Ode to Empanadas

I confessed early on in this blog series to a serious obsession with the fresh empanadas at the park just around the corner from my house. Well, this obsession has not abated over time, and I figured it was worth a closer look. Not the kind of closer look shown by this first picture, as that's a dressed up version of these amazing hand-held delights. No, as my addiction to the freshly-made empanadas has grown so has my appreciation for the amazing people and preparation behind the everyday street versions. There's a reason this stuff tastes so great--it's the incredible amount of labor that goes into a single-day's work.

First, a bit of background. There are at least five different empanada stands around our park. All of them are run by one or several women (who tend to rotate during the day) oftentimes part of a single family. Their stands are simple, consisting of nothing more than a metal cart, a metal bench (and maybe a few plastic chairs), a huge tortilla press, and a small barbecue fueled by a somewhat primitive briquette and topped by a large, round and lime-covered comal.

This infrastructure might seem minimal, but there is a good reason for it. Namely, it has to be wheeled in and wheeled out each and every day. Indeed, there is something of a parade that happens every morning as the empanada stand vendors, shoe shiners, and juicers who populate the park all push their industrial-sized bicycles, laden with the necessary goods for the day, over to the park to set up their stands. It's hard work, to be sure, as they have to bring the day's supply of food as well as fuel. The train to the park starts between 8 and 9 a.m., and most of them head home around 6, or sometimes later.

But the day doesn't really start or end there. What these women are wheeling in for the day they have actually spent all night preparing--or at least that's what I thought. There's often two kinds of mole--yellow or green--cooked whole chicken, refried black beans, sauteed mushrooms or fresh squash blossoms, and two kinds of chile--red or green--in addition to raw materials like Oaxacan cheese, cilantro, and soft drinks. Their empanadas are clearly not the crusty, wheat-flour, baked or fried kind popular in Argentina and the States. Instead, these are huge, fresh, corn tortillas, filled with mole and pieces of chicken and herbs. Quesadillas, too, should not be confused with our measly tortilla-and-cheese variety, but also use the fresh tortilla and then incorporate one or two kinds of cheese (Oaxacan string cheese or the crumbly queso fresco), sauteed mushroom, potatoes or fresh squash blossoms, and a spoonful of refried black beans, and a schmear of salsa. Deluxe fixings.

One morning I stole away from work at 10 to enjoy a mid-morning snack in the park. While I was sitting at my favorite stand, enjoying one of these master quesadillas replete with cheese, beans, mushrooms, and green sauce, I mentioned to the octogenarian matriarch of the stand, Dona Tonita, just how incredible her food was. Dona Tonita is a fixture in the park, with her long salt-and-pepper hair pulled back in braids, a dark, weathered, and cheerful face, and a toothless smile. Inspired by my food and not meaning to flatter, I added that hers was by far the best stand in the park--a statement the women sitting next to me on the bench readily validated by vigorously nodding her agreement as she tore through her own steaming empanada. Dona Tonita was just now moving away from the comal, pulling a plastic chair over into the sun to sit for a moment. Sometimes she sits fanning the flame on the barbeque to keep the comal hot, while other times she takes the reigns and actually prepares the tortillas. This is the hard work, as the women press a large ball of fresh masa into a foot-wide tortilla that they then skillfully pull off of the press and throw onto the hot comal without ripping or folding the tortilla. (My sense is that in the empanada stand pecking order, the low person on the pole gets to man the tortilla press.)

In response to my complement, Dona smiled her charming grin and sought to justify her rank by noting, "This is all home-made, traditional food. I cook my beans in a clay pot, and add garlic and salt only when it's just done. My moles too. I cook them from scratch every night and I don't water them down like some other vendors do."

"Boy," I said, "you must be up late every night!'

"Oh no," she replied laughing. "I go right to sleep at night. This work starts at 2:00 a.m. First, I get the nixtamal (the dried corn kernels that are cooked in lime and water to make masa), the chicken, and the black beans cooking. I only use briquettes, so all of my food is cooked in clay pots over an open fire. Then at 4:00 a.m. I take the nixtamal to the mill, and then return to prepare the moles and salsas. Everything is pretty much ready to go by 6:00."

Clearly Dona Tonita didn't have to convince me of the authenticity of her recipes--my mouth had long ago registered the more subtle flavors and consistencies of her moles, beans, and even masa. Nonetheless, to hear about the whole arduous process only made me more appreciative of the treat. After all, for less than $2, I was feasting on the fruits of her early morning labors. As I sat there savoring my quesadilla and contemplating this intricate preparation process, my mind began spinning: "What new anthropological project could I dream up that would allow me to apprentice with Dona Tonita and learn the magic of her early morning masa and mole cooking?" Just as with my long-ago idea for an ethnography of traditional bread making in Guatemala as a trumped up means of learning how to make the bread I loved to eat, I figure this one is also probably a lost cause. Nonetheless, if you know of any grant-issuing institutions who might be interested in funding it, you can find me in the park with Dona Tonita...at least for another week.