Out of the Archives: "Hungarian Kick" (2007)

This post first appeared in 2007. I guess that means it is celebrating its 15th anniversary. As you’ll see, it was prompted by the seasonal arrival of locally grown sweet and hot peppers of all kinds in Montreal’s markets—especially Jean-Talon. But there’s an unexpected soccer theme to it. I didn’t remember that aspect of this post, but its presence is somewhat ironic because the last time I made this dish was December 18, 2022, the day of the World Cup Final in Qatar.

This recipe has been a staple of our repertoire for at least fifteen years. It’s one of a handful of dishes that is guaranteed to drive Michelle crazy. You know, the kind of dish you literally can’t stop eating. This is one of those for her. It’s a dish she requests often. I prepared it for the night of December 18 because that was the day of Michelle’s 3001: A Cookie Odyssey/Christmas Market event, and that’s the way Michelle wanted to celebrate the occasion. She thought it would be a fitting way to close out the market’s Eastern European theme. She was right.

Did the idea to make Hungarian goulash this past week come from a recent re-viewing of R.W. Fassbinder's The Marriage of Maria Braun? Yes, the film integrates the utter hysteria that surrounded Germany's 3-2 victory over Hungary in the 1954 World Cup final seamlessly into its explosive finale, and, yes, I have been on a real Hungarian kick suddenly, making three Hungarian meals since watching Fassbinder's masterpiece of melodrama, but, c'mon... Truth is, the inspiration behind that goulash had a lot more to do with the current availability of peppers--fresh sweet and hot peppers from Jean-Talon Market, and dried peppers from Olives et Épices, also at the market. The dried peppers--whole Hungarian smoked hot peppers--we'd gotten a while back, and as soon as we gave them a whiff, we turned to each other, gave each other a couple of knowing looks, and uttered the word "goulash" in unison. The fresh peppers in question were Hungarian banana peppers and Hungarian sweet peppers from Birri. As soon as they came into season, I started thinking about all those pepper-heavy Eastern European dishes that I love, like Paprika Chicken, Slovak eggs, Bab Leves, and, yes, Hungarian goulash.

I turned to a recipe for gulyás from Saveur, where, unlike the dish that's come to be known as "Hungarian goulash" in North America, the consistency is more along the lines of a "soup that eats like a meal." The recipe seemed authentic and all--though it does include tomatoes, which some gulyás devotees strictly avoid--so I used it as a blueprint, but I made a few significant changes. First off, I was more in the mood for a stew than a soup (even one "that eats like a meal"), so I cut back on the broth and aimed for a thicker, more stew-like consistency, a somewhat authentic take on the bastardized North American version I grew up with (the kind that tends to get served in the presence of strolling violins). Secondly, inspired by the idea of those Hungarian cowpokes making their gulyásover an open fire, I decided to make an iittala casserole-bound version that could be cooked over an open fire, if you're the kind of ranch hand who takes Finnish designer cookware out on the range, or in our fireplace, if only we had one. Lastly, I left the potatoes out. And then I put them back in (you'll see what I'm talking about momentarily). But mostly I balked when it came to the potatoes. And I'm not 100% sure why. I told myself it was because I knew there was going to be enough to freeze, and sometimes potatoes don't freeze so well, but I never really found that line all that convincing.

So, this particular goulash might not win prizes for authenticity, but, as we all know, authenticity has its limits. The bottom line was that it was delicious--the cubed beef had turned to candy, and it had a deep, rich broth that was utterly irresistible (you know: the kind of dish that you just can't stop yourself from having one more bowl of, even when you're officially "full"). I was downright enthusiastic about my bowl. "This might just be the best goulash I've ever had," I remember thinking.* Then I went back and had three or four more helpings just to be sure. Michelle didn't have her bowl of goulash until she got off from work later that night and I assembled her late-night snack. Now, granted, she hadn't eaten in 12 hours, she'd just come back from a tough shift, and she was maybe just a little delirious, but she wasn't two or three heaping spoonfuls in before she turned to me, earnestly, and exclaimed, "This is my favorite meal ever." Like I said: she was a little delirious. But I knew what she was talking about. That pseudo-Hungarian goulash absolutely hit the spot. It's certainly well worth tracking down smoked hot Hungarian peppers and fresh Hungarian sweet and hot peppers for.

