Cecina Enchilada con Frijoles y Plátano Macho

This is from Oaxaca. Specifically from the Valles Centrales, where cecina enchilada hangs in the carnicería stalls of the Mercado Benito Juárez and the 20 de Noviembre, sheets of pork dyed deep red from the adobo, drying in the air with the chile aroma drifting halfway across the market. You point at the piece you want, the carnicero weighs it, and you carry it home or you take it across the aisle to the pasillo de las carnes asadas where they grill it for you on the spot.

This is not cecina from Yecapixtla in Morelos, which is salt-cured and pale. Cecina enchilada is a different animal. The enchilada part is not the dish you are thinking of. It means en chile, dressed in chile. Guajillo for color, ancho for sweetness, and costeño, the small chile from the Oaxacan coast, for the bright sting underneath. If you cannot find costeño, the adobo loses something specific to this state. Look for it before you settle for a substitution.

The plate is simple in its parts and serious in its execution. Black beans from the olla with epazote. Plátano macho fried until the sugars caramelize at the edges. Slices of avocado, raw white onion, queso fresco, lime, and a stack of hand-pressed tortillas. This is what comida looks like in an Oaxacan home when the carnicería sent you home with a good piece of cecina. Cada estado, su propia cocina.

My mother never cooked cecina enchilada. She was from Jalisco. The first time I made it was after a week in Oaxaca with a señora named Doña Crescencia who ran a comedor in Tlacolula. She had me stand at her comal for two days before she let me put the cecina down on it. The meat is thin, she told me, the chile sugars burn fast, and if you cook it like a steak you have ruined it. Lay it down. Wait. Flip it once. Pull it off. La cocina no es decoración, es trabajo.