Tacos, enchiladas, beans and salsas without meat or fish. (220 recipes)
Outside Mexican schools and parks, vendors fry little dried wheels and rectangles of wheat dough until they balloon into airy, crackly chicharrones de harina, also called duritos. They're handed over in a plastic bag drenched in lime juice and bottled hot sauce. At home you can buy the dried pellets (duros) at Latin grocers, and they puff in seconds. Chef's tip: fry just a small handful at a time; they triple in size.
Crisp potato tacos are a Friday and Lent staple in homes across central Mexico, and a cheap favourite at fondas near schools in Mexico City. Tortillas are rolled around buttery-soft mashed potato, fried until shattering, then buried under cool lettuce, crema, salsa and crumbled cheese. Children love them, and the potato filling is easy to make ahead. Fresh crumbly cheeses here are often set with animal rennet; a vegetarian queso fresco or a microbial-rennet feta keeps the dish meat-free. Chef's tip: mash the potatoes while hot and let them cool before rolling, so the filling is firm and doesn't ooze into the oil.
On the evening of 2 November, after the graveyard visit, many families in central Mexico sit down to a pot of steaming tamales, and rajas con queso is the meat-free favourite at every tamalera's stall. Soft, fluffy masa beaten with fat until it floats wraps a filling of charred poblano strips, a spoon of tomato salsa and a finger of melting cheese. Fresh Mexican cheeses such as queso Oaxaca or panela are often made with animal rennet; choose a vegetarian mozzarella-style cheese if that matters to you. The masa here uses vegetable shortening rather than lard. Chef's tip: test the beaten masa by dropping a pinch into cold water; when it floats, it is light enough.
Cuaresma, the six weeks of Lent, is cauliflower season in the markets of Puebla and Mexico City, and cooks turn the florets into these puffy capeados: each piece stuffed with a little cheese, dipped in whisked egg, fried until golden and then bathed in a brick-red sauce of tomato and guajillo chilli. They come to the table with white rice and a stack of tortillas. Queso Oaxaca and panela are often made with animal rennet, so pick a vegetarian melting cheese if needed. Chef's tip: dust the florets with flour before the batter so it clings rather than slides off.
In fondas around Mexico City and at Sunday carne asada gatherings across Puebla and the Bajío, guacamole is pounded to order in a basalt molcajete and carried to the table still in the stone. No sour cream, no garlic powder: just ripe avocado crushed over a paste of onion, serrano chile, cilantro and salt, sharpened with lime. It is a dip for warm totopos, a topping for tacos and a side for grilled meat, and it is best eaten within the hour. Chef's tip: grind the chile, onion and salt to a wet paste first, so the heat spreads through every bite instead of sitting in chunks.
From mid-October, bakeries from Mexico City to Puebla stack their shelves with these domed loaves, and families set one on the ofrenda for the souls who return on 1 and 2 November, then share the rest with hot chocolate. The crumb is soft and rich with butter and egg, scented with orange zest and orange-blossom water, and the knobbly strips across the top stand for bones, with a small ball for the skull. A sugar crust or a dusting of sesame finishes it. Chef's tip: shape the bones from dough you have held back and chilled, so they keep their ridges instead of melting flat in the oven.
Tender cactus paddles are sold cleaned and diced in bags at every market in Mexico City and Michoacán, and the quickest breakfast they make is this: nopales fried with onion, tomato and green chile until their sticky juice cooks off, then folded through softly scrambled eggs. It is light, green and tangy, and wrapped in a warm tortilla it becomes a taco to eat on the way out. Chef's tip: cook the nopales uncovered until the slime has gone completely before the eggs go in.
Named after a famous old Mexico City bakery, garibaldis are little dome-shaped butter cakes coated in warm apricot jam and rolled in white nonpareils, so they look like snowballs on the counter. Chilangos buy them by the bag for afternoon coffee and school lunchboxes. The cake is dense and buttery, the jam gives a sharp, sticky contrast and the sprinkles a light crunch. Chef's tip: brush the jam on while the cakes are still warm, as the sprinkles then stick evenly.
In the markets of Puebla, Tlaxcala and Mexico City, cocoles are the plain, honest bread of the morning: diamond-shaped, deep brown from piloncillo, fragrant with anise and studded with sesame seeds on top. They are not very sweet, so people eat them with café de olla or split them for a cheese torta. Old bakers used lard; this version uses vegetable shortening, so it stays vegetarian and vegan. Chef's tip: steep the anise in the warm piloncillo syrup, so its flavour runs through every bite.
Jamoncillo turns up wrapped in waxed paper at sweet stalls from Puebla to Coahuila, and in San Luis Potosí and Guadalajara whole shops are given over to it. Milk and sugar are cooked down slowly with cinnamon until they turn into a pale caramel-coloured fudge that is firm, slightly grainy and rich, then pressed into bars and topped with pecan halves. Chef's tip: keep the heat moderate and stir all the time near the end, because the paste can catch and burn in seconds.
In the cold months, when guavas from Aguascalientes and Michoacán perfume the markets, street vendors in Mexico City ladle atole de guayaba from big steaming pots beside the tamal cart. Ripe guava is blended with milk, strained and thickened with cornflour into a pink, creamy, fragrant drink. It contains dairy. Chef's tip: add the blended guava only once the milk is thickened and off the boil, so the milk doesn't curdle.
Pink, warm and sweet, atole de fresa is a children's favourite in Mexico City and Irapuato, the strawberry capital of Guanajuato, sold in polystyrene cups alongside tamales for breakfast. Fresh strawberries are blended with milk and thickened with a little masa, which gives a gentle corn flavour under the fruit. It contains dairy. Chef's tip: blend the strawberries raw and add them at the end, so the drink keeps its bright colour.
Raw green salsa sits in a bowl on nearly every taquería counter from Toluca to Mexico City, and families blend a fresh jar most mornings to spoon over eggs, tacos de guisado and grilled meat. Because the tomatillos are not cooked, it tastes sharp, grassy and almost citrusy, with a clean serrano bite. It takes ten minutes and keeps three days in the fridge, thickening slightly as the tomatillo pectin sets. Chef's tip: choose firm, bright green tomatillos that have split their papery husks; yellowing ones are sweeter and make a dull salsa.
In homes from Monterrey to Guadalajara, a big bowl of creamy apple salad is chilling in the fridge on Christmas Eve, ready to sit alongside roast pork or turkey, and the kids usually go back for seconds as dessert. Crisp diced apple, juicy pineapple, celery for crunch, raisins and toasted pecans are folded into a sweet dressing of cream, condensed milk and a little soured cream. Many versions add marshmallows, but most contain gelatine, so they are left out here. Chef's tip: chill it for an hour before serving; the dressing thickens and the flavours marry.
Mexican family parties, from birthday lunches in Monterrey to Sunday comida in Guadalajara, very often end with flan napolitano. It is richer and denser than a Spanish egg flan, because condensed milk, evaporated milk and cream cheese are blended into the custard, giving a cheesecake-like slice under a dark caramel. It contains eggs and dairy; standard cream cheese is made without animal rennet. Chef's tip: bake it in a gentle water bath and chill it overnight before turning out, so it slices clean.
Sold in twists of paper at bus stations and set out free with a drink in Mexican cantinas, these peanuts are fried slowly with whole garlic and dried chile de árbol, then tossed with chile powder, salt and lime. They're crunchy, salty, sour and hot all at once. Make a batch for a party or keep a jar for snacking. They contain peanuts, so warn guests with nut allergies. Chef's tip: let them cool fully on a tray before tasting; they only turn properly crunchy once cold.
Market cooks in Puebla, Tlaxcala and the State of Mexico still blister tomatoes, garlic and chiles on a dry comal and grind them in the same volcanic-stone mortar that gives this salsa its name. The result is chunky, smoky and slightly sweet from the charred tomato skins, and it is served warm or at room temperature with grilled meat, quesadillas and barbacoa. A blender works, but the molcajete gives a rougher, juicier texture. Chef's tip: grind the garlic, chile and salt first, then the tomatoes, so the hard bits break down properly.
Chiltomate is the everyday red sauce of the Yucatán Peninsula, ladled over papadzules, huevos motuleños, panuchos and grilled pork in Mérida's cocinas económicas. Tomatoes are charred on the comal, blended and simmered with onion, while a whole roasted habanero floats in the pan to scent it with fruity heat. It is mild unless you split the chile. Chef's tip: for real heat, slit the habanero before simmering; for a family table, leave it whole and lift it out.