fig. a: Goulash with roasted potatoes

Goulash à la AEB (2022 version)

2 strips of thick-cut bacon
1-2 tbsp vegetable oil
2 yellow onions, peeled and chopped
2 1/2 lbs beef chuck, cut into 2" cubes
1 carrot, peeled, and coarsely chopped
1/2 tsp caraway seeds
3 cloves garlic
Salt and freshly ground black pepper
2 tbsp sweet high-quality Hungarian paprika
1 rounded teaspoon ground smoked Hungarian hot peppers (optional, although you could use a high-quality smoked Mexican chile in its place if those are more readily available--either way, this touch really gives the goulash depth, it also gives it an unexpected, well, kick)
4 cups beef stock, warm
1 medium tomato, peeled, seeded, and coarsely chopped (optional if you're one of those that believes that tomatoes have about as much place in a gulyás as they do in a chili)
3-4 fresh Hungarian sweet peppers
1-2 fresh Hungarian hot peppers

In a large Dutch oven, fry the bacon strips, rendering their fat. Remove the bacon, and dice the strips. Reserve. Add 1-2 tbsp vegetable oil, bringing your total amount of fat in your pot to 2 tbsp (or just over), and heat over medium heat. Brown the beef cubes on all sides, making sure to get a nice sear on them. Turn up the heat slightly if you need to in order to brown the meat properly. Remove the meat from the Dutch oven, placing it in a large bowl.

Preheat your oven to 300º F.

Lower the heat to medium-low, add the onions to the Dutch oven and cook, stirring occasionally, until soft, about 15-20 minutes. Add the carrots, the fresh peppers (both sweet and hot), and the reserved bacon, and continue to cook, stirring occasionally, until the peppers have softened, about 10-15 minutes.

Meanwhile, toast the caraway seeds in a small skillet over low heat until fragrant, about 1 minute. Crush the toasted caraway seeds in a mortar, add the garlic and the salt and crush some more until you have a paste [everyone knows about goulash and paprika, but this combination of garlic, caraway, and salt is just as essential]. Remove the pot from the heat, add the garlic/caraway paste, the paprika, and the smoked Hungarian hot pepper to the onion/carrot/pepper concoction and stir well.

Add the browned meat and stir well. Add the stock to the beef mixture, stir, and transfer to an oven-ready casserole. Add the tomatoes (if using), stir, and cover. Put the casserole in the oven. Bake for 1/2 hour at 300º F, then lower the heat to 250º and bake for another 2-3 hours.**

While the goulash is simmering to perfection in the oven, giving off the most other-worldly aroma, roast some potatoes, if you’re the kind of person who prefers potatoes with your goulash.

If you’re the kind of person who prefers spätzle, plan accordingly.

If, however, you’re happy to serve your goulash with egg noodles, relax.

When the goulash has finished simmering to perfection, season to even greater perfection with the salt and freshly ground black pepper.

If you’re serving your goulash with potatoes, place a spoonful of roasted spuds and ladle the goulash overtop.

If you’re serving your goulash with spätzle, spoon the goulash over a bed of spätzle.

If you’re serving your goulash with egg noodles, ladle the goulash over a bed of noodles.

In all three cases, I recommend topping off the goulash with a small dollop of sour cream.

Usually serves 4-6 hungry souls. I say “usually,” because it really depends who you serve it to. Michelle isn’t the only one who gets driven crazy by this goulash. I’ve seen perfectly civilized people go back for fourth and fifth helpings. You’ve been warned.

NOTE: Goulash often tastes even better on Day 2. I wouldn't necessarily recommend making it a day in advance, because, personally, I wouldn't be able to restrain myself, but, if at all possible, try and keep some as leftovers for lunch or dinner the next day. You'll be happy you did.

