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32 recipes
In April and May, when Ataulfo mangoes from Chiapas and Manila mangoes from Veracruz flood the markets, agua de mango becomes the drink of every comida corrida. It is thick, golden and very fruity, sharpened with lime. Chef's tip: use soft, fully ripe yellow mangoes with wrinkled skin; they need far less sugar and give a smooth, fibre-free drink.
Pale green and very refreshing, agua de pepino is the cooler sold from market juice stands in Mexico City and Oaxaca when the afternoon heat builds, and families blend a jug for comida on hot days. Cucumber, lime and a few mint leaves give a clean, light taste with very little sugar. Chef's tip: leave some of the peel on the cucumber for colour, but strain the drink so it stays silky.
Brown, cloudy and gloriously tart, agua de tamarindo fills the big glass vitroleros at taquerías and fondas across Mexico, especially in hot Guerrero, Colima and the Yucatán, and it is the drink most people reach for with a plate of tacos de guisado. The pods are peeled, simmered and rubbed through a sieve, so it tastes far fresher than paste or concentrate. Chef's tip: soak the pulp in the hot cooking water before you rub it, which loosens every bit from the seeds.
During the nine nights of posadas from 16 to 24 December, neighbours in central Mexico walk the streets singing for shelter, and the reward at the last door is a cup of steaming ponche ladled from a clay pot. Whole fruits, tejocotes, guavas, apple, prunes, sticks of sugarcane, simmer with hibiscus, cinnamon and piloncillo until the punch is fragrant and amber, and everyone fishes the soft fruit out with a spoon. This recipe is alcohol-free and good for all ages; some adults add a splash of rum to their own cup, but none is used here. Chef's tip: add the guavas late, as they collapse if cooked too long.
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.
Long before coffee arrived, atole was the morning drink of central and southern Mexico, and in villages of Oaxaca, Puebla and Tlaxcala plain atole blanco is still drunk hot with tamales at breakfast or on cold evenings. Fresh masa is whisked into water and cooked until it thickens to a silky, gently sweet drink with a toasty corn taste. Made with water it is vegan. Chef's tip: strain the masa before cooking, so the atole is smooth with no lumps.
Mexican market juice stalls make agua de melón with the ripest, most fragrant cantaloupes, and many cooks blend in the seeds and the soft pulp around them, which adds a creamy body and a nutty flavour. It's served in tall glasses on hot afternoons from Guanajuato to Veracruz and is a favourite with kids. Chef's tip: smell the stalk end of the melon before you buy it; if it smells sweet, the drink will too.
When watermelons are piled high in the markets of Jalisco and Sonora in summer, almost every taquería has a jar of bright pink agua de sandía next to the horchata. It needs only ripe watermelon, water, a squeeze of lime and a touch of sugar, and children love it. Chef's tip: a very ripe melon may need no sugar at all, so taste before you sweeten.
In Asunción the hottest part of the day stops for tereré: a horn or cup packed with yerba mate, topped up again and again with ice water infused with crushed herbs, and passed round the group through a metal straw. It was recognised by UNESCO as part of Paraguay's cultural heritage, and the herbs (yuyos) change with the season and the drinker's mood. Yerba mate contains caffeine, so it isn't one for small children. The common mistake is pouring water straight into loose yerba, which then clogs the straw; tilt the yerba to one side first. Chef's tip: for tereré ruso, swap the water for cold orange or grapefruit juice.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
After the rice harvest in October and November, hill families from Ilam to Gorkha cut the leaves of mustard greens, radish and cauliflower, leave them to wilt in the yard, then pound them into clay pots or pits to ferment. A week later the greens come out olive-brown and sour, and they are dried on bamboo mats in the bright Dashain-Tihar sun. That dried gundruk carries families through the lean winter: soaked and simmered into gundruk ko jhol with tomato and soybeans beside dal-bhat, or tossed into gundruk sadeko with onion, chilli and mustard oil to eat with chiura. The flavour is deeply sour, earthy and a little smoky, the dried leaves chewy-crisp, softening when cooked. Common mistake: packing the leaves loosely; air left in the jar lets mould grow instead of the sour lactic ferment, so press until juice rises over the greens. It is ready to dry when it smells sharply sour like good sauerkraut and the leaves have lost all their green. Chef's tip: if your greens are from a supermarket, mix mustard greens with radish tops or kale for the closest flavour, and ferment in a big jar with a weight.
Cocido is how Paraguay starts the day: in Asunción, in the villages of Guairá and Itapúa, and in school kitchens, a pot of burnt yerba is brewed and poured into cups with chipa, the cheesy cassava bread, or with a hard galleta. The old way is to drop a glowing piece of charcoal into a pot with yerba and sugar and stir until the sugar burns. On a home stove you caramelise them together in a dry pan instead, which is safer and gives the same smoky, toffee-like taste. The drink is clear amber-brown, with roasted, slightly bitter mate notes over burnt-sugar sweetness; with milk added it becomes cocido con leche, creamy and coffee-coloured. Yerba mate contains caffeine, so treat it like a cup of coffee. The common mistake is letting the sugar go black: it turns acrid and bitter. Pull it off the heat when the caramel is deep amber and the yerba smells toasted, not burnt. It is ready when the liquid is a clear dark amber and tastes of toffee and smoke. Chef's tip: the water will spit fiercely when it hits the hot caramel, so pour it in from the side, at arm's length.
Chipotles are ripe jalapeños smoked slowly over wood until leathery; in Puebla and Veracruz the reddish, plump mora type is the everyday one, and the tan, leathery meco is prized for its deeper smoke. Simmered in a sweet-sour adobo of tomato, onion, garlic, vinegar and piloncillo, they become the soft, glossy chillies that go into tinga poblana, albóndigas en chipotle, bean soups and a quick chipotle mayonnaise. Homemade, they are smokier and less sugary than the tinned kind, with sauce that is brick red, tangy and thick enough to coat a spoon. Common mistake: toasting the dried chillies too long; a few seconds a side is enough, because scorched chillies make the whole jar bitter. This is a low-acid chilli preserve, so it is kept in the fridge or freezer, never canned in a water bath. It is ready when the chipotles are plump and soft enough to crush with a spoon and the adobo has reduced to a glossy sauce. Chef's tip: blend one or two chillies with their sauce and freeze it in an ice-cube tray, so you can add a single cube to a pot.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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