Named for the leather sandals they resemble, huaraches are the pride of the market stalls around La Merced and the Jamaica market in Mexico City, where long ovals of masa are filled with beans, griddled and loaded with toppings at breakfast or lunch. This vegetarian version is topped with salsa verde, grilled nopales, crema, onion and crumbled fresh cheese. Most queso fresco is set with animal rennet; a vegetarian-labelled fresh cheese or a crumbly feta made with microbial rennet keeps it meat-free. Chef's tip: pat the beans into a log inside the masa before pressing, so they spread evenly to the edges.
Bocoles are breakfast across the Huasteca, the green hill country shared by Veracruz, San Luis Potosí and Tamaulipas, where they come off the comal at dawn to be split open and stuffed. The masa is enriched with fat (traditionally pork lard; vegetable shortening here keeps them vegetarian) so the cakes are tender and slightly crumbly. Fill them with beans, cheese and salsa, or with scrambled egg. If you keep a vegetarian kitchen, note that ranch-style fresh cheese is usually set with animal rennet; a vegetarian queso fresco or feta does the same job. Chef's tip: cook them slowly over a medium-low heat so the thick centre cooks through before the outside burns.
Peneques are a Lenten and weekday favourite in the fondas of Mexico City and Puebla: thin masa pockets are cooked on the comal, stuffed with stringy cheese, coated in a fluffy egg batter, fried and then simmered briefly in a light tomato broth, like a chile relleno without the chile. They are soft, comforting and served with rice and beans. Oaxaca cheese is commonly made with animal rennet, so choose a vegetarian mozzarella or stretched-curd cheese if that matters to you. Chef's tip: dust the stuffed pockets with masa harina before battering so the egg clings instead of sliding off.
Meatless Fridays in Lent turn Mexican kitchens toward tortitas: in Mexico City and across the Bajío, golden patties of mashed potato and cheese are fried, then slipped into a thin, warm tomato caldillo and eaten with rice, beans and tortillas. Children love them, and they stretch a few potatoes into a proper meal. Mexican fresh cheeses are often made with animal rennet; a vegetarian mozzarella or mild cheddar works well. Chef's tip: mash the potatoes while hot and let them steam dry, so the patties hold together without flour.
In the port of Veracruz and the coffee towns around Xalapa, morning cafés roll out a dark, savoury omelette that looks plain and tastes rich: eggs are 'thrown' into a pan of black refried beans and stirred, then rolled into a log and served with tortillas, fresh cheese and salsa. It keeps workers going till lunch. Chef's tip: the beans should be thick and fairly dry, like mashed potato, or the roll won't hold.
Red pleated paper cups give mantecadas away at once on the bakery tray, from Monterrey to Mérida. Inside is a tender, golden, slightly orange-scented sponge, richer than a cupcake and topped with a domed crust, eaten for breakfast or merienda with milky coffee. They contain egg, butter and wheat. Chef's tip: let the batter rest for 20 minutes before baking, which gives the tall, cracked dome bakery mantecadas are known for.
Late at night outside Mexico City's taquerías, the squeeze bottle of rust-red salsa is what regulars reach for to wake up tacos de suadero and al pastor. It is thin, very hot and a little sour from vinegar, with the toasty, nutty heat of chile de árbol balanced by cooked tomatillo. Small amounts go a long way, and it keeps two weeks in the fridge. Chef's tip: toast the chiles only until they darken and smell nutty, about 30 seconds; a minute too long and the whole batch turns bitter.
In Puebla and Oaxaca, leftover mole from a fiesta becomes enmoladas the next day: warm tortillas dipped in the dark sauce, folded around cheese and finished with onion and toasted sesame. This version makes a quick vegetarian mole from scratch with vegetable stock and oil, because market moles often contain lard or chicken stock. The cheese is the one ingredient to check, since queso fresco is often made with animal rennet; use a vegetarian fresh cheese or paneer-style curd instead. Chef's tip: keep the mole loose, like pouring cream, so it coats each tortilla in a thin glossy layer rather than a thick paste.
In Orizaba and Córdoba in the mountains of Veracruz, salsa macha is a jar that lives on the table: dried chiles, garlic, peanuts and sesame fried in oil and crushed into a dark, crunchy relish. It is spooned over eggs, tamales, beans, grilled vegetables and even fresh cheese, and a little goes a long way. The flavour is smoky and nutty rather than fiercely hot when made with mild chiles. This version contains peanuts and sesame, both common allergens. Chef's tip: let the oil cool for a minute before the chiles go in; they need gentle heat to release their flavour without scorching.
Few dishes say Good Friday in Mexico City, Hidalgo and Tlaxcala like a bowl of thick, golden caldo de habas, made from peeled dried fava beans cooked down until they almost dissolve. Tomato, onion and garlic give it body, cumin warmth and a handful of fresh mint lifts it, with lime and a pinch of chilli flakes at the table. Cheap, filling and protein-rich, it suits any cold weekday. Look for yellow, peeled split favas at Latin or Middle Eastern shops. Chef's tip: add the mint only at the very end, or it turns grey and loses its scent.
The name means 'sailing cactus', for the strips of nopal floating in a light red broth, and the dish is a standby of Lent in Hidalgo and the State of Mexico, when cooks want something warming and meatless. Eggs are cracked straight into the simmering caldo to poach, and the bowl is finished with fresh cheese, coriander and lime. It is light, cheap and ready in about forty minutes. Use a vegetarian cheese if you avoid animal rennet. Chef's tip: boil the nopales separately first and rinse well, so their slippery juice doesn't thicken the broth.
Late summer is tuna season across the central highlands, from Hidalgo and the Estado de México down to Puebla's Teotihuacán valley, and that is when the big vitroleros in markets and taquerías turn shocking pink. Agua de tuna is just the cactus fruit blended with water, lime and a little sugar, strained, and poured over ice with lunch. Red tunas give a vivid colour and a taste between watermelon and pear; green ones make a paler, more herbal drink. It should be light and thirst-quenching, never syrupy. The commonest mistake is blending too long: the hard seeds crack and the agua turns gritty and slightly bitter. Pulse briefly, just enough to free the pulp, then strain well. It is ready when the liquid runs smooth through the sieve and tastes clearly of fruit with only a lift of lime. Handle unpeeled tunas with tongs or gloves: even 'cleaned' ones keep tiny glochids. Chef's tip: chill the peeled fruit before blending; cold pulp keeps its colour bright and needs less ice to dilute it.
Families in San Luis Potosí and across central Mexico make this for a slow weekend breakfast or almuerzo: strips of charred poblano chilli simmered in a loose tomato broth, eggs poached right in the pan, and cubes of fresh cheese softening on top, with warm corn tortillas to mop it up. The name, "the mestiza's petticoat hem", is said to come from the ragged strips of chilli. The common mistake is cooking the sauce too thick: it should stay brothy, almost like a soup, or the eggs scorch before they set. Some queso fresco is made with animal rennet; for a vegetarian dish choose one made with microbial rennet, or use paneer. Cook the yolks until firm for pregnant people, young children, older or vulnerable people. Chef's tip: sweat the poblano strips in the oil before the tomato goes in, so their smoky flavour seasons the whole broth.
In the canyons of the Sierra Tarahumara in Chihuahua, Rarámuri runners set off at dawn carrying a pouch of pinole, corn kernels toasted on a clay comal and ground fine, to stir into cold water along the trail. Across northern Mexico it is still a breakfast drink, sweetened with piloncillo and cinnamon and stirred into water or warm milk. This version toasts coarse cornmeal at home for the same nutty, popcorn-like flavour. The common mistake is toasting over a high heat: the outside burns and turns bitter before the inside goes golden. Chef's tip: toast a big batch and keep it in a jar, so a morning cup is just two spoonfuls stirred into water.
Several towns along Mexico's northern border, from Tijuana and Ensenada to Ciudad Juárez, claim the margarita as their own, born in the 1930s and 40s when visitors crossed over for tequila and tacos. Today it is the Friday-evening drink of norteño restaurants and family parties, poured beside carne asada and guacamole. This version is for adults only and it is simple: good 100% agave blanco tequila, fresh lime and orange liqueur. It should be bright and tart first, then gently sweet, with the salt on the rim making the lime taste even sharper. The usual mistake is reaching for bottled lime juice or ready-made sour mix, which gives a flat, sugary drink with a chemical bite. Squeeze limes just before shaking. A second slip is salting the whole rim inside and out; salt only the outside of half the rim so each sip is your choice. It is ready when the shaker is too cold to hold comfortably and a thin layer of ice crystals floats on top. Enjoy one slowly and drink responsibly. Chef's tip: use coarse sea salt mixed with a little grated lime zest for the rim; it sticks better and smells of lime.
At Mexico City's torta stands and school gates, the chile relleno torta is the meat-free favourite: a whole poblano, roasted, peeled, stuffed with melting cheese, dipped in fluffy egg batter and fried, then pressed into a bolillo spread with refried beans and salsa. People buy them warm mid-morning or wrap them in foil for lunch. The common mistake is frying a wet chile: the batter slides off, so pat it dry and dust it with flour first. Oaxaca cheese and Monterey Jack are often made with animal rennet, so choose a vegetarian melting cheese, and check the refried beans are made without lard. Chef's tip: beat the egg whites to stiff peaks before folding in the yolks; that airy capeado is what makes it puff and stay crisp.
Every cocina económica and family kitchen in Mérida keeps a pot of frijoles colados for the midday meal, the smooth, almost soupy black beans that sit beside cochinita, poc chuc, eggs or simply rice and tortillas across the Yucatán. The beans are cooked soft with epazote, pushed through a sieve, then simmered with onion fried until sweet. Traditionally the onion is fried in pork lard; this version uses oil so it is vegan. The usual mistake is straining beans that are not fully cooked, which gives a gritty, floury purée, so cook them until they crush with no effort. Chef's tip: drop a whole habanero into the simmering purée for 5 minutes for perfume without much heat, then fish it out.
At home time outside primary schools in Mexico City's Coyoacán and Narvarte, carts sell jicaletas, thick rounds of jícama pushed onto a stick like a giant lollipop and painted bright red with sweet-sour chamoy. They are crunchy, juicy and cold, with salty, sour and spicy layers on the outside, and make a light afternoon snack on a hot day. Chef's tip: cut the slices at least 1.5 cm thick, otherwise they snap off the stick at the first bite.
Frijoles maneados are the rich party beans of Sonora in northern Mexico, cooked for carne asada gatherings, weddings and Sunday lunch, and spooned onto flour tortillas. Soft pinto beans are mashed and beaten (maneados means stirred or worked) with dried red chile colorado, milk and so much melting cheese that the pot pulls into strings. Serve them with flour tortillas, grilled vegetables and a sharp salsa. The usual mistake is adding the cheese while the pot is boiling hard, which makes it go rubbery and oily; take the heat right down first. Chef's tip: Sonoran queso regional or Chihuahua cheese is often made with animal rennet, so for a vegetarian pot choose a vegetarian Monterey Jack-style or mild Cheddar cheese labelled suitable for vegetarians.
Chileajo is a cold dish of the Mixteca and the Oaxaca valley markets, sold from big clay bowls on Sundays and during Lent, and piled onto crisp tostadas at family fiestas. Potatoes, green beans, carrots, chayote, cauliflower and peas are cooked just tender and folded into a brick-red sauce of guajillo chiles, plenty of garlic, cloves and vinegar, then left to soak up its tangy, smoky heat. It keeps for days and improves as it sits. The usual mistake is overcooking the vegetables before they meet the sauce, so they turn mushy once mixed; they should still have a little bite. Chef's tip: toast the chiles only until they smell fragrant and blister, a few seconds a side; burnt chiles make the whole sauce bitter.
In Guadalajara and markets across central Mexico, tepacheros sell this drink from big clay jars, ladled over ice into bags with a straw on hot afternoons. It is the thrifty drink of the house: the peel and core left after eating a pineapple are fermented for two or three days with piloncillo, cinnamon and cloves until the liquid turns golden, faintly fizzy and pleasantly sour, like a spiced pineapple cider. Wild yeasts from the peel do the work, so it makes a trace of alcohol, well under 1% when drunk young; the longer it sits, the sourer and more alcoholic it gets. The common mistake is leaving it too long in a warm kitchen, when it turns vinegary and cloudy; in hot weather check after 36 hours. It is ready when it has a layer of fine bubbles, smells sweet-sour and fruity, and tastes tart rather than syrupy. White, flat foam can be skimmed; fuzzy, coloured mould, a slimy texture or a rotten smell mean throw it away. Keep it in the fridge 3–5 days, and if you bottle it for fizz, burp the bottles daily so pressure cannot build. Chef's tip: use an organic pineapple and do not scrub the peel, as the yeasts live on its skin.
In the markets of Oaxaca city and San Andrés Huayápam, women sit behind wide painted gourds of tejate, scooping it into jícaras for anyone who needs cooling down in the hot middle of the day; it turns up at Guelaguetza in July, at village fiestas and at every Sunday tianguis. The base is maize, cooked with wood ash, ground on a metate with toasted cacao beans, the roasted kernel of the mamey seed (pixtle) and dried rosita de cacao flowers. That paste is worked by hand into cold water until a thick, beige foam rises and floats. Each sip is cool, earthy and faintly bitter, like cocoa without milk, with grainy body below and the airy flor on top; you sweeten it to taste with a thin sugar syrup. The usual mistake is mixing too fast with lots of water at once: the paste never emulsifies and no foam forms. Add water a little at a time and keep lifting and dropping the paste with your hand. It is ready when a firm, creamy foam a finger thick sits on the surface. Pixtle must be thoroughly roasted and only used in the small amount given, as raw mamey seed is not safe to eat. Chef's tip: grind everything twice; the finer the paste, the taller and longer-lasting the flor.
When the big, mottled chilacayote squashes ripen at the end of the rains, cooks in Oaxaca's valleys and the Mixteca of Puebla turn them into a drink you eat with a spoon. The flesh is cooked with dark piloncillo and cinnamon until it falls into translucent threads, then cooled and loosened with water; in Oaxaca it is ladled out of clay jars at fairs, weddings and the Day of the Dead, often with a little pineapple. It tastes like cinnamon-scented panela, with soft, slightly crunchy strands that slide up the straw. The usual mistake is boiling it to mush; overcooked flesh goes cloudy and the strands disappear. Simmer gently and stop when the threads separate easily with a fork but still have a little bite. It is ready when the syrup is amber and the strands look glassy. Chilacayote is hard to find outside Mexico; spaghetti squash is the best substitute and gives the same threads. Keeps 3 days in the fridge. Chef's tip: grate a little orange zest into the pot in the last minute to brighten the piloncillo.
Ask for a drink in a Guadalajara cantina or a family patio in the town of Tequila and you are more likely to get a paloma than a margarita. It is the easy Sunday drink of Jalisco, poured alongside birria, tortas ahogadas and plates of peanuts with chilli, and like every cocktail here it is for adults only. A paloma is tall, cold and fizzy: bitter-sweet grapefruit, a sharp hit of lime, the earthy agave of the tequila and a pinch of salt that makes the citrus pop. The common mistake is pouring the soda in hard and stirring like mad, which knocks out the bubbles and leaves a flat, sweet drink. Build it over plenty of ice, pour the soda down the side of the glass and lift once with a spoon. It is ready when the glass is beaded with cold, the salt rim is still crisp and the drink is still fizzing loudly. Keep a glass of water alongside and drink responsibly. If you cannot find Mexican grapefruit soda, use fresh pink grapefruit juice topped up with soda water and a little sugar syrup. Chef's tip: add a tiny pinch of salt to the drink itself, not just the rim; it softens the bitterness of the grapefruit.
Think of enfrijoladas as enchiladas that swap chilli sauce for beans: warm tortillas dipped in a silky black-bean purée, folded into quarters and scattered with fresh cheese and raw onion. In Oaxaca they are a breakfast and supper dish, made from yesterday's pot of beans, and the purée is perfumed with toasted avocado leaves, which taste faintly of anise. Serve two or three per person with a fried egg or a spoonful of salsa. Queso fresco is often made with animal rennet; use a vegetarian feta or paneer-style fresh cheese if that matters to you. Chef's tip: keep the bean sauce loose, like double cream; it thickens on the plate and a stiff sauce tears the tortillas.
Early morning at the Oaxaca City markets, women press masa into thick ovals, bake them on clay comales and pinch up the edges while they are still hot: these are memelas, eaten standing at the stall with coffee. Each one is smeared with asiento, the toasty unrefined pork lard of Oaxaca, then black beans, salsa and crumbled cheese. For a vegetarian version we use browned butter (or vegetable shortening for a dairy-free base), which gives a similar nutty richness. The masa should be soft and slightly chewy, the base speckled brown. Queso fresco is often made with animal rennet, so choose a vegetarian fresh cheese if needed. Chef's tip: pinch the rim while the memela is too hot to handle comfortably (use a damp cloth); once it cools, the masa sets and cracks.