[adapted from a recipe in Saveur's "Food for the Holidays" Winter 2004 special issue]

Birria Hysteria

fig. a: the low rider is a little higher

fig. b: Californi-vacation

fig. c: sunset kingdom

fig. d: moonrise kingdom

The trip we took to Los Angeles in December of 2019 has taken on greater and greater significance over time.

For one thing, and perhaps most importantly, that was the last real trip we took before everything took a dramatic (and traumatic) turn early in 2020.

For another, that was when our love affair with birria began in earnest.

I’d been following the development of birria hysteria south of the border for a few years now.

fig. e: “How birria tacos conquered America”

I’d read about birria establishments in Tijuana, Chicago, Los Angeles, Houston, New York, Richmond, CA, and elsewhere. iIn some ways my fascination with birria mirrored my fascination with barbacoa. In both cases, full-blown culinary explosions were taking place all across the U.S., inspiring passionate, even ecstatic, followings. In both cases, these were not trends that had made their way north of the border in any appreciable manner. Of course, it’s just a matter of time. In fact, the process is already underway.

Los Angeles had become the epicentre of the “birria boom” according to most accounts. Proximity to Tijuana, sheer range of regional Mexican regional cuisines represented (and thus varieties of birria), and dedication to Instagram and TikTok were all factors behind this phenomenon. And we were staying in Venice, in close proximity to an outpost of one of the superstars of L.A.’s birria scene: Teddy’s Red Tacos.

This is how quickly things have happened: Though birria’s roots in Tijuana date back to the 1950s, when a Poblano native imported a dish from his home region and adapted it to local tastes (and cost efficiencies), it remained a minor culinary development there as late as the mid-1980s, when one Teddy Vasquez was born. By the early 2000s, birria had gained in popularity quite significantly in Tijuana, but one stand in particular, Tacos Aarón, dominated the scene. And it wasn’t until 2015—just over five years ago—that Teddy returned to Tijuana from Los Angeles during a particularly difficult time in his life and underwent a full-on birria conversion—on a religious scale. He returned to L.A. convinced that birria would be his salvation. He delivered food via Uber and Lyft in order to raise the capital for some kitchen equipment, and soon began selling beef-shoulder birria de res out of his car, developing a following on Facebook and Instagram in the process. Soon he’d upgraded to a food truck, and now Teddy’s Red Tacos is a mini-empire, consisting of half a dozen locations—most of them trucks, all of them hugely successful—spread out across Los Angeles. The influence of Teddy’s Red Tacos is much, much wider, however, because the operation is also an online sensation. The point is: Teddy Vasquez graduated from noviciate to high priest of birria in just five short years!

For us, one combo plate at Teddy’s was all it took. Actually, just one portion of one of Teddy’s combo plates was all it took: the quesabirria, or birria taco with cheese. The straight-up Teddy’s birria taco was already a work of art. The addition of cheese, which when dipped into the steaming container of consomé (spicy beef broth) that accompanied it (like in the photo above), became even gooier (impossibly so), even more decadent, was a masterpiece.

Anyway, at some point over the last year, with travel largely an impossibility, and nothing remotely like Teddy’s Red Tacos anywhere nearby, birria became a pandemic project around here. And it’s easy to get carried away. The range of recipes that are available in traditional resources like magazines and newspapers are already impressive. Explore Instagram and TikTok and the sources of inspiration grow exponentially.

Like all classic braises, birria is deeply satisfying to make. In fact, the aromas unleashed in our apartment each time I’ve made birria have been downright hallucinatory—the most intoxicating aromas I’ve created in the kitchen in recent memory. And not only are your best birria recipes highly addictive, but they tend to be extremely generous, and they freeze and keep well. Have a sudden hankering for a fully loaded, overstuffed birria burrito? No problem. Just grab one of those 250-ml containers of birria de res that you froze a few weeks ago, start your rice, and gently reheat it. Want to try your hand at birria ramen? or birria pizza? or birria tortellini? (This being an internet craze, the mash-ups are endless.) Same deal. You’ve already got the most important ingredient on hand.

