For me, the mole is always personal. It’s a bridge to my family, my memories and Mexico himself. But lately, politically turned out. In this past months, because Trump’s administration has been running on any human being to America treats immigrants, how the culture can be criminal, the culture is criminal, restricted culture, restricted cultures.
So when I heard Pujol, Enrique Olvera-starred Mexico city restaurant, brought a pop-up, and his famous mole, Los Angeles, I knew I had to go. I’m not hungry for the mole but for my people, our culture, see, even celebrated.
Ten kitchen and waiting staff traveled to La Restaurant to the Olvera Restaurrant for activity. That detail hit me for the risks of crossing the boundaries at a time when every Latino enters the US, whatever or what is or what is legal. Even within the US the border follows you. The message is clear: known outside outsiders are not reliably default.
Although Pujol Chefs and servers arrived, and were taken with Olvera’s rats nun – A regularly aged, progressing mole that develops (almost like a Sourdough starter) for a 19 year. Some call it iconic. But as Olvera said, “We don’t try to make the best mole – just ourselves.”
That’s its heart. Mole is memory, place, family, self.
To pop-up, I hope to serve a mole, THE Mouth, the mole nun. However, we are served by three.
The first one is a mole De Be – Meaning, cooked in a pot with clay. (I used to in term “in“Referring to Beans – Frijoles in.
However, it is coated short ribs, like a cold than pour. And the taste deeper: dark, smoked, with a chocolate-coffee made – not sweet, but complex and complex. If I don’t even know that it will extend, I make a mistake in a sophisticated barbecue glaze. The low ribself is fat, clear in the woods and indulgent.
The next mole arrived like a tribute to artist Josef Albers’ “Except it was a composition of nested circles on a rounded plate. In the center a rape adobe-red Nuevolives with light and vibrancy. The mole nun It is surrounded, as it suggested in its name, like a mother burning her son, a culinary pietà. Written by hand written, the menu noticed the mole nun now aged 3,676 days. The color is a deep, dark brown – like the skin of an ancient oxy enclose after the rain, earthy and noble. Colors reflect not only in the dishwasher but also the palette of Los Angeles, its temporary residence.
And served these proteins. Suddenly, the richness of the short ribs of the previous course is meant – self-demand, which allowed this dish to stand by himself.
I checked a tortilla outside toward the edge of the plate – from the younger turn to nun turn. The first bite alive, ridiculed and bright – better than any mole I have. Then the mole nun : Thicker, more pudding than sauce, remember dense dense hot chocolate hot chocolate.
It has presence and gravitas at San Gabriel Mountain – that rises from sea level to 10,000 feet. Like the mountains that catch light – roses, orange, purple – this mole reveals spice and complexity. It’s not just a depth; It has archaeological, geological depth.
And yet, I have to laugh. This is a good thing I didn’t bring my mom or me that to pop-up. As an odd like a dish, they said: And the meat?
If we asked how meat molbs, our waiter explained that the ingredients changed in times. Before reaching Los Angeles, the chefs added to Guava, apple and pear.
I’m happy, I asked, “What do you add while you’re in LA?”
The waiter smiles. “We don’t plan to add anything.”
But I like them. I want Los Angeles to give something in return – a gesture of reciprocity. When my family visited from Mexico, they brought raw cheese, dry shrimp, artesil Sweet bread,, beaded art made of huichol. We will watch with Candies boxes, Dodger Gear, Kick-off Designer Phers from Los Callejones.
Don’t chefs get chefs? A taste? A symbol? Something to mark they are not guests, but FAMILIES Return to the ancestral land here in Los Angeles, a city that was right about Mexico?
I think of the weather loquats, sweet and flowers, growing in backyards throughout LA, so it’s not good to sell them in markets. They make the perfect local accent. I think of the sour cherry juice from a Georgia dumpling house in Glendale, its tartness will add a difference to the depth of Million. I thought of David more easily involved, the American Japanese farmer in the Central Valley whose family was imprisoned during world war but still progressed.
Then I remember the flowers orange, blooming Huntington in San Marino. I am writing a book about Huntington Gardens, and I know that the trees that produce the laborers are chosen and wrapped in Mexican workers, 100 years ago. Pujol Moute, I realized, could be a memory, as did the trees. La oranges and mole Nun – They will make a culinary type To his childhood, a famine and territory famine by eating.
I went back to the waiter and said, “Please, bring our oranges to you. They are a link – in miles, generations.
He promised to pass the message to the chefs.
I tasted a legendary dish, for sure. But with the beauty, I beat how important everyone is feeling at this moment. I find myself longing to reveal how deep is what Mexican is and what Americans are still connected, people in people, people UNTO peopleno matter what the Washington government says.
Every mole brings a story, even if it doesn’t get the stars in Michelin. The story is delicious in a living, developing history. And I want the story to shine.
Natalia Molina is a professor of American and ethnic studies in USC. The most recent book is “an area of Nayarit: How a Mexican restaurant cares for a community.”