Walk down Calle Mina in Oaxaca City and the air smells of cacao, cinnamon and almonds, roasted and ground into chocolate in front of you at the mills. Most Oaxacans drink it made with water, not milk, so the taste of the cacao comes through clean and slightly bitter, with a thick head of foam raised with a wooden molinillo. It is drunk for breakfast with pan de yema and at every wedding and Day of the Dead altar. The tablets already hold sugar and cinnamon; we give a version with dark chocolate too. Chef's tip: the foam is the point, so whisk hard just before pouring and serve in wide cups.
Nicuatole is a Zapotec sweet sold in little squares from glass cases at Oaxacan markets and at village fiestas, often with a bright pink top coloured with cochineal. It is made from corn masa cooked with water, sugar and cinnamon until it thickens enough to set when cool, a cousin of atole you can cut with a knife. The texture is soft, slightly bouncy and cool, and it is eaten as an afternoon treat. We give a coconut-milk option and use beetroot juice or a natural red food colouring instead of cochineal (which comes from insects) for the red layer. Chef's tip: cook it until the spoon leaves a clear path across the pan base for a full second; undercooked nicuatole never sets.
In Oaxaca's central valleys, the 'yellow' mole is the everyday one of the seven: lighter than mole negro, made on weekdays, sold at market fondas in Tlacolula and Ocotlán and folded into empanadas on the comal. Guajillo and costeño chillies give it a brick-orange colour, a few tomatillos make it tangy, and masa stirred in at the end thickens it to a soft, velvety sauce. Oaxacan cooks use chicken or beef broth; this version uses vegetable stock with chayote, green beans and potatoes, which is also how many homes make it during Lent. Serve it in deep bowls with corn tortillas. Chef's tip: the fresh hoja santa leaf (or a few fennel fronds) is what makes it taste Oaxacan, so add it for the last few minutes only.
On Sunday evenings in the old centre of Puebla, around the Barrio de San Francisco and the Paseo Bravo, stalls fry stacks of small, thin tortillas in shallow oil and paint them half red and half green with salsa. These are chalupas poblanas, sold by the half dozen on paper plates and eaten in a few bites. The Puebla version is usually topped with shredded pork; ours keeps the salsas, onion and cheese, which are the real flavour, and adds a few beans. The edges should be crisp, the middle still a little soft from the salsa. Cheese like queso fresco is often made with animal rennet, so use a vegetarian fresh cheese if you prefer. Chef's tip: spoon the salsa on while the tortilla is still in the pan so it sizzles and soaks in.
Rajas means strips, and in Puebla they mean poblano chillies, the dark green pepper the state is named after, charred, peeled and sliced, then simmered with onion, sweetcorn and cream. Poblanos are mild with a grassy, gently smoky bite, so the dish is rich rather than fiery. It turns up on Puebla tables as a side for rice, as a taco filling at fondas, or in a tamal for breakfast. Some cooks melt in Chihuahua or Oaxaca cheese, which may be made with animal rennet; use a vegetarian melting cheese if needed. Chef's tip: sweat the peeled chillies in a covered bowl for 10 minutes; the steam lifts the skins off cleanly without rinsing away the smoky flavour.
The nuns of the Santa Clara convent in Puebla are credited with this biscuit, and the city's Calle de los Dulces still sells it in boxes stacked beside camotes and jamoncillos. It is a crumbly, lightly sweet shortbread round, covered with a thick, pale cream made from ground pumpkin seeds, sugar and milk, which sets to a soft fudge-like layer. They are eaten with coffee in the afternoon and taken home as a gift from Puebla. Chef's tip: grind the peeled pumpkin seeds as fine as you can before cooking; any coarse bits make the topping gritty.
Camotes are the sweet Puebla is most famous for: finger-long rolls of sweet-potato fondant, flavoured with pineapple, lemon, strawberry or orange and wrapped individually in paper. Like tortitas de Santa Clara, they come from the city's convent kitchens, and you will find them at every candy shop on Puebla's Calle de los Dulces. The texture is soft and smooth, like a firm marzipan, and very sweet, so one or two is plenty. Chef's tip: sieve the cooked sweet potato while it is hot; fibres caught in the sieve are what would make the candy stringy.
Papadzules may be the oldest dish still eaten in the Yucatán: Maya cooks were rolling tortillas in ground squash seeds long before the Spanish brought chickens and their eggs. Today they are a lunch and Lent dish in Mérida, Valladolid and Campeche. Corn tortillas are dipped in a pale green sauce of toasted pumpkin seeds and epazote, rolled around chopped hard-boiled egg, then topped with a cooked habanero-tomato sauce and a few drops of green pumpkin-seed oil squeezed from the paste. The flavours are nutty, herbal and gently hot. Chef's tip: keep the seed sauce warm, never boiling; heat makes it split and turn grainy, and the oil that separates is meant to be drizzled on top, not stirred back in.
In Yucatec Maya, sikil means squash seed and p'aak means tomato, and that is almost all there is to this pale, coarse dip from the Yucatán Peninsula. Cooks in Mérida and the villages around it toast the seeds on a comal until they pop, grind them with charred tomato, chives and a little habanero, and serve the dip with tostadas or crisp tortilla chips before a meal. It tastes nutty, smoky and fresh at the same time, and is naturally vegan. Chef's tip: roast the habanero whole and add it a little at a time; you can always grind in more, but you can't take the heat back out.
No table in Mérida is complete without a bowl of these bright pink onions. They go on almost everything in the Yucatán, from panuchos and salbutes to bean tacos, eggs and grilled vegetables, and their sharp crunch is what cuts through rich, earthy food. The traditional pickle uses naranja agria, the sour Seville-type orange that grows all over the peninsula, with a little habanero and dried oregano. Chef's tip: pour boiling water over the sliced onions for 10 seconds first; it softens their raw bite and makes them turn pink much faster.
The name comes from Maya: xni' pek means 'dog's nose', because the salsa is hot enough to make your nose run and stay wet like a dog's. It is the raw table salsa of the Yucatán, made in minutes from tomato, red onion, coriander and plenty of habanero, all soaked in sour orange juice. In Mérida it is spooned over black-bean dishes, eggs and rice, and it brightens anything rich. It is best on the day it is made. Chef's tip: chop everything by hand into small, even dice; a blender makes it watery and the habanero turns bitter.
In Sonora, wheat is the grain, and the pride of Hermosillo kitchens is the sobaquera: a flour tortilla stretched over the backs of the hands and arms until it is almost see-through and as wide as a serving tray (the name comes from sobaco, armpit, because it reaches that far). It cooks in seconds on a big comal and is folded around beans, cheese or machaca, or torn and eaten with caldo de queso. Sonoran cooks use lard; vegetable shortening works the same. A 30–35 cm tortilla is a realistic home size. Chef's tip: the long rest is what makes the dough stretch; do not cut it short.
Jericalla belongs to Guadalajara: legend says a nun at the city's Hospicio Cabañas orphanage made it in the 19th century to feed the children something nourishing. It is a firm baked custard of milk, eggs, sugar, vanilla and cinnamon, between a flan and a crème brûlée, with no caramel underneath; the top is left in a hot oven until it blisters and darkens in patches. Tapatíos buy it in little glass pots from street carts and in the markets of Jalisco. Chef's tip: let the top darken properly under the grill at the end; those scorched spots are what makes it a jericalla rather than a plain custard.
Coyotas were first baked in the Villa de Seris neighbourhood of Hermosillo, and today Sonorans buy them by the dozen in paper bags to eat with morning coffee or take as a gift when they travel. They are flat, round, pale pastries with a crisp, crumbly crust and a thin layer of molten piloncillo inside, like a giant cookie with a toffee middle. Some bakers add guava or cajeta, but brown sugar loaf is the classic. Chef's tip: pinch the edges firmly and prick the tops; otherwise the hot sugar bubbles out and burns on the tray.
Corundas come from the Purépecha people of Michoacán, around Lake Pátzcuaro and Morelia, and they look nothing like a usual tamal: small, plump and triangular or star-shaped, wrapped in the long green leaves of the corn plant rather than dried husks. The masa is soft and fluffy, usually plain or with a little cheese and poblano inside, and corundas are eaten with crema, salsa roja and crumbled cheese, often for breakfast or at fiestas. Traditional dough uses pork lard; we use vegetable shortening or butter. Cheese may be made with animal rennet, so use a vegetarian one if needed. Chef's tip: beat the fat until it is white and fluffy before adding the masa; a spoonful of dough should float in water when it is light enough.
When the summer corn comes in across Michoacán, families in Morelia and the Tierra Caliente grate the young kernels and make uchepos: soft, moist tamales of fresh corn, milk and a little sugar, wrapped in the green husks they came from. They taste like the sweetest corn pudding, and are eaten for breakfast or supper with cream, crumbled cheese and a tomato salsa, sweet and savoury together. Cotija or queso fresco may be made with animal rennet; use a vegetarian cheese if needed. Chef's tip: use the freshest, milkiest corn you can find (a kernel should spurt when pressed); old corn is starchy and the uchepos come out dry.