Tejal Rao’s New York Times article “The Birria Boom Is Complicated, but Simply Delicious” from earlier this year, is a great overview of birria mania and its permutations. It also comes with a selection of tantalizing recipes, including an excellent one for birria de res from chef Josef Centeno of L.A.’s Bar Amá Although he trained in haute cuisine temples like Manresa in Los Gatos, CA, Centeno is originally from Texas, and his restaurant is a sophisticated ode to the Tex-Mex comfort food he grew up with. Birria is not a major part of his menu, but it is a staple, although it often appears in non-traditional forms, like the mushroom birria that is currently on offer. His classic birria de res at Amá, which he makes on a seasonal basis, when the temperatures are right, is based on how his grandmother made her version.

Though the present birria craze is a modern phenomenon, and is largely beef-centric, the dish and its roots go back centuries to pre-Columbian times, and involve a wide variety of meats, depending on the region of origin, much like barbacoa. As a matter of fact, both dishes are closely associated with the use of fire pits.

fig. f: “Mexico’s original celebrity chef”

Rao cites a recipe that was published in a book of regional Mexican dishes that were collected by Josefina Vélazquez de Léon—a woman Saveur named “Mexico’s original celebrity chef”—back in 1946. The recipe in question is Zacatecan and it calls for an entire sheep (!), which is then rubbed in chilies, herbs, and spices, allowed to marinate, and then placed in a (presumably large) pot, sealed tight with masa, and buried in a fire pit—not unlike barbacoa.

Where birria and barbacoa differ widely is how they’re served. In the case of birria, traditionally the dish was served in a bowl, swimming in a plentiful amount of heady consomé. Though purveyors of birria tacos and related dishes—quesabirrias, vampiros, mulitas, etc.—have gotten the lion’s share of the attention on Instagram and TikTok, this more traditional version of the dish—a stew served with corn tortillas and an assortment of simple accompaniments—remains a significant part of the “birria boom.” Rao’s article cites several places in Los Angeles alone that serve these types of birria, including Bar Amá.

And it’s this brothier, more traditional approach that we’ve been working on in the AEB test kitchen. The first recipe we tried was Centeno’s birria de res, as featured in The New York Times (and adapted by Rao). Even though Rao gives considerable attention to the birria tacos craze (as you’d expect), it’s Centeno’s version that serves as the lead image for her article.

fig. g: birria de res and the “birria boom”

And in a rare instance of truth in advertising, Centeno’s recipe turns out exactly like this when you actually make it. We made our own corn tortillas, too, so the overall arrangement was very similar to what you see in the photo above.

This birria de res is really great, and a great place to start if you’ve never made this dish. The consomé is rich and seductive, the beef luscious. It’s everything you want in a beef stew—and more! This is a recipe that gives and gives and gives. The leftovers are heavenly, and it freezes very well. You’ll probably end up with more consomé than meat, but that’s a good thing. Trust me, it will come in very handy when it comes to dressing up a burrito, for instance.

A couple of months later, just before Easter, our local butcher, Aliments Viens, advertised that they’d gotten a nice shipment of Quebec lamb. I remembered a recipe I’d come across years ago in an issue of Bon Appétit that was originally created with goat in mind, but had been adapted for lamb (recalling Vélazquez de Léon’s recipe mentioned above). So I called Aliments Viens, and asked them to put a shoulder aside for me.

The recipe in question came courtesy of a birria specialist restaurant in Chicago, Birrieria Zaragoza, but it’s based on a version that has its origins in the Zaragoza family’s hometown, La Barca, in Mexico’s Jalisco state. It was one of the very first birria recipes to really catch my eye. I’d been meaning to make it for years. Suddenly I had all the inspiration I needed: I was in the midst of my own personal birria craze, I had access to fresh, locally raised lamb shoulder, and it was Easter. I couldn’t think of a better rendition of the paschal lamb—a spicy, blissed-out version that was both braised and roasted, and oh-so giving. Once again, the results were sensational—a true show-stopper.

fig. h: braised lamb shoulder

fig. i: roasted lamb shoulder

fig. j: all the fixings

Braised Lamb Birria

4 ounces ancho chiles (about 10), seeds removed 1⁄2 cup raw peanuts

11⁄2 teaspoons cumin seeds

1 teaspoon black peppercorns

2 cloves garlic, peeled

1⁄2 teaspoon ground cinnamon

1⁄4 disk Abuelita Mexican chocolate or 11⁄2 ounces dark chocolate

2 tablespoons vegetable oil

5 pounds bone-in goat or lamb shoulder

Kosher salt

2 bay leaves

2 chiles de árbol, seeds removed

1⁄2 15-ounce can fire-roasted tomatoes

4 cups low-sodium chicken broth, preferably homemade

1⁄2 teaspoon dried oregano

Accompaniments: Chopped white onion, chopped cilantro, lime wedges, and warm corn tortillas (for serving)

Special equipment: a mortar and pestle or spice mill

Preheat your oven to 275° F. Bring ancho chiles and 4 cups water to a boil over medium-high. Remove from heat and let cool.

Meanwhile, toast peanuts on a rimmed baking sheet, tossing once, until golden brown, 15–20 minutes. Let cool.

Turn the oven down to 250º F.

Toast the cumin seeds and peppercorns in a dry small skillet, tossing occasionally, until very fragrant, about 2 minutes. Let them cool, then finely grind them together in a spice mill or with mortar and pestle, along with the cinnamon.

Purée the ancho chiles and soaking liquid, peanuts, spice mixture, garlic, and chocolate in a blender until smooth. Strain through a fine-mesh sieve into a Dutch oven or another large heavy pot, reserving any solids. Return the solids in a sieve to the blender and add 3 cups water. Process until smooth and strain back into Dutch oven; discard any solids.

Heat the oil in a large skillet over medium-high. Season meat generously with salt. Cook, turning occasionally, until browned all over, 12–15 minutes total. Carefully add meat to Dutch oven and add bay leaves. Bring liquid to a simmer over medium-high. As soon as it begins to bubble, lower the heat, cover the pan tightly with foil, then place lid on top. Place the Dutch oven in the oven and braise the meat until it shrinks off of bones and is fork-tender, 3–3 1⁄2 hours (check periodically to make sure liquid is at a gentle simmer).

Meanwhile, purée the chiles de árbol, tomatoes, broth, and oregano in a clean blender until smooth. Strain through a clean sieve into a large saucepan and bring to a simmer over medium heat; cook 10 minutes to let the flavours meld. Season with salt; keep this sauce warm.

Increase the temperature of the oven to 400°. Let the meat cool, uncovered, in braising liquid 30 minutes. Transfer meat to a rimmed baking sheet and roast until edges begin to brown, 13–17 minutes. Pull or slice meat into servings. Divide among shallow bowls along with tomato-chile sauce.

Serve meat with onion, cilantro, lime wedges, and tortillas alongside.

[Serves 8 generously, or makes some wonderful leftovers]

{Based very closely on a recipe from Jonathan Zaragoza of Birrieria Zaragoza in Chicago}

As you can see in the photo above, in addition to the onion, cilantro, and the lime wedges and tortillas (unpictured), I made some pico de gallo, some salsa verde, and some pickled serranos to complete the scene. Sour cream and Tapatio were also served, just in case needed someone needed even more layers of taste sensation. What you can’t see, is just how elegant this version is. The meat is deeply roasted, remarkably tender, and extraordinarily flavourful, and it’s served in a pool of thin, but incredibly tasty broth (the “tomato-chile sauce”). The tacos that result, if you’re so inclined, are outstanding. It was hard for me to imagine a better Easter meal. Birria for the win, once again!

For the moment at least, it’s birria’s world, and some of us are lucky enough to live in it.

aj

Hatch: A Plan

fig. a: those other Chi Peps

Long-time readers of …an endless banquet will surely recall our deep, deep love for all things green chile.  Actually, long-time friends of …an endless banquet might also be familiar with our [ed:  well, Michelle’s, actually] deep, deep love of the Chi Peps—Los Angeles’s Red Hot Chili Peppers.  But here I want to address those other Chi Peps:  New Mexico’s Green Hot Chile Peppers.  

