For me, Mole has always been personal. It is a bridge to my family, my memories and Mexico itself. But lately, it has become a political too. In recent months, when Trump’s administration has run Roughshod on any pretension of humanity in the way America deals with immigrants, I thought about how culture itself can be criminalized, controlled, restricted and erased.
So when I heard that Pujol, the Mexico restaurant in Mexico Enrique Olvera, brought a pop-up, and its famous taupe, in Los Angeles, I knew I had to go. I was not hungry just for Mole but for my people, our culture, even celebrated.
Ten cooking and waiting employees went to the restaurant in Los Angeles d’Olvera for the event. This detail struck me hard because of the risks of crossing borders at a time when every Latin enters the United States, it doesn’t matter how or why or with what legal status, is suspect. Even inside the United States, the border follows you. The message is clear: foreigners perceived are not trustworthy by default.
Pujol chiefs and servers have always come, and brought Olvera’s taupe with them Madre – A constantly aged and evolving mole that has developed (almost like a levain starter) for 10 years. Some call it emblematic. But as Olvera says: “We are not trying to make the best taupe – just ours.”
It’s the heart. Mole is memory, place, family, self.
In pop-up, I expected that I would be served a mole, THE Taupe, the taupe Madre. Instead, we were served three.
The first was a mole from Olla – Meaning, cooked in a pot of clay. (I am used to the term “Olla“Referring to beans – frijoles OllaSoup and whole, not crushed or friviste.) I was surprised to note that this mole was not traditional, that is to say that it was not a sauce poured on meat.
Instead, he coated a short short hill, more like a dive than a casting. And the flavor went deeply: dark, smoked, with a shade with chocolate coffee – not sweet, but rich and complex. If I didn’t know it was the mole, I might have confused it with a sophisticated barbecue frosting. The short coast itself was fatty, fork and indulgent.
The following taupe arrived as a tribute to “Homage to the Square” by artist Josef Albers – except that it was a composition of nested circles on a round white ceramic plate. In the center was a taupe in a love-red nudeliving with light and dynamism. The Taupe Madre The ones, just as his name suggested, like a mother skimming her child, a pietà culinary. Writing by hand in the pen, the menu noted the taupe Madre had now aged 3,676 days. The color was a deep dark brown – like the bark of an ancient oak after a rainst storm, earthy and noble. The colors reflected not only the depth of the dish but also the palette of Los Angeles, its temporary house.
And it was served without protein. Suddenly, the richness of the short coast of the previous course made sense – it had responded to the need for heat, allowing this dish to stand alone.
I picked up a tortilla to the exterior towards the edge of the plate – from the younger taupe to the Madre mole. The first bite was alive, spicy and shiny – already better than almost any tau I have ever had. Then the taupe Madre : thicker, more like pudding than sauce, recalling dense Spanish hot chocolate served with churros.
He had the presence and severity of the mountains of San Gabriel – suddenly rising from sea level to 10,000 feet. Just as these mountains catch light – pink, orange, purple – this mole has revealed layers of spices and complexity. He was not only depth; He had an archaeological and geological depth.
And yet I had to laugh. It was a good thing that I had not brought my mother or my third party to pop-up. As transcendent as the dish, they would have said: ¿Y La Carne?
When we asked for how the evolution of the mole, our server explained that the ingredients change with the seasons. Before coming to Los Angeles, the chiefs had added guava, apples and pears.
Excited, I asked: “What do we add while you are in Los Angeles?”
The server smiles. “We do not intend to add anything.”
But I wanted it. I wanted Los Angeles to give the mole something in return – a gesture of reciprocity. When my family visits Mexico, they bring raw cheeses, dried shrimps, artésenal bang,, Pearl art made by Huichol. We are going in return with the SEE candy boxes, Dodger Gear, the handbags of Los Callejones lip designer.
Couldn’t chefs resume something? A flavor? A symbol? Something to mark that they were not only visitors, but familia Back in ancestral soil here in Los Angeles, a city that was once part of Mexico?
I thought of the socks in season, soft and floral, pushing in the backgrounds through Los Angeles, therefore delicate that they cannot be sold on the markets. They would make the perfect local accent. I thought of the sour cherry juice of a Georgian dumpling house in Glendale, its acidity would add a contrast to the depth of the mole. I thought of David Mas Masumoto, the American Japanese farmer in the Central Valley whose family was imprisoned during the Second World War but whose peaches still thrive.
Then I remembered orange flowers, flowering in Huntington in San Marino. I write a book on Huntington’s gardens, and I know that these trees once wore fruit picked and wrapped by Mexican workers, 100 years ago. The Taupe Pujol, I made, could hold a memory, just like these trees. The oranges and the taupe Madre – They would form a kind of culinary Latinidad, A genealogical and territorial fusion through food.
I turned to the server and I said: “Please bring our oranges to you. They are a link – over kilometers, generations. They belong to your mole.”
He promised to transmit the message to the chiefs.
I came to taste a legendary dish, of course. But in the flavor, I was struck by the precarious that everything feels right now. I found myself in the desire to transmit how Mexican and what is American is always connected, people to people, soft has softNo matter what Washington’s government says.
Each mole carries a story, even if it does not win Michelin stars. History has a taste for a living and evolutionary history. And I want this story to shine.
Natalia Molina is a professor of American studies and ethnicity at the USC. His latest book is “A Place at The Nayarit: How a Mexican restaurant has fueled a community”.