Named after the Tarascan (Purépecha) people of Michoacán, sopa tarasca is the soup served in the restaurants around the plazas of Pátzcuaro and Morelia, especially on cool highland evenings. It is a smooth, brick-red purée of beans, tomato and ancho chilli, poured over crisp tortilla strips and finished with cream, fresh cheese and fried chilli rings. Some versions use chicken stock; this one uses vegetable stock and loses nothing. Fresh cheese may be made with animal rennet, so use a vegetarian one if needed. Chef's tip: fry the blended soup base in hot oil before adding the stock; it cooks out the raw tomato taste and deepens the colour.
Under the arcades around Morelia's plazas, cooks sell enchiladas placeras in the evenings: tortillas dipped in guajillo sauce, fried on a griddle, folded over crumbled cheese and onion, then buried under fried potato and carrot cubes, shredded lettuce and pickled chillies. In Michoacán they usually come with a piece of fried chicken on the side; we leave that out, as the potatoes and carrots fried in the chilli-stained oil are the part everyone fights over. Cheese may be made with animal rennet, so choose a vegetarian one if needed. Chef's tip: fry the potatoes and carrots in the same pan after the tortillas so they pick up the red chilli oil.
Morelia is Mexico's city of ates, the firm fruit pastes sold in long blocks at the Mercado de Dulces beside the old Jesuit college, in guava, mango, quince and more. Quince (membrillo) is the classic: cooked slowly with sugar until it turns from pale yellow to deep amber-red and sets firm enough to slice. In Michoacán it is eaten in thin slices with a fresh or aged cheese, or on its own as an afternoon sweet. Most cheeses here use animal rennet, so pick a vegetarian one if needed. Chef's tip: cook the fruit with its cores and peel tied in muslin; they carry most of the pectin that makes the paste set.
In the markets of Michoacán, especially in Uruapan and Morelia, the glass barrels of agua fresca often include one cloudy, speckled with tiny seeds: agua de chía, limeade with soaked chia seeds that swell into soft little pearls. Chia has been grown in central Mexico since long before the Spanish, and the drink is light, sharp and very refreshing, with a gentle texture from the seeds. It is drunk with lunch or on hot afternoons. Chef's tip: stir the seeds into the water twice in the first ten minutes; otherwise they clump into jelly-like lumps.
Walk out of almost any Metro station in Mexico City in the morning and you will find a woman on a low stool patting out tlacoyos on a clay comal: thick, oval cakes of blue or white corn masa with a seam of bean or fava purée hidden inside, topped with cactus, salsa and crumbly cheese. They are bought hot, eaten standing up, and are one of the oldest street foods in the valley, older than the city itself. This version is filled with garlicky fava purée (habas) and topped with a quick nopal salad and salsa verde. Leave off the cheese and it is vegan. Chef's tip: keep the purée stiff, like mashed potato; a loose filling bursts through the masa when you flatten it.
In the markets of Milpa Alta, south of Mexico City, the nopal growers sell paddles already scraped of their thorns, stacked in towers, and the salad they become is on the side of every comida corrida in the region. Cooked cactus tastes a little like green beans with a lemony edge; dressed with tomato, white onion, chilli, coriander and lime, it is cool and crisp, and the crumbled cheese softens the sharpness. Serve it with rice and beans, inside tacos, or on a tostada. Chef's tip: cook the nopales with a few onion slices and a pinch of bicarbonate of soda; they keep their bright colour and the slime washes away faster.
From about nine in the morning, bicycles with a wicker basket strapped behind the seat roll into Mexico City offices and street corners, and the cry of 'tacos de canasta' goes up. Inside the basket, wrapped in cloth and plastic, a hundred small tacos have steamed in their own heat for hours, so the tortillas turn soft, glossy and slightly sticky with chilli-red oil. They are cheap, sold by the handful, and eaten with green salsa from a jar on the bike. The usual fillings are potato, refried beans, adobo and chicharrón prensado (pressed pork rind); this recipe makes the two vegetarian ones and leaves out the pork. Chef's tip: an insulated cool box lined with a tea towel does the same job as the basket and keeps them hot for two hours.
Commuters in Mexico City grab a guajolota at the tamal stand by the bus stop at seven in the morning: a crusty bolillo roll split open with a whole steaming tamal pushed inside, sometimes with a smear of green salsa, eaten with a cup of atole. It is starch in starch, cheap and filling enough to last until lunch. The name means 'turkey hen', a joke about how stuffed it is. This recipe makes eight vegetarian tamales of roasted poblano strips and melting cheese (rajas con queso); four go into rolls and the rest freeze well. Shop-bought vegetarian tamales work if you are short of time. Chef's tip: warm the bolillo on the comal while the tamal rests, so the crust crackles against the soft masa.
Huitlacoche is a fungus that swells the kernels of rain-soaked corn into silvery-black, inky lobes, and in central Mexico it is a delicacy prized for its deep, mushroomy, slightly smoky taste. In the rainy months, the quesadilla stalls of Mexico City and Coyoacán fry it with onion, chilli and epazote and fold it into fresh masa turnovers; in the capital you ask for cheese separately. Fresh huitlacoche turns up at Mexican grocers from July to October, and tinned or frozen works the rest of the year. Chef's tip: cook it until the black juices have mostly evaporated; a wet filling makes the masa soggy and grey.
Amaranth has been grown on the chinampa gardens of Xochimilco and Tulyehualco, in the south of Mexico City, since Aztec times, and each February Tulyehualco holds a fair in its honour. Its tiny seeds are popped on a hot comal and bound with honey or piloncillo syrup into alegrías ('joys'), crunchy, light bars sold at bus stops, school gates and church doors and studded with pumpkin seeds, peanuts or raisins. They are naturally gluten free and full of protein for a sweet. Chef's tip: use bought puffed amaranth; popping it yourself works but takes patience and a lidded pan, as the seeds jump everywhere.
In ranch kitchens and roadside fondas across central Mexico, coffee is not dripped but boiled in a tall clay pot (olla de barro) with a cone of piloncillo and a stick of soft Mexican cinnamon, then strained into clay mugs. It is sweet, spiced and earthy, and is served with pan dulce at breakfast, on cold evenings, and to visitors on Day of the Dead. A saucepan works fine if you have no olla. Chef's tip: turn the heat off before adding the coffee and let it steep rather than boil, or it turns bitter.
Breakfast in the port of Veracruz and in Xalapa often starts with picadas at a market fonda or a café by the harbour: palm-sized rounds of fresh masa, cooked on the comal, then pinched all around while hot (picar means to pinch) to make little ridges that catch the salsa. Half are spooned with red salsa and half with green, then scattered with onion and crumbled cheese, and eaten with black coffee. Cooks there drizzle them with hot pork lard; this recipe uses a little oil instead. Chef's tip: wet your fingertips in cold water before pinching, so you can work the hot masa without burning yourself.
In the Sotavento region of southern Veracruz, around Tlacotalpan and Los Tuxtlas, cooks knead well-fried black beans straight into the corn masa, so the little cakes come out speckled grey-black, then fry them until they puff up like balloons. Gordas de frijol are a supper snack from street stalls and fiesta tables, split and topped with salsa, chopped onion and, for a non-vegan version, a crumble of fresh cheese. Avocado leaf in the beans gives a faint aniseed note. Chef's tip: the beans must be very thick and cooled; warm, wet beans make a sticky dough that will not puff.
Torito is the party drink of the port of Veracruz and the Sotavento, poured at weddings, saints' days and the Tlacotalpan Candelaria fair: a thick, cold, milkshake-like blend of peanuts, condensed and evaporated milk and cinnamon. The traditional version is spiked with aguardiente, the local cane spirit. This recipe is the alcohol-free version, so children can drink it too; adults who want the original add a measure of cane spirit to each glass. It contains peanuts, so check for allergies. Chef's tip: toast the peanuts until just golden before blending; raw ones taste flat and beany.
Tamarind trees shade the coast of Guerrero, and around Acapulco and the Costa Chica the sticky pulp is cooked down with sugar into tangy little balls sold in paper twists at beaches, bus stations and corner shops. Children love the sharp sweet-sour pucker; adults buy the ones rolled in chilli and salt. They are naturally vegan and keep for weeks. Chef's tip: use blocks of seedy tamarind pulp from an Asian or Mexican grocer, not the thin concentrate in jars, which will not set.
This is not a thin soup but a 'dry' one, baked in layers in a deep dish, and in San Cristóbal de las Casas it belongs to fiestas, weddings and the meatless days of Holy Week. Toasted bread is stacked with fried ripe plantain, green beans, carrot, potato, boiled egg and a tomato sauce, then soaked with a saffron and thyme broth until the bread swells into something like a savoury bread pudding. It is served in deep plates with a spoon. Families in the highlands use chicken stock; a good vegetable stock keeps it vegetarian. Chef's tip: dry the bread hard in the oven first; fresh bread dissolves into mush when the broth goes in.
Chipilín is a small-leaved wild legume that grows along the fields of Chiapas and Tabasco, and its grassy, faintly bitter leaves turn up in soups, rice and, most of all, these tamales. In Tuxtla Gutiérrez and San Cristóbal they are sold from steaming pots in the early evening and taken home for supper with hot chocolate or atole: soft, pale green-speckled masa wrapped around a cube of fresh cheese, often with a spoon of tomato salsa. Cooks there beat the masa with lard; vegetable shortening gives the same light texture. Frozen chipilín is sold at Central American grocers; spinach with a few watercress leaves is a fair stand-in. Chef's tip: strip the leaves from the stems by pinching and pulling down; stems make the masa stringy.
In the heat of Villahermosa and the Chiapas lowlands, farmers carry a ball of corn dough in a banana leaf and mix it with water in a jícara (a gourd bowl) at midday: that is pozol, a cold, thick, filling drink that has been made since Maya times. The cacao version is the favourite, sold from big clay pots at market stalls with ice, sometimes slightly fermented so it turns pleasantly sour. This home version uses masa harina and cocoa nibs, so it is ready in minutes; leave it to ferment if you want the tang. Chef's tip: stir it every time before pouring, as the corn settles to the bottom fast.
Tascalate is the drink of the Chiapas central valley, sold in Chiapa de Corzo and Tuxtla in tall glasses at markets and given to guests at fiestas. A powder of toasted tortillas, cacao, pine nuts, sugar, cinnamon and a little achiote is whisked into cold water or milk, so it is orange-brown, thick and nutty with a sweet chocolate finish. The powder keeps for weeks, so make a jar. Made with water it is vegan. Chef's tip: toast the tortillas until they snap cleanly; any softness leaves the powder clumpy.
In Ciudad Chihuahua and the farming towns of the Sierra, chile con queso is not the runny orange dip of Texas bars but a skillet of roasted long green chillies, onion and tomato with mild Chihuahua cheese melted through it, scooped up with flour tortillas at a carne-asada Sunday or eaten as a main with beans. Chihuahua cheese, also called queso menonita after the Mennonite farmers who make it, is like a mild, buttery cheddar. Chef's tip: steam the roasted chillies in a covered bowl; the skins then slide off in one go.
Tabasco grows more plantain than almost anywhere in Mexico, and in Villahermosa homes fried ripe plantain arrives with breakfast eggs, alongside rice and black beans at lunch, or on its own as a sweet-savoury supper. The local touch is to finish the hot, caramelised slices with a spoon of tangy crema and a snow of crumbled fresh cheese, so you get sweet, salty and sour in one bite. Chef's tip: wait until the skins are almost black; yellow plantains taste starchy and never caramelise.
When the cold fronts reach Monterrey in November, panaderías start stacking trays of empanadas de calabaza next to the conchas, and families bake them at home for Day of the Dead and Christmas. A tender, lightly sweet pastry is folded around a thick purée of pumpkin cooked with piloncillo, cinnamon and anise, so each half-moon tastes like a spiced pumpkin pie you can hold. They are eaten with café de olla or a glass of milk. Chef's tip: cook the filling until a spoon leaves a trail across the pan; watery pumpkin turns the pastry soggy.
Linares, a small town in Nuevo León, is famous across Mexico for glorias: soft, chewy balls of goat's milk caramel packed with pecans, each wrapped in a twist of red cellophane. They are bought by the box at roadside sweet shops on the way to Monterrey and handed out at weddings and Christmas. Goat's milk gives them a gentle tang; a mix of goat's and cow's milk is milder. Chef's tip: the last ten minutes need constant stirring, as the caramel thickens and catches fast.
Enchiladas mineras were the supper of Guanajuato's silver miners and are still sold every evening under the arches of the city's plazas and at the Mercado Hidalgo: tortillas dipped in guajillo sauce, fried briefly, rolled around fresh cheese and onion, and buried under fried diced potato and carrot, shredded lettuce, pickled jalapeños and crema. Stalls often add a piece of chicken on the side; this recipe leaves it out and the vegetables make it a full plate. Chef's tip: dip each tortilla in the sauce before frying, not after; that's what gives the slightly crisp, chilli-coated finish.
Celaya, in the Bajío of Guanajuato, has made cajeta for centuries, once packing it into little wooden boxes (cajetes) that gave it its name. It is caramel cooked from goat's milk, so it is looser and has a gentle tang compared with the cow's-milk dulce de leche of Argentina. Mexicans spread it on crêpes and churros, pour it over ice cream, sandwich it between obleas (wafers) and turn it into glorias. A splash of rum-flavoured 'envinada' cajeta exists, but this one is plain and alcohol-free. Chef's tip: use a pan at least three times the volume of the milk; it foams high when the bicarbonate goes in.
Around Day of the Dead in Guanajuato city, sweet sellers display charamuscas pulled and shaped into skulls, mummies (a nod to the town's famous museum) and simple twists, glossy amber and wrapped in cellophane. The everyday ones are rope-like spirals of pulled piloncillo, chewy then brittle, with a deep molasses taste. Pulling the hot sugar is a two-person job and great fun with older children; younger ones should watch. Chef's tip: wear clean rubber kitchen gloves rubbed with oil; you can handle the sugar sooner and much more comfortably.
In the villages of Tlaxcala, tlatlapas is the Lenten and rainy-season soup: dried beans, fava and peas are toasted on a comal, ground to a coarse flour and simmered into a thick, earthy purée seasoned with dried chilli, epazote and strips of cactus. It is a peasant dish with pre-Hispanic roots, cheap, filling and full of protein, eaten with corn tortillas and a squeeze of lime. Using split beans keeps the cooking under an hour. Chef's tip: toast the pulses until golden and nutty, not dark; burnt ones turn the whole pot bitter.
Huamantla, in Tlaxcala, is known for its August fair, when the streets are carpeted with coloured sawdust and flowers, and for muéganos: little cubes of fried dough glued together with dark piloncillo syrup into a sticky cluster, often pressed onto a round wafer. Visitors buy them in stacks from sweet shops around the main square. The dough is crisp and light, the syrup spiced with cinnamon and clove. Chef's tip: cut the dough into small, even cubes so they all fry golden at the same time.
In Hidalgo, the pulque country north of Mexico City, the pulquerías serve curados: pulque blended with fruit, and the strawberry one is pink, thick and creamy. Home cooks and taquerías make this alcohol-free cousin for the whole family, a strawberry agua fresca blended with evaporated milk, so it is like a light milkshake that you drink with tacos on a hot afternoon. It contains no pulque or alcohol. Chef's tip: use the ripest, darkest strawberries you can find; pale ones give a thin, sour drink.
Huevos a la mexicana is the everyday scrambled egg breakfast cooked in homes and fondas all over Mexico, named because its red tomato, white onion and green chilli match the colours of the Mexican flag. The vegetables are cooked just long enough to soften and release their juices, then the eggs are stirred through gently into soft, juicy curds with a fresh chilli kick. Serve with warm corn tortillas and refried beans, and make tacos at the table. Chef's tip: take the pan off the heat while the eggs still look a little wet; they keep cooking on the plate.
Chilaquiles rojos are eaten for breakfast all over Mexico: fried corn tortilla wedges (totopos) tossed in a red salsa of dried guajillo and árbol chillies blended with roasted tomato. The salsa is earthy, slightly smoky and properly hot, and it clings to the chips so every bite is crisp, soft and saucy at once. They are finished with crema, cheese, onion and coriander, and often served with refried beans on the side. If you can't find guajillo, use ancho chillies or 2 tbsp mild chilli powder; for árbol, use a pinch of cayenne. Choose queso fresco made with vegetarian rennet. Chef's tip: toast the dried chillies for seconds, not minutes; the moment they smell nutty and darken slightly, they are done.