Much of that love was first inspired by a game-changing trip I paid to the Land of Enchantment back in the 1990s.  That was the first time I experienced the Cult of Green Chile full-on.  I had it on eggs, in burritos, smothering home fries, on enchiladas, and in countless other ways, for breakfast, lunch, and dinner.  The Green Chile Ritual never grew old for me, and I’ve never really shaken it.  

fig. b: The Cult of Green Chile

In fact, I’ve been trying to replicate it, thousands of miles from New Mexico, for many years now without the benefit of the very peppers that are the essence of the Cult of Green Chile:  genuine Hatch chiles.  Not the ones that you can find in the little tin cans in supermarkets across America (although, god bless ‘em—those  do come in handy sometimes), but the entire spectrum of green chiles (mild, medium, medium-hot, hot, and extra hot) that are famously grown in and around Hatch, NM—in the southern part of the state—versions of which have been a staple of the regional cuisine for centuries.  

fig. c: fire-roasted green chiles

The preferred way of preparing these treasured peppers is to roast them over a fire—traditionally, a wood fire, but these days frequently a propane flame—peel them, seed them, and then make a salsa with them.  This is the “green chile” that then appears in countless New Mexico specialties, from enchiladas to cheeseburgers, and everything in between.

In New Mexico, in the late summer and early fall, you can find makeshift chile roasting operations scattered all across the state, often in the parking lots of local supermarkets.  Your chiles are roasted before your eyes in an oversized tumbler, and a minimum order is 20 pounds of peppers.

I’ve always wanted to visit New Mexico at this time of year to witness this spectacle with my own eyes—I mean, what better time to experience the Green Chile Ritual once again? I became even more fixated on this plan after reading David Tanis’s account of his visit to Hatch and environs at the height of Green Chile Season in Saveur a few years back.  Initially 2020 seemed like it might be the year that would bring a return visit to New Mexico, just in time for the Hatch Green Chile Festival—just like Tanis—but then everything about this year changed quite drastically.

However, a few weeks ago, it occurred to me that if you can’t actually go to the festival, maybe you could try to bring the festival (or at least part of it) home.  After all, fields had been planted.  A crop was due to be harvested.  So I did the logical thing and reached out to The Hatch Chile Store, and the next thing I knew I had 25 pounds of freshly picked peppers en route to me via express delivery.

The Hatch Chile Store offers a number of different peppers to choose from—from mild “1904” chiles to extra-hot “Lumbres”—but I opted for their Big Jims.  Tanis describes this variety as, “large, fleshy, [and] moderately hot.”  I’m not sure how Big Jim feels about that, but I knew this was a popular variety—one that’s got a reputation for being particularly meaty, and particularly easy to peel (win-win).

fig. d: “large, fleshy, [and] moderately hot”

Sure, you could order genuine Hatch chiles (including Big Jims) roasted, peeled, and seeded—either canned in jars, or frozen—but what would be the fun in that?  I wanted to smell that “fire-roasted green spirit” Tanis had written about.  Plus, I’ve always loved firing up the grill and roasting peppers for my improvised non-Hatch green chile concoctions—why wouldn’t I want to do the same with the real deal?  

fig. e: peek-a-boo

That box of Big Jims showed on a Thursday afternoon.  By that evening, I’d already roasted about twenty of those bad boys, made my first batch of genuine Hatch green Chile salsa, and used it to dress a smoked pork burrito.  And by the following afternoon—using a battery of three BBQs—Michelle and I had roasted, peeled, and seeded the remaining 20+ pounds of peppers, and packed them in Ziploc bags to keep in the freezer.  

fig. f: three grill day

The yield is far less than 25 pounds of green chile fillets and strips, of course—the stems, seeds, and peels all weigh something, and the peppers lose some moisture in the process of being roasted.  But the chiles also gain a considerable amount of flavour in the process—and the result is simultaneously sweet, spicy, smoky, bitter, and herbaceous, and utterly addictive.

If ordering chiles online seems like too much of an ordeal (and an expenditure) for the taste of green chile, who knows?  Maybe there’s someone in your locale who’s growing some actual New Mexico chiles and bringing them to market.  If you happen to be in Montpelier, VT at this time of year, you can always drop by the farmers’ market and visit the LePage Farm stand.  You might not find 25 pounds of Hatch peppers, but you will find a basket full.

