Guajillo Chiles

We visited Oman during one summer, and it was so hot that practically nothing happened during the day. When the sun finally went down, we were delighted to find that many little mishkak stands that sell kebabs were open then. In Muscat, Oman, we were told that the best food was in fact in an area by the airport known for its street stalls. There we saw vendor after vendor with the same thing: kofta (ground meat) and regular kebabs. What stuck out above all the other tastes were the shrimp kebabs we got at one stand—they had a kind of fire to them.

We were determined to get the recipe from the very confused proprietor, who gamely entertained our many questions while we scribbled down notes in the dark, but mostly he couldn’t fathom why we cared so much. Between our notes and what we managed to communicate between us using only the common language of food, we figured out that their marinade included tamarind, lime, and local chiles. A bit of trial and error upon our return to DC led to this recipe for the best grilled shrimp I’ve ever had. I love using dried black limes, which add a zesty sourness to dishes and drinks. These limes are dried whole, and many of them turn black during the process, though don’t be alarmed if you see much paler ones. They can be found whole and ground in Lebanese, Persian, and Indian grocery stores and online. Before grinding whole limes yourself, break them up first by crushing them under a heavy pot.

There is something about making a salsa in a molcajete that makes it taste better. I swear that something magical happens when you crush chiles between two pieces of stone that no blender will ever replicate. We like to bust out the molcajete to make a salsa as regularly as we can to remind us of this magic and continue this ancient tradition with my children.

In Mexico you are as likely to find the comforting pasta dish fideo seco on the table as beans or rice, especially in central Mexico, where it is very popular. We cook fideos not as the Italians do, but like the Spanish, who brought them to Mexico, first frying them in oil until they are toasty and nutty-tasting, then simmering them in a tomato-based sauce or broth until the sauce thickens considerably and coats the noodles. Forget al dente—our pasta is soft, and that’s the way we love it. The dish is called fideo seco—dry noodles—because it is not saucy at all. It’s also very convenient, because you can make it ahead. You can get packages of fideo pasta, thin noodles broken into pieces, in stores that sell Mexican ingredients, but you can also use thin Italian noodles such as vermicelli, angel hair, thin spaghetti, or spaghetti, and break them up yourself. 

I include three different kinds of dried chiles—ancho, guajillo, and chipotle—here in addition to tomatoes, onion, and garlic. For one more layer of complexity—a bit of sweetness in addition to smoky heat—I add some adobo sauce from chipotles in adobo. Top with a drizzle of crema and a sprinkling of tangy cheese, with some sliced avocado to counterbalance the heat of the chiles, and I guarantee that you’ll make it again and again.

Pambazos

Mole Coloradito Oaxaqueño