Unrivaled Chilaquiles Experience: The Finest You’ve Ever Tasted

Describing my first chilaquiles plate is a challenge, but I’ll attempt it: a vibrant green salsa simmering on a pastel dish, covering crispy tortilla chips that crack like eggshells when pierced with a fork — accompanied by a runny egg, generous handfuls of herbs, and an indulgent amount of queso fresco.

Alternatively, it could have been salsa roja, a shining red sauce atop beautiful ceramics. Or perhaps a bowl filled with scrambled eggs and cotija cheese. There’s even the option of gently blending it all together with salsa taquera, whose chiles start off hot and spicy but mellow after a day of slow cooking.

Recipe: Chilaquiles

Chilaquiles are both a delight and a staple all over Mexico and in many parts of the United States. These fried corn tortillas covered in salsa are usually served for breakfast or brunch, making them a reliable choice for delicious flavors and a great way to use pantry leftovers. The dish’s most basic form likely dates back to the Aztecs, as its name, chee-luh-KEY-lays, comes from the Nahuatl language. It has evolved and embedded itself into Mexican culture over the centuries.

According to some accounts, chef Encarnación Pinedo, a Mexican American, solidified the most prevalent version of chilaquiles in 1898 with her cookbook “El Cocinera Español,” which was the first publication by a Latinx author in the United States. The dish is part of the larger tradition of Mexican cuisine that maximizes the use of tortillas and salsa. As Ford Fry explains in “Tex Mex,” chilaquiles are focused on the tomato salsa and chile paste that complement the crunchy tortillas and are often topped with a fried or boiled egg and other meats.

But the beauty of chilaquiles is our ability to adapt and personalize the recipe. One can choose a spicier salsa for the chips or layer the chilaquiles with various ingredients like bacon, chorizo, chicken, shrimp, or any combination that brings us culinary satisfaction. I recall an ex of mine who would toss his chips in salt immediately after frying them, inspired by his aunt’s technique for assembling chilaquiles. Years later, while in Tokyo, I witnessed a local cook behind a counter doing the exact same thing while fellow customers watched in awe.

If variety makes life worth living, it’s hard to think of a better mascot than chilaquiles.

If variety is the spice of life, chilaquiles embody that notion perfectly. Earlier this year, at the Hidden Cafe in Berkeley, California, I savored a plate of chilaquiles dedicated to the chef’s father, and the salsa verde blew my taste buds away. It reminded me of another incredibly delicious plate I shared with my boyfriend the previous month at Nana’s in Houston. Both times we found ourselves fanning our mouths, convinced that these were the best chilaquiles we had ever tasted. However, we experienced the same sentiment earlier that year, just a short drive away, at Tacos Doña Lena, a queer-owned Mexican restaurant nestled in a strip mall.

But dishes not only satisfy our appetite, they also carry our thoughts and memories. The dishes we crave often encapsulate the emotions we want to share. Cooking chilaquiles is no easy task, from preparing the salsa to frying the tortillas to achieving the perfect consistency that relies more on intuition than precise measurements. Like much of cooking, chilaquiles are about feeling the process and using your senses rather than strictly following instructions. Yet, there are small steps we can take to bring us closer to our ideal plate: choosing the best quality tortillas available, carefully selecting the ingredients for the salsa, and continuously tasting the chilaquiles as we prepare them, inching closer to the comforting warmth that a meal can provide.

However, our idea of the ideal chilaquiles is ever-shifting. And that’s a delightful predicament to be in. The last chilaquiles I enjoyed a few weeks ago in Los Angeles were a remix of what I thought was my dream plate. After a weekend spent exploring the city’s vibrant queer spaces with friends, I found myself exhausted and anxious that Monday morning, seeking solace at Big Art’s Tacos y Burros. The night before, I had danced the night away at the Eagle LA nightclub and, in the morning, I was consumed by climate concerns. Standing in line with fellow shade-covered patrons, we were all in different states of weariness. A group of guys under a roadside tent skillfully assembled burritos, many of them including chilaquiles.

With one bite, my morning took a turn for the better. Chilaquiles, no matter where I eat them, have that transformative power. As the chef handed me a hefty mound of chilaquiles wrapped in aluminum foil, he wished me enjoyment. With the tantalizing aroma enveloping my car, I savored every bite and let the flavors transport me to a place of pure satisfaction.

Recipe: Chilaquiles