And if not, as I’ve detailed elsewhere, you can make something approaching a New Mexico green chile salsa with other more readily available peppers:  like Anaheims, Poblanos, Cubanelles, Serranos, and Jalapeños.  At the very least, you can make use of the wonderful local onions and garlic that are so plentiful in so many parts of North America right now when you do.

Green Chile Salsa

1 medium onion (preferably sweet) chopped

1 tbsp olive oil

1 clove garlic, minced

1/2 cumin seeds, toasted and ground

fire-roasted green chiles

tomatillos (optional)

chicken broth or water

1 tsp masa harina

salt and pepper to taste

Sauté your onions in the olive oil until nice and soft.  Add your chopped garlic and some toasted and ground cumin seeds.  Add your roasted green chiles, some tomatillos, if you're using them, and your chicken broth.  Be judicious with your use of liquid (chicken stock or water).  You don't want to add too much, but the idea here is to add enough that you can cook your sauce down, uncovered, reducing it into a thing of beauty.  This shouldn't take all that long.  No more than about half an hour, if you've added the right proportion of broth/water.  And keep in mind that if you’re using tomatillos, they will give off quite a bit of liquid. If you go that route (and it’s a wonderful path to take), it’s up to you to decide what your ratio of green chiles to tomatillos should be, but I would recommend about 3:1 (e.g., 1 1/2 cups of green chile strips and 1/2 cup of tomattilos). Any more and you’re really making a salsa verde, and not a green chile. Add a sprinkle of masa harina toward the end of this process if you'd like to thicken your sauce further and give it a bit of depth.  The goal here is to create a fairly thick, chunky sauce that will be ideal for everything from dipping chips into to dressing a burger.  And, like I said, it ought to taste like a thing of beauty, too.

This is another absolute classic, and one that was hugely inspired by a recipe from David Tanis’s A Platter of Figs And Other Recipes. Respect is due!

Green Chile Stew

5 pounds well-marbled boneless pork butt, cut into 2-inch cubes
salt and pepper
2 tbsp vegetable or olive oil
2 large onions, finely diced
4 to 6 garlic cloves, chopped
2 tsp cumin seeds, toasted and finely ground
1/2 cup chopped tomatillos, fresh or canned
6 large carrots, peeled and chunked
1 cup chopped roasted green chiles*
1 tbsp masa harina
8 cups water or chicken broth
chopped cilantro
hot corn or flour tortillas, to serve

Season the pork with salt and pepper.  Heat the oil in a large Dutch oven or other heavy-bottomed pot.  Add the meat, in several batches, without crowding, and brown it lightly.  Transfer to a platter or tray. 

Add the onions to the pot and brown them.  Add the garlic, cumin, tomatillos, carrots, and green chiles, then sprinkle the masa harina over and stir.  Salt the mixture, then return the browned meat to the pot and stir well.  Cover with the broth and bring to a boil. 

Cover the pot, turn the heat to low, and simmer gently for 2 to 3 hours—until the pork is tender and shreds easily. 

Taste the broth and adjust it, adding salt or more green chile as necessary.  The broth should be well seasoned and fairly spicy.  Simmer for another 30 minutes or so, until the pork is exceedingly tender. Skim any fat from the surface of the broth. 

Let the stew rest for an hour or more.  Refrigerate overnight if desired (this allows the flavours to meld even more). 

To serve, reheat the stew and ladle into warmed bowls.  Sprinkle with chopped cilantro and accompany with hot tortillas. 

Serves 8 to 10. 

* Tanis notes that it takes about 12 large fresh chiles to produce 1 cup of chopped roasted chiles.  It's preferable to grill them over an open fire, but you can also blacken them under the broiler or directly over a gas burner, in a pinch.

Green Chile Stew is quite literally a dish that makes people crazy. I’ve seen it happen. People go back for 3, 4, 5 helpings if you’re not careful. Be careful. You’re going to want some leftovers. Trust me.

aj