Be it Mexican, Sri Lankan, Thai, or just about any other cuisine employing hardcore chiles, everyone who knows me has come to terms with the fact that I am a fiend for the Picante! People somehow simultaneously understand how I have come to accept Japan as a second home. My life, like the bible, tells a story of the completely disparate, occasionally contradictory, physical and metaphysical world in which we live. Most people merely think along the lines of, “Whoa, man…the wasabi must be really good over there…!” Yes, but…no. So beyond daily institutionalized racism and being functionally illiterate, what’s my biggest problem with Japan…? No Chiles! No Jalapeños. No Habaneros. No Cascabeles. No Serranos. No Chilhuacle Negros. No Guajillos. And especially none of the manly yet delicate, smoky yet smooth, earthy yet crisp flavor of the precious Poblano. Ay de mi!

So it was with much salivating of chops and rubbing of hands like many a cartoon wolf during that 2 hour Amtrak ride from L.A.’s Union Station (a few days in from Hong Kong), that I exited the train station in Oceanside (North County S.D.) in my uncle’s car and told him to stop at the first market we passed. It didn’t take five minutes for me to be unstrapping my seatbelt and shouting, “Back in 5 minutes!” over my shoulder as I grabbed a cart and entered some organo-hippy granola-fest mini-market stacked to the ceiling with 22 dollar bottles of Guano Extract Shampoo, Organic Konbu Hallucinogenics and all-natural tofu/tenpei-based condoms for aisles in all directions.

It was the bright reds and luscious greens of the produce which drew me in first. There after my long journey westward, where I selected 10 poblanos, 15 limes, 20 jalapeños, 4 bunches of cilantro, 2 red onions and a vine of tomatoes, I came to know peace. Shaking now from excitement, I looked down and felt as if I’d been hit by a Vegetable Oil Converted Volvo. Tomatillos! In three years living in the lap of leeks the size of small children, the Okinawan dildo-gone-wrong Goya and the greatest sweet potatoes ever (Praise be to Imo), I’d completely forgotten the little green beauties even existed. Slapping myself, and nearly tumbling over a mountain of melon-sized mangoes, I quickly filled my basket and limped away toward the cheese, tortillas and beer. 20 minutes and a pissed off uncle later, I emerged in a fugued-out zone of recipe preparation strategies and we cruised the Coast Highway south to Encinitas, where lay the kitchen in which I would hatch my plans of salsa picada (among other kinds of) world domination.

Walk in (nice light), inspect the knives (so-so), feel the cutting board (great huge wooden median slab), turn on the music (good selection), unload the groceries from the paper bags the checkout girl tssked at you for making her pack your elite veggies and yuppy beer in, and get started.

First:

In your big oven, roast the peppers, all of them, naked on broil (450°F/230°C), carefully watching and turning them to a insure uniform char. Go ahead and throw in the garlic at the same time, peel and all, along with the dehusked tomatillos, though be wary of the differing cooking times.

After roasting (anywhere from 5-20 minutes) toss your peppers into a bowl, cover with a damp dishtowel for 5- 10 minutes to allow the skin to separate and set aside.

Though roasting tomatillos is similar to roasting tomatoes, tomatillos are not unripe “little tomatoes” as the name suggests, they are fruits and actually grow in a papery husk which should be peeled before preparation. They are generally of a firmer consistency, have less water and are much more tart than you might expect. This is the prime reason they remain the main ingredient in salsas verdes, salsas crudas and my own roasted picadas as tart mixes very well with heat. Like all my exes and me.

Before peeling, destemming and deseeding your chiles, and while you wait for the post-roast steam-a-thon to finish, go get a beer (from the beer fridge most American homes now have in the garage). May I suggest Bohemia (a bit more European style), Dos Equis (nice, full-bodied), Pacifico (the lesser-known, better-tasting Corona) or perhaps the local favorite Tecate (Ay, mi amante!)? Don’t forget the lime.

Now finely chop your fatty red onion, a vine-ripened tomato and go ahead and slice a lime up just to have ready. Here’s the fun part: do you want a salsa cruda with its fresh raw feel or a more smooth and traditional salsa verde? The only difference is merely a finely diced former, or a pureed latter. I prefer the crisp and cool texture of the raw cut, the picturesesque juxtaposition of your garden’s range of colors, the saltiness of the tortilla chip balanced perfectly with the sour of the tomatillo, the acid of the lime, the heat of the jalapeño, the warmth of the garlic and all of it rounded out nicely by the fortitude of the patriarchal poblano. So for me, it’s la cruda.

I haven’t talked about Cilantro yet. Coriander, Dhania, Ketumbar, Chinese Parsley, Kothamir, Llaksa, however you say it, it’s everywhere…except here. I live in the only Asian country that does not regularly use Cilantro in some way, despite its complementary fusion in sushi. In my 10 or so years preparing Mexican and Asian foods, I’ve found that there are two camps of people: those who love cilantro and those who don’t. Those who don’t are equally as stubborn in their opinions as those who do, though luckily those who do love the fresh citrusy twang of the embattled herb far outnumber any haters. And you haters, would it please you to know that through no fault of your own, but rather due to an enzyme which alters the flavor due to a genetic disposition, you cannot help but hate the plant? Doesn’t that make you feel bad- hating a plant? So, if this is true, it seems your genes just aren’t good enough to like it. You Are Deficient. As a genetically healthy person who should produce cilantro-eating offspring, it remains mandatory for my food, as- in the proper dosage- it is good in almost anything. Just ask Ethiopia!

Cilantro should be shredded or ripped by hand and then ground in a mortar as opposed to using a knife, the steel of which undoubtedly alters its natural flavor. If it were me I wouldn’t even bother making this gorgeous yet manly salsa without cilantro. Like auto-eroticism without the self-flagellation…just not worth it.

This entry was posted on Sunday, June 10th, 2007 at 17:19. It is filed under Spicy and tagged with Cascabeles, Chiles, Cilantro, Habaneros, Jalapeños, Lime, Mexican Cuisine, Roasted Poblano, Salsa Picada, Salt, Serranos, Tecate, Tomatillo. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed.