
Chef Lupita
Coditos con Camaron Sinaloenses
Sinaloa's pinata-and-wedding pasta salad. Elbow macaroni, small Pacific shrimp, mayo, crema, and the brine from a can of pickled jalapenos. Always cold. Always next to the frijoles puercos.
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Tijuana's working-class Caesar, born in the peso crisis of the 1970s, with garlic-infused corn oil, crumbled queso cotija, and torn bolillo croutons. The same backbone as Caesar Cardini's, built for a baja Californian budget.
This is a Baja California dish. Tijuana, specifically. Not the Caesar of the tableside cart at Caesar's Restaurant on Avenida Revolucion, the one tourists photograph. This is the other Caesar, the one the cooks made for themselves and for the families who could not pay tourist prices.
The peso devaluation of the 1970s broke a lot of menus in Tijuana. Imported Parmigiano became a luxury. Olive oil disappeared from working-class kitchens. The cooks did what Mexican cooks have always done when the pantry shrinks: they substituted with what the mercado was selling. Cotija, the hard salty cheese from the highlands of Michoacan, took the place of Parmigiano. Corn oil, infused with garlic so it would carry the weight of olive oil, took its place too. The bolillo from the panaderia replaced the imported baguette croutons. The bones of the Caesar stayed: the egg yolk, the anchovy, the garlic, the lime, the romaine. Everything else became Mexican.
My mother kept a clipping in her notebook from a 1978 issue of a Tijuana paper, a recipe column written by a senora named Victoria who ran a comedor near the bullring. Her version called for corn oil and cotija and explained, plainly, that this was not a compromise. It was the Caesar that fed the people who actually lived in Tijuana. I cooked from that clipping for the first time when I was nineteen years old. It is bright, sharp, garlicky, and unmistakably Mexican. Cada estado, su propia cocina. Baja included.
The Caesar salad was invented in Tijuana in 1924 by Italian immigrant Caesar Cardini at his restaurant on Avenida Revolucion, originally as a tableside improvisation for American tourists during Prohibition. The Ensalada Victor, sometimes credited to Cardini's brother Alex (who called his version 'Aviator's Salad'), and later transformed by working-class Tijuana cooks during the peso crises of 1976 and 1982, swapped imported ingredients for Mexican equivalents: queso cotija for Parmigiano, corn oil for olive oil, bolillo for baguette. Baja California's culinary identity, often dismissed as merely an extension of California cuisine, has its own substitution traditions born of the peso-dollar border economy, where what crossed and what stayed defined what landed on the plate.
Quantity
2 large heads
outer leaves discarded, hearts kept whole, washed and dried completely
Quantity
1/2 cup
Quantity
6
peeled and lightly smashed
Quantity
2 cups
torn into rough 1-inch pieces
Quantity
1 teaspoon, divided
Quantity
2 large
from very fresh eggs
Quantity
4
drained
Quantity
2
finely grated
Quantity
2 tablespoons (from 1 to 2 Mexican limes)
Quantity
1 teaspoon
Quantity
1 teaspoon
Quantity
1/4 teaspoon
Quantity
1/2 cup
Quantity
1/2 cup, plus more for finishing
crumbled
Quantity
for serving
| Ingredient | Quantity |
|---|---|
| romaine lettuce heartsouter leaves discarded, hearts kept whole, washed and dried completely | 2 large heads |
| corn oil | 1/2 cup |
| garlic cloves (for the oil)peeled and lightly smashed | 6 |
| day-old bolillo or telera breadtorn into rough 1-inch pieces | 2 cups |
| kosher salt | 1 teaspoon, divided |
| egg yolksfrom very fresh eggs | 2 large |
| oil-packed anchovy filletsdrained | 4 |
| garlic cloves (for the dressing)finely grated | 2 |
| fresh lime juice | 2 tablespoons (from 1 to 2 Mexican limes) |
| Worcestershire sauce | 1 teaspoon |
| Dijon-style mustard | 1 teaspoon |
| freshly ground black pepper | 1/4 teaspoon |
| corn oil from the garlic infusion | 1/2 cup |
| queso cotijacrumbled | 1/2 cup, plus more for finishing |
| lime wedges (optional) | for serving |
Place the corn oil and the six smashed garlic cloves in a small saucepan. Set it over the lowest heat your stove can hold. You want the garlic to barely whisper, never fry. Cook for 8 to 10 minutes, until the cloves turn pale gold and the kitchen smells like a Tijuana taqueria at lunch hour. Pull the pan off the heat and let it cool for 15 minutes. Strain. You now have garlic-infused corn oil for both the croutons and the dressing. This is the substitution that defines the dish. Olive oil was a luxury Tijuana cooks could not afford in 1976, and corn oil with garlic carried the same weight at a quarter of the price.
Heat a heavy skillet over medium. Add 3 tablespoons of the garlic oil and the torn bolillo. Sprinkle with half a teaspoon of salt. Toss the bread in the oil and toast for 6 to 8 minutes, turning often, until every piece is golden brown with a deep crust. The interior should still have a little chew. These are not the dry boxed croutons of an American restaurant. They are torn day-old Mexican bread, the same bolillo you would split for a torta, fried in garlic oil until the edges turn the color of caramelo. Set aside on a plate.
In a wide wooden salad bowl, mash the anchovies and the grated garlic with the back of a fork until they form a paste. Work them into the wood. The bowl should smell aggressive, almost too much. That is correct. Add the egg yolks, lime juice, Worcestershire, mustard, the remaining half teaspoon of salt, and the black pepper. Whisk until smooth and pale yellow.
Whisking constantly, drizzle in the half cup of garlic-infused corn oil in a thin, slow stream. The dressing will thicken and turn the color of cream as the oil emulsifies into the yolks. If it looks broken, do not panic. Add a teaspoon of cold water and whisk hard. The dressing should coat the back of a spoon and slide off slowly. La manteca es el sabor in Michoacan; in Tijuana it is the corn oil and garlic. The principle is the same. Fat carries the flavor.
Tear the romaine hearts into rough pieces, around three or four inches long. Do not chop them with a knife. The torn edge holds the dressing where a clean cut sheds it. Pile the leaves into the bowl on top of the dressing. Toss with two wooden spoons or with clean hands, lifting from the bottom, until every leaf is coated. The leaves should glisten, not drown.
Add the croutons and half a cup of crumbled cotija. Toss once more, gently. Transfer to a serving platter or leave it in the bowl. Top with another generous handful of cotija and a few cracks of black pepper. Serve immediately with lime wedges on the side. Cotija is salty and dry, the way a hard cheese should be. It does not melt and it does not cling like Parmigiano. It crumbles. That is the texture of this version. Asi se hace y punto.
1 serving (about 195g)
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Chef Lupita
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