What I Learned About Chiles from Roberto Santibañez

My feelings about cooking Mexican food at home had two phases: pre-Roberto and post-Roberto. Before I met Roberto Santibañez, chef of the acclaimed Fonda restaurants in New York, I assumed that the cuisine was dominated by 30-ingredient mole sauces that were heaven to eat and hell to make. But after collaborating with him on two cookbooks—Truly Mexican and Tacos, Tortas, and Tamales—I make more tacos and salsas than I do salads and pastas.

Santibañez also taught me that while my mole stereotype might be nonsense, there's another stereotype about the cuisine that does hold true: It’s all about the chiles. Unlike other countries closely associated with the fiery fruit, Mexico has had millennia to experiment with its world-famous indigenous ingredient. (Thailand and India, by contrast, only met the chile about 500 years back.) Of course, that’s not to say every Mexican recipe is a chile-head's dream. As Roberto taught me, harnessing the flavor of chiles doesn't mean your food will be spicy. It just means it'll just plain taste better. Here's how.

Santibanez surveys the chile powders at a market in Mexico City.

In those dark, pre-Roberto days, I used to wander into a Mexican grocery store, admire the many shapes and colors of glossy, wrinkly dried chiles piled in bins, and walk out empty-handed. I wanted to buy some—I just had no clue what to do with them. Until Roberto taught me the most basic—and versatile—trick.

The easiest way to turn chiles from ornament to ingredient is to toast and grind them into powder, then use a pinch here and there to spice up sauces, salsas, rubs, marinades, soups, and even fresh-cut fruit. After all, why should cayenne pepper have all the fun? After I learned this simple technique, I couldn't help pulverizing smoky, sweet chipotles, nutty chiles de arbol, sweet, raisiny anchos, earthy, fruity pasillas, and citrusy guajillos. Here's how to do it:

For large mild dried chiles, such as anchos, pasillas; and guajillos: (1) Make a slit in the side of each chile, open it like a book, and remove the seeds and veins (use gloves or wash your hands well afterwards). (2) Preheat a pan over medium-low heat, close the chiles like a book, and toast, flipping and pressing occasionally, until they’re aromatic, about 1 minute.

For small spicy dried chiles, such as chipotles and chiles de arbol: (1) Preheat a pan over medium-low heat and toast, flipping and pressing occasionally, until the chipotles puff up and the chiles de arbol are dark brown, 3 to 4 minutes.

Let them cool slightly, then whiz them to a fairly fine powder in a spice grinder or blender. Store in an airtight container in a cool, dark place.

The habanero might be one of the hottest chiles you can buy at the supermarket, but Roberto taught me that it provides so much more than just mouth-scalding fire: Its fruity, floral flavor brings a thrilling complexity to whatever salsas and sauces it touches. (He also taught me to finally stop pronouncing the word as if there were a tilde over the “n,” as in “jalapeño.”)

The good news is that the habanero is easier than ever to find—many Whole Foods and other big chains stock it—and it’s dirt-cheap considering that one chile often flavors a big pot of salsa. The bad news, as I once complained to Roberto, is that it feels nutty to buy more than a few at a time, which means you have to go shopping every time you’re in the mood to make xni-pec. Not true, Roberto said, opening his freezer to reveal a gallon freezer bag full of habaneros. The chile’s thin flesh means it freezes quickly and well. You don’t even have to defrost before you use it.

Roberto finishes a mushroom taco with salsa featuring sharp, nutty dried arbol chiles.

Photo by JJ Goode

One night, as he threw together a quick dinner, Roberto introduced me to this incredible, quirky condiment popular in Mexico City homes and Japanese restaurants. Fresh green chiles are blistered, tossed with onion, and doused in a mixture of lime juice, soy sauce, and Worcestershire. Salty, tart, and brutally spicy, the whole mess turned a store-bought rotisserie chicken, mayo-slathered tortillas, and cubed queso fresco into a thrilling meal.

Preheat a medium skillet over medium-high heat. Cook 12 fresh green serrano or small jalapeño chiles, flipping occasionally, until blistered all over and blackened in spots, 10 to 15 minutes. Transfer to a bowl. Add 1½ tablespoons vegetable oil, 1 thinly sliced white onion, and ¼ teaspoon kosher salt, and cook, stirring, until the onions are golden brown at the edges, about 8 minutes. Turn off the heat, return the chiles to the pan, and poke each one once with the tip of sharp knife. Add 2 tablespoons Worcestershire sauce, 2 tablespoons soy sauce, and ¼ cup lime juice. Stir well, transfer to a bowl, and let sit for 10 minutes. Season to taste with lime and salt.

At first, I thought pickled jalapeños were a cop-out, that you’d only sheepishly pop open a can if you didn’t have any fresh or dried chiles on hand. Nope, says Roberto. They’re a fantastic product all their own, available at most supermarkets nowadays and just the thing when you need a last-minute jolt of acidity and heat. They improve any sandwich—and if you make yours on a good roll and add some smooshed beans, avocado, and mayo, you’ve got the amazing Mexican sandwich called a torta. And tucking a few slivers of those pickled chiles inside a quesadilla makes the world a better place.

Like most kids raised on Old El Paso, I grew up thinking that salsa was a meek red concoction meant to be shoveled with chips into your mouth. Yet as Roberto revealed to me, real salsa comes in many colors and should be eaten with anything—beans, roasted chicken, grilled cheese sandwiches, anything!—that deserves a spark. And to provide that spark, you need fire. Salsa should be hot, so hot that you can’t in good conscience eat it by the spoonful.

To illustrate, he made pico de gallo, the dead-simple salsa made of chopped tomato, onion, cilantro, and fresh green chiles. In the United States, it's usually no spicier than a tomato salad. A taste of his, however, was so exhilarating that it made the top of my head tingle. The secret is simple: Don’t skimp on the chiles (or the salt and lime juice, for that matter).

Here's how to ensure your salsa—or any Mexican food—has the fire it requires:

• Use serrano chiles, which are more reliably hot than jalapeños.
• Buy extra. The heat level in chiles varies wildly. Three chiles might seem like plenty until you get home and realize they have the heat of a bell pepper. To tell whether a chile is worth adding to your salsa without scalding your tongue: Cut into it and carefully sniff the opening—the more you flinch, the hotter the chile.
• Don’t ever remove the seeds. The flavor of chiles relies on using the entire fruit: Seeds, ribs, flesh, and all. If you don't want your salsa super-spicy, just use less.

Chopped Fried-Fish Tacos (Tacos de Salpicón de Pescado)

Get This Recipe