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on Our Chiles! |
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You know nada about
the glorious chile!
of TheColumnists.com
All right, gather 'round for the real story about chile.
No, not the country in South America, but the spice that brings
excitement, titillation of the taste buds and gasps of joy, not
pain, to millions, like myself, around the world who delight
in its savory addition to gourmet dishes.
I'm not talking about European dishes that are a delight without
chile and are the outcome of wonderful creamy sauces, mushrooms,
pasta, tomatoes, onions and garlic, but New World chiles, chocolate
and vegetables like potatoes and tomatoes. With the exception
of chiles, the rest of the New World exports were an instant
hit in Europe's kitchens. We'll leave the English and Norse cooking
out of all of this for obvious reasons--boiled mutton and boiled,
salted codfish being some of those reasons.
First, the proper spelling is chile, not "chili." Who knows
where that incorrect spelling came from? But chile is the proper
word! It probably evolved, like the word coyote, from a Mexican
Indian language (coyote originated from the Indian word coyoaqual
in Central Mexico) to the present day Spanish word. It is also
pronounced chee-leh, not chilly.
It does no good to argue that chili is the English spelling of
chile. Using that logic, then Marsay, would be the proper English
spelling for Marseilles, the French resort city.
And chile is also not that horrible concoction of cheap hamburger,
doused with so much fiery chile that is referred to as "chili,"
or so bland tasting that you may as well be eating sawdust boiled
in tomato sauce.
There are a variety of chile plants, each producing large or
small thick-skinned soft pods, that can be pickled, mashed or
eaten raw and that have different tastes, ranging from chipotle,
with a soft nutty taste, to jalapenos, so painful that it takes
only one of those dark green waxy peppers to create an experience
that can only be described as having the agonizing flames of
Hell explode within your entire head.
I remember an evening in Olympia, Wash., where I was a capital
correspondent for the Associated Press, and I hosted a party
in which I had prepared a number of Mexican dishes. I had placed
on a buffet table, a small bowl of pickled jalapenos, with a
dire warning to my guests that only the smallest nibble was sufficient
to enhance the taste of the dishes and, better yet, to stay away
from them if they had never tasted them.
A woman guest, brought by AP Chief Correspondent Leroy Hittle,
my amicable editor, sniffed, "Oh, I'll bet they're not that
hot; besides I like hot food."
Before, I could yell "stop!" she had popped an entire
jalapeno into her mouth.
I was stunned, I knew what would happen as I slapped both palms
to the sides of my face in open mouthed disbelief.
Within one second, her smile turned to the most painful, distorted
lips, I had ever seen.
She let out an agonizing, "aaaaaagghhh," opening her
mouth, frantically reaching for a napkin to spit out the slightly
chewed pepper that was now engulfing her entire mouth with a
burning so intense, that not even a Marine equipped with a flamethrower
could have equaled it.
"OOOH SHIT!" was her next plaintive wail. "WHAAT DO I DO?" she shouted pleadingly, looking at
me with panicked eyes that were already brimming with tears.
"Milk! You've got to wash out your mouth with milk!"
I said quickly, "It's the only thing that'll stop it!"
I yanked her to the refrigerator, and as fast as I could, poured
a glass of milk, telling her to rinse her mouth out with it then
spit it into the kitchen sink. It took nearly four large glasses
before she was able to gasp for breath and reach a modicum of
normality so that she could enjoy the dishes I had prepared.
She had learned a lesson the hard way: that one should always
be extremely wary of pickled or raw small peppers that are either
green or yellow. Later, she extolled the enchiladas and
mole poblano that I was serving, but kept a safe distance
from the jalapenos.
That evening, the dishes I had made dispelled whatever misgivings
my guests may have had regarding Mexican food. They realized,
after my explaining to them, that garlic, oregano, cilantro,
cheeses along with salt and pepper, were critical ingredients
of Mexico's delectable cuisine.
Yet, I have acquaintances, not particularly sophisticated--no,
I'll change that to totally unsophisticated in the world's cuisines--who
have told me that they shy away from Mexican food because it's
too spicy.
My response is: "What! you dislike garlic, oregano, sage,
thyme, salt, pepper, onion?"
I usually get a, "Well . . . .no . . . . but ..."
It's my cue to explain to them that Mexican haute cuisine that
uses peeled walnuts, rose petals, pomegranate seeds, cheeses,
squash blossoms, cilantro, oregano, orange peel, chocolate and
a host of other ingredients in a huge variety of wonderful dishes
is never hot, and that includes enchiladas, tacos, chiles rellenos
and chile con carne.
Mexican gourmands, and I consider myself one (I love a good bowl
of pozole as much as Indian curry, duck a l'orange and
a fine brie), are aghast at fools who swallow spoonful after
spoonful of a dish that is so brimming with nuclear level chile
that it is akin to having molten lead poured down one's throat.
In Mexico, that nation's finest cooks would perish before preparing
any dish in such an uncouth and base manner. Chile is used only
in such small amounts so as to blend with other spices and produce
a tasty dish in which the hot spice, of whatever derivation--and
there are more than a dozen types--is barely perceptible.
Mole poblano, perhaps Mexico's finest and most exotic
dish, uses a species of chile that has a wonderful nutty flavor
and is so mild, that its hotness is barely detectable. The thick,
dark brown sauce requires nearly 20 other different spices, including
fresh chicken broth and chicken or turkey before it can evolve
into a savory mole--pronounced moh-leh.
In the spring, Mexicans relish dining at top-flight restaurants
that prepare chiles anogados, a dish that uses a mild
and savory chile similar to the long waxy green peppers that
abound in Western supermarkets.
Their preparation is complex, requiring pomegranate seeds, peeling
walnuts that are then ground to make a slightly, barely sweet
nut sauce, and ground meat mixed with a number of fragrant spices.
The peppers are stuffed with the meat and then carefully sauteed
and served with the walnut sauce lovingly poured over them and
the pomegranate seeds sprinkled on top.
Supposedly, the dish was first prepared in the late 19th Century
at a convent in Mexico where the nuns sought to impress a visiting
politician and concocted the now popular dish that also included
the national colors of Mexico: pomegranate seeds provided the
red, the cream colored walnut sauce for white, and the chile
pepper for green.
As the reputation of the dish spread like wildfire through the
complex Mexican kitchens, gourmets taking their first bite reportedly
fell to their knees, eyes filling with tears, and with their
arms extended heavenward and their hands tightly clasped, joyously
gave thanks to God for bringing to earth such a delectable and
exquisite Epicurean delight.
It's one of the best examples of Mexican cooking that when skillfully
and authentically prepared, provides an adventure in new, wonderful
tastes that includes the enchantment of chile at its best--a
choice ingredient that when carefully used blends all the spices
into mouth-watering goodness.
© 2002 by Elias Castillo. The Elias Castillo caricature
is © 2001 by Jim Hummel. The illustrations are from IMSI's
Master Clips Collection, 1895 Francisco Blvd. E., San Rafael,
CA, 94901-5506, USA.
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