Chilaquiles are Mexico City's favourite breakfast and hangover cure: day-old corn tortillas cut into wedges, fried into crisp totopos, then tossed in hot salsa just long enough to soften at the edges. Chilaquiles verdes use a bright, tangy salsa of tomatillos, serrano chillies and coriander, and come topped with a fried egg, crema, crumbled cheese and raw onion. The best ones keep a little crunch in the middle. Tomatillos are sold fresh or tinned; if you can't find them, use green tomatoes with an extra squeeze of lime. Choose queso fresco made with vegetarian rennet. Chef's tip: toss the chips into the salsa right before serving and take them to the table immediately; chilaquiles wait for nobody.
Tostadas, crisp flat corn tortillas, are eaten all over Mexico as a quick meal or snack, and tostadas de frijol are the everyday vegetarian version: a thick smear of refried beans topped with shredded lettuce, tomato, avocado, crema and crumbled cheese. The contrast between the shattering crunch, the creamy beans and the cool, fresh toppings is the whole point. Buy ready-made corn tostadas, or bake your own from corn tortillas. Use queso fresco made with vegetarian rennet, or mild feta. Chef's tip: spread the beans warm and thick right to the edge; they act as glue for the toppings and stop the tostada from shattering when you bite it.
Gorditas, 'little fat ones', are thick corn masa cakes cooked on a comal until they puff, then split open like a pitta and stuffed. They are eaten from the north of Mexico down to the central states, at street stalls and at home, with fillings that change from town to town. This vegetarian version is filled with rajas con crema: strips of roasted poblano pepper, onion and sweetcorn in a creamy sauce with melting cheese, smoky and mild. Use masa harina for tortillas, made from nixtamalised corn, not cornmeal or polenta. Poblanos can be hard to find: green bell peppers with a jalapeño give a similar effect. Choose a cheese made with vegetarian rennet. Chef's tip: shape the gorditas no thicker than 1 cm; any thicker and the outside burns before the inside cooks and puffs.
Esquites are the cup version of elote, sold by street vendors across Mexico City from big pots: corn kernels sautéed with butter, onion, green chilli and epazote, simmered in a little salty water, then spooned into cups and topped with mayonnaise, lime, crumbled cheese and chilli powder. Each spoonful is sweet, buttery, tangy and warm, with a splash of the corn broth at the bottom. They make a great snack or side for tacos. Choose cotija or feta made with vegetarian rennet. Chef's tip: let the kernels brown slightly in the butter before adding the water; those toasty bits give esquites their depth.
Elote (corn on the cob) is sold all over Mexico from street carts in the evening: grilled or boiled cobs speared on a stick, slathered in mayonnaise and crema, rolled in crumbly cotija cheese and dusted with chilli powder, with a squeeze of lime. Charring the corn adds smokiness to the sweet kernels, and the creamy, salty, sour and hot toppings make it irresistible. Serve it at a barbecue or as a snack; kids can skip the chilli. Cotija is often made with animal rennet, so use a vegetarian-rennet feta or a vegetarian hard cheese if that matters to you. Chef's tip: let the cobs cool for a minute before spreading the mayonnaise, so it clings rather than sliding off.
The tlayuda is the late-night street food of Oaxaca City: a huge, thin, slightly leathery corn tortilla spread with black bean paste and asiento (unrefined pork lard), scattered with quesillo (Oaxaca string cheese) and cabbage, folded and toasted over charcoal until crisp and smoky. This vegetarian version swaps the asiento for browned butter, which gives the same toasty richness, and is topped with avocado, tomato and salsa. Real tlayudas are about 30 cm across and hard to find outside Oaxaca; use the largest corn tortillas you can get, or flour tortillas of 25 cm (then they are not gluten free). Quesillo is made with animal rennet in Oaxaca; for a vegetarian dish use low-moisture mozzarella or a string cheese made with vegetarian rennet. Chef's tip: spread the beans thinly; a thick layer makes the tortilla soggy and stops it crisping.
Sopes are a classic antojito of central Mexico: small, thick discs of corn masa cooked on a comal, pinched up at the edge while hot to make a little rim, then crisped in a film of oil and piled with refried beans, salsa, lettuce, crema and crumbled cheese. The base is crisp underneath and soft and steamy inside, with the sweet, earthy taste of nixtamalised corn. Serve two or three per person as a starter or a light supper. Use masa harina for tortillas, made from nixtamalised corn; cornmeal or polenta will not hold together. Choose queso fresco made with vegetarian rennet, or use a mild feta. Chef's tip: pinch the rims as soon as the sopes come off the comal; once they cool the masa sets and cracks.
Quesadillas de hongos are sold from comales at markets all over central Mexico, from Mexico City to the forests around Toluca where wild mushrooms are picked in the rains. The mushrooms are fried hard with onion, garlic and green chilli and finished with epazote, a pungent herb with notes of mint, anise and citrus that is the signature of central Mexican cooking. Folded into corn tortillas with stringy cheese, they are earthy, juicy and a little hot. Serve with salsa roja and lime. Use a cheese made with vegetarian rennet; low-moisture mozzarella is a good stand-in for Oaxaca cheese. Chef's tip: fry the mushrooms until all their liquid has gone; wet mushrooms make the tortilla soggy.
In Mexico City markets, squash blossoms (flor de calabaza) are sold by the armful in the rainy season and end up in quesadillas: soft corn tortillas folded around the flowers cooked with onion, green chilli and epazote, with stringy Oaxaca cheese. A famous Chilango joke is that a quesadilla there does not automatically come with cheese, so ask for it! The blossoms taste delicately of young courgette and wilt into a silky filling against the toasty corn. Serve them straight off the pan with salsa verde. Choose a cheese made with vegetarian rennet; if you can't find Oaxaca cheese, low-moisture mozzarella melts the same way. Chef's tip: cook the blossoms only until they collapse; any longer and they turn to mush and lose their colour.
Conchas are the most famous pan dulce (sweet bread) in Mexico, piled high in every panadería and eaten for breakfast or merienda with hot chocolate or coffee. The bun is soft, slightly sweet and enriched with egg and butter, and it wears a crunchy, crumbly topping of sugar, fat and flour scored into the seashell pattern that gives it its name. Make some vanilla and some chocolate topping for the classic mix. Chef's tip: shape the dough into very tight balls before adding the topping; the tension makes them rise up instead of spreading out, so the shell cracks into neat stripes.
Tinga comes from Puebla, where shredded meat is simmered in a sauce of sweet sliced onion, tomato and smoky chipotle chillies and piled onto tostadas or tacos. Here roasted cauliflower takes the place of the chicken: browned in a hot oven so it turns nutty and holds its shape, then folded through the brick-red sauce so every floret is glossy and smoky. The result, tinga de coliflor, is sweet, tangy and properly spicy; serve it in warm corn tortillas or on crisp tostadas with avocado, shredded lettuce and lime. Chef's tip: cook the onions slowly until soft and sweet before the tomatoes go in; the sweetness is what balances the heat of the chipotle.
Champurrado is a chocolate atole, the thick, hot corn drink Mexicans have drunk since before the Spanish arrived. Masa harina is whisked into water and milk with Mexican chocolate (stone-ground with sugar and cinnamon) and piloncillo, a dark unrefined cane sugar, and cooked until velvety and spoon-coating. It is drunk on cold mornings with tamales or conchas, and above all during Día de Muertos and Christmas posadas. Chef's tip: always dissolve the masa harina in cold liquid before it meets the hot pot, and whisk constantly once it's in; dumped into hot milk it seizes into lumps.
Mexican horchata is a sweet, milky-looking agua fresca made from rice soaked overnight with cinnamon, then blended and strained. It is quite different from the Valencian horchata de chufa made from tiger nuts. Sold everywhere from Mexico City street stalls to taquerías in Oaxaca, it cools the mouth after a spicy taco and tastes of cinnamon, vanilla and toasted grain. We blend in almonds for extra creaminess and keep it dairy free, so it is vegan. Chef's tip: strain twice, the second time through a fine cloth; a gritty horchata is the most common mistake, and that silky texture is what you're after.
Agua de jamaica is one of the aguas frescas, the cooling fruit and flower drinks ladled from huge glass barrels at markets and taquerías all over Mexico. It is made by steeping dried hibiscus calyces (flor de jamaica) in hot water, giving a deep crimson drink that tastes tart like cranberry, lightly floral and very refreshing over ice. It is naturally vegan and keeps for days in the fridge. Use the concentrate as the base and sweeten to taste. Chef's tip: don't boil the flowers for long or leave them steeping for hours; too much extraction makes the drink tannic and harsh.
