkle with salt and pepper. Cook, stirring occasionally, until peppers are brightly colored but not too soft, 4 to 6 minutes.
3. Reduce heat to medium-low and pour in eggs. Cook, stirring occasionally with a wooden spoon or rubber spatula, until eggs are cooked, 3 to 8 minutes. Serve on toast or over rice, or wrapped in a flour tortilla.
POZOLE
Time: About 2 hours, plus hominy soaking time
Yield: 8 servings
2 Tbsp. neutral oil
2 lbs. pork shoulder, cut into 2-inch chunks
1 large onion, chopped
Salt and ground black pepper
4 dried chipotle, ancho or guajillo chiles
2 cups dried hominy, soaked in a couple of changes of water for 8 to 12 hours
2 Tbsp. fresh oregano, or 2 teaspoons dried
2 Tbsp. ground cumin
2 Tbsp. minced garlic
Chopped fresh cilantro for garnish
Lime wedges for garnish
1. Put oil in a large saucepan over medium-high heat. When hot, add pork and onions and sprinkle with salt and pepper. Cook, stirring occasionally, until pork and onions are deeply browned, 15 to 20 minutes.
2. Meanwhile, pull off whatever stems you can from chiles; break them in half and pour or scrape out some or all of the seeds. (The more you leave in, the hotter the stew will be.) When pork and onions are browned, add chiles, hominy, oregano and cumin. Add water to cover everything by about an inch. Bring to a boil, then adjust heat so the mixture simmers steadily. Cook, stirring occasionally and adding more liquid if necessary, until pork and hominy are tender, at least 1 1/2 hours.
3. If you like, fish out and discard chili pieces, or chop them up and stir them back into the pot. Stir in garlic and cook a few minutes more; taste and adjust the seasoning. The mixture should be a little soupy. Serve in bowls, garnished with cilantro and lime wedges.
CHILI-TOMATO NOT TOO HOT SAUCE
Time: About an hour
Yield: About 2 cups
6 guajillo or ancho chiles
1/4 cup neutral oil
2 large onions, chopped
4 garlic cloves, smashed
2 cups canned tomatoes
1 Tbsp. honey
Salt and ground black pepper
1/4 cup distilled white or apple cider vinegar
1. Boil 3 cups of water. Put chiles in a large skillet over medium heat and toast, turning once, until fragrant, 2 or 3 minutes on each side. Transfer chiles to a bowl, pour boiling water over them and soak until soft and pliable, 15 to 30 minutes. Remove stems and as many seeds as you like (the fewer you remove, the hotter the sauce will be). Roughly chop them, and reserve soaking liquid.
2. Put oil in the skillet over medium-high heat. When hot, add chiles, onions and garlic. Cook, stirring occasionally, until onions soften, about 5 minutes. Add tomatoes, honey, salt and pepper.
3. Adjust heat so the mixture bubbles gently. Cook, stirring occasionally, until the mixture is very thick, 10 to 20 minutes. Let it cool for a few minutes, then transfer to a blender with the vinegar. Purée until completely smooth, adding more vinegar or a splash of water if you want it thinner. Pour into a glass bottle or jar, cool completely and refrigerate up to a week.
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