Tacos al pastor are the night-time taco of Mexico City, born when Lebanese immigrants' spit-roasted shawarma met Mexican dried chillies: meat marinated in guajillo and achiote is stacked on a vertical spit (the trompo), shaved into small corn tortillas and finished with pineapple, onion and coriander. This vegetarian version, tacos al pastor de hongos, uses torn oyster mushrooms in the same brick-red adobo, seared hard in a hot pan until the edges crisp and char like meat cut from the trompo. Expect smoky, tangy, gently hot tacos with bursts of sweet, caramelised pineapple; serve them with salsa verde and lime wedges. Chef's tip: press the mushrooms flat with a spatula and leave them alone in a very hot pan; moving them around makes them steam and go soft instead of crisp.
Arroz con leche is Mexico's comfort pudding, sold in little cups at markets and made in every grandmother's kitchen: rice cooked first in water with a cinnamon stick (canela) and lime peel, then slowly in milk until it turns thick and creamy. Mexicans often add sweetened condensed milk for a richer, caramel-tinged finish, and raisins for those who like them. It is eaten warm in winter and cold from the fridge in summer, dusted with ground cinnamon. Chef's tip: use soft Ceylon cinnamon (canela) if you can find it; its gentle, floral flavour is what makes it taste Mexican rather than like a spiced pudding.
Frijoles de la olla, beans cooked slowly in a pot (traditionally clay) with just onion, garlic and a sprig of epazote, are the backbone of Mexican home cooking from north to south. Served brothy in a bowl with chopped onion, chilli and lime, they are a meal on their own; mashed and fried in oil they become frijoles refritos, the creamy refried beans that go into tacos, tortas, sopes and molletes. This recipe makes both: one pot, half served as it is, half refried. We fry in vegetable oil rather than lard, so it is vegan. Chef's tip: salt the beans only once they are tender; salting at the start won't stop them cooking, but adding it late seasons the broth better and saves you from oversalting as it reduces.
Arroz verde is red rice's fresher sister, popular across central Mexico as a side for mole, enchiladas and beans. The rice is toasted in oil and then simmered in a vivid green purée of poblano pepper, coriander, parsley and a handful of spinach, so it comes out fluffy, herby and gently peppery, the colour of spring grass. It is vegan with vegetable stock and pairs especially well with mole rojo or roasted vegetables. Chef's tip: blend the greens with cold stock and add it straight to the rice; heated slowly or left standing the purée loses its colour, so make it right before you need it.
Pico de gallo, also called salsa fresca or salsa mexicana, is the fresh, uncooked salsa that sits on every Mexican table: diced ripe tomato, white onion, serrano chilli and coriander, brightened with lime juice and salt. It is crunchy, juicy and clean-tasting, with just enough heat, and goes with tacos, quesadillas, eggs, beans, rice and tortilla chips. It is best within an hour of making. Chef's tip: add the salt just before serving; salt draws water out of the tomatoes and leaves the salsa sitting in a puddle.
Molletes are a favourite cheap breakfast and after-school snack across Mexico, especially in Mexico City cafés: a bolillo (a crusty, oval white roll) split, buttered and toasted, spread with refried beans, covered with cheese and grilled until bubbling, then topped with fresh pico de gallo. They are crunchy, creamy and gooey, and children love them. Use crusty white rolls or short pieces of baguette if you can't get bolillos, and a mild melting cheese made with vegetarian rennet, such as mild cheddar, mozzarella or Oaxaca cheese. Chef's tip: toast the buttered rolls before adding the beans, so the bread stays crisp underneath instead of going soggy.
Huevos rancheros, 'ranch-style eggs', is the big country breakfast eaten all over Mexico: corn tortillas briefly fried in oil, topped with fried eggs and drowned in salsa ranchera, a warm, chunky sauce of charred tomatoes and serrano chillies, with refried beans on the side. The runny yolks mix with the spicy tomato sauce and the soft tortilla soaks it all up. Serve with avocado and coffee. Choose queso fresco made with vegetarian rennet. Chef's tip: fry the tortillas only for a few seconds a side; you want them pliable with crisp edges, not hard like tostadas, so you can cut them with a fork.
Arroz rojo (also called arroz a la mexicana) is the rice served beside almost everything in Mexico, from enchiladas to beans to a fried egg. Long-grain rice is fried in oil until golden, then simmered in a blended tomato, onion and garlic broth until every grain is separate, tender and tinted orange-red. Diced carrot and peas add colour and sweetness, and a whole chilli in the pot gives a gentle warmth without heat. Made with vegetable stock it is vegan and a favourite with children. Chef's tip: rinse the rice until the water runs clear and let it dry well before frying; wet rice won't toast and turns out sticky.
Calabacitas a la mexicana is the everyday summer side dish of kitchens all over Mexico: young squash (calabacitas) cooked quickly with sweetcorn, tomato, onion and strips of roasted poblano until tender and juicy, finished with crumbled fresh cheese. Mexican grey squash is milder and more tender than courgette, but young courgettes work beautifully. Eat it with rice and beans, roll it into tacos, or fill quesadillas with it. Use queso fresco made with vegetarian rennet. Chef's tip: cook over a high heat and don't cover the pan for long; you want the courgette to fry and keep a bite, not steam into a puddle.
Chiles rellenos de queso are a Puebla classic and a fixture of Mexican home cooking: roasted poblano peppers filled with melting cheese, coated in an airy egg batter called capeado, fried until golden and served swimming in a thin, mildly spiced tomato broth (caldillo). The batter is like a soufflé omelette that hugs the chilli, and the cheese inside stretches in long strings. Serve with arroz rojo and warm tortillas. Choose an Oaxaca cheese or mozzarella made with vegetarian rennet. Chef's tip: the chillies must be completely dry and dusted with rice flour before they go into the batter; any moisture makes the egg slide off in the pan.
Pastel de tres leches is the birthday and celebration cake of Mexico and much of Latin America: a light, airy sponge drenched in a mixture of three milks (evaporated milk, sweetened condensed milk and cream) until it is soaked through but still holds its shape, then topped with whipped cream. It is cold, milky and sweet, and every bakery from Mexico City to Guadalajara sells it by the slice. The sponge is made with whisked eggs for lightness, so it drinks up the milk without collapsing. Chef's tip: let the cake soak in the fridge for at least 4 hours, ideally overnight; the milk needs time to work its way into the centre and the cake slices far more neatly when cold.
Chiles en nogada belong to Puebla and to September, when fresh walnuts, peaches, pears and pomegranates are all in season and Mexico celebrates its independence: the green chilli, white walnut sauce and red pomegranate are the colours of the flag. Roasted poblano peppers are stuffed with picadillo, a sweet-savoury hash of fruit, nuts and spices, then cloaked in nogada, a cool sauce of fresh walnuts, milk and fresh cheese. Our vegetarian picadillo uses mushrooms for the savoury depth that minced meat usually gives. It is served at room temperature, never hot, as a centrepiece for a celebration lunch. Chef's tip: soak the walnuts in milk overnight and rub off as much of the papery skin as you can; the skins make the nogada bitter and grey. Use a fresh cheese made with vegetarian rennet.
Mole verde is the brightest of Oaxaca's seven moles: instead of dried chillies and chocolate it is built from tomatillos, fresh green chillies and a fistful of herbs (hoja santa, epazote, parsley) and thickened with masa or pumpkin seeds. In Oaxaca it is often cooked with white beans and vegetables, which is how we make it here, with potatoes, courgette, green beans and chayote. The sauce is tangy, herbal and silky, and goes with white rice or warm corn tortillas. It is vegan as long as you use vegetable stock. Chef's tip: blend the raw herbs in at the very end, off the heat; cooked any longer they turn grey and lose their fresh perfume.
Sopa de fideo is the soup almost every Mexican grew up on, served at home from Monterrey to Mérida as the first course of the midday meal. Thin fideo noodles (short broken vermicelli) are fried in oil until golden before the tomato broth goes in, which gives them a toasty, nutty flavour and stops them turning to mush. This version uses a vegetable stock, so it is vegan and very kind to small children. Serve it with lime, a little dried chilli for the grown-ups and bread or tortillas. Chef's tip: fry the noodles over a medium heat and keep stirring; they go from pale to golden to burnt in seconds, and you want the colour of a digestive biscuit.
Sopa de tortilla, also called sopa azteca, is one of the best-loved soups of Mexico City's fondas: a brick-red broth of charred tomato, onion, garlic and dried pasilla chilli poured over crisp strips of fried corn tortilla. The strips soften at the edges and stay crunchy in the middle, and the toppings of avocado, fresh cheese, cream and fried chilli rings make each spoonful different. It is a starter in a comida corrida (set lunch) and a cure-all on a cold evening. We use a well-flavoured vegetable stock in place of chicken broth. Chef's tip: fry the blended tomato purée in hot oil until it darkens and smells sweet before adding the stock; this "seasoning" of the sauce is what makes Mexican soups taste deep rather than thin.
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