
Chef Lupita
Besitos Yucatecos
Mérida's pale egg-yolk-and-vanilla kisses, tiny cookies built on eight yolks and a perfume of orange blossom, sandwiched with guava paste and dusted heavy with powdered sugar.
A cooking platform built around craft, culture, and the stories behind what we eat.

Created by
Yucatecan palmiers from the panaderias of Merida and Valladolid, rolled in sugar, folded into ears, and baked until the surface turns to amber glass that breaks apart at the first bite.
Orejas are from the panaderias of Yucatan. Not from Paris. The French built the puff pastry, yes, but the Yucatecos took it, rolled it in sugar instead of flour, and made it a daily bread that sits in glass cases in Merida next to the conchas, the polvorones, and the marquesitas. Walk into any panaderia in the centro of Merida or Valladolid in the late afternoon and you will smell caramelized sugar before you see the shelves.
This is a laminated pastry but it is not a French exercise. The technique is simple and the ingredients are three. What separates a good oreja from a bad one is the sugar. You roll the dough on sugar, you fold the dough with sugar, you press more sugar into the slices before they go into the oven. The sugar is what caramelizes into the glassy amber crust that breaks apart under your teeth. Skip the sugar at any step and you will pull a sad, pale pastry out of the oven. La manteca es el sabor in most of Mexican cooking, but here, the azucar is the sabor.
The Yucatecan touch is the canela, the soft Mexican cinnamon that the panaderos in Merida often work into the sugar. It is subtle, almost not there, and that is the point. It tells you the oreja came from a Yucatecan kitchen and not a European one. Cada estado, su propia cocina, and Yucatan claimed this pastry as its own a long time ago.
My mother used to buy orejas from a panaderia on Avenida Alvaro Obregon in Colonia Roma every Saturday morning. The baker was from Merida and he made them the Yucatecan way, with the canela and with the heavy sugar. We ate them with cafe de olla and she would say they fell apart cleaner than the ones from any of the fancy bakeries in Polanco. She was right. Saber cocinar es saber vivir, and saber comer is part of the same lesson.
Orejas, palmiers in French and palmeras in much of Spain, arrived in Mexico through the wave of European bakers who settled in port cities and capitals during the late 19th and early 20th centuries, particularly during the Porfiriato when French culinary influence was at its peak. Yucatan, with its long history of maritime trade through the port of Progreso and its cultural openness to Caribbean, Cuban, and European exchange, absorbed the technique and transformed it into a staple of the regional panaderia tradition, often distinguished from versions elsewhere in Mexico by the addition of Mexican canela. The pastry now sits firmly within Yucatan's pan dulce repertoire alongside indigenous-Spanish hybrids like marquesitas and pan de elote, evidence of how the peninsula's bakers have always treated foreign techniques as raw material for regional identity rather than as imported standards to preserve.
Quantity
1 pound
cold, thawed in the refrigerator if frozen
Quantity
1 1/2 cups, plus more for rolling
Quantity
1/2 teaspoon
Quantity
1 teaspoon
Quantity
for the work surface
a light dusting only
| Ingredient | Quantity |
|---|---|
| all-butter puff pastrycold, thawed in the refrigerator if frozen | 1 pound |
| granulated white sugar | 1 1/2 cups, plus more for rolling |
| fine sea salt | 1/2 teaspoon |
| ground Mexican cinnamon (canela) (optional) | 1 teaspoon |
| all-purpose floura light dusting only | for the work surface |
In a small bowl, stir together the sugar, salt, and the cinnamon if you are using it. The salt is not optional. It sharpens the sweetness and keeps the sugar from tasting flat once it caramelizes. The cinnamon is a Yucatecan touch. Some panaderias in Merida add it, some do not. I keep it in because the canela is what tells you these orejas came from a Yucatecan bakery and not a French one.
Scatter a generous layer of the sugar mixture over your work surface, about half a cup. Forget the flour your French pastry book told you about. You roll orejas on sugar, not flour. The sugar gets pressed into the dough as you roll, and that is what gives the finished oreja its glass-like crust. Place the cold puff pastry block on the sugared surface and sprinkle more sugar on top.
Roll the puff pastry into a rectangle about 10 inches by 14 inches, roughly 1/8 inch thick. Sprinkle more sugar over the top as you roll. Keep the dough moving so it does not stick. If it softens too much and gets sticky, slide it onto a sheet pan and chill it for ten minutes. Cold pastry rolls clean. Warm pastry tears.
Position the rectangle with the long side facing you. Fold each long edge toward the center, stopping about an inch short of the middle. Then fold those folded edges in again so they meet in the center. Finally, fold one half over the other like closing a book. You should now have a long log with four visible layers in cross-section. This is where the ear shape comes from. La cocina no es decoracion, es trabajo, and these folds are the work.
Wrap the log in plastic and refrigerate for at least 20 minutes, until firm. Skip this and you cannot cut clean slices. The folded pastry needs to relax and the butter needs to firm back up. This is the difference between an oreja that opens into clean petals and one that flops out shapeless on the sheet pan.
Heat the oven to 400F (200C) and line two heavy sheet pans with parchment. Pull the log from the refrigerator and slice it crosswise into pieces about 1/2 inch thick. Use a sharp knife and a clean pull, not a sawing motion. Each slice should show the spiral folds clearly. That spiral is the ear.
Lay the slices flat on the parchment, leaving at least three inches between them. They spread aggressively in the oven. Sprinkle more sugar over the tops and press each one gently with the heel of your hand to flatten it slightly. The pressing helps the layers fan out as they bake. Generous with the sugar here. No me vengas con atajos.
Bake for 10 minutes, then pull the pans out and flip each oreja with a thin spatula. They should be golden on the bottom and the sugar should be starting to caramelize into a glassy amber surface. Return to the oven for another 6 to 8 minutes, until the second side is the same deep gold. Watch them closely in the last few minutes. The line between caramelized and burned is about 90 seconds.
Slide the parchment off the hot pan onto a cooling rack and let the orejas cool completely before you move them. The caramelized sugar is liquid glass when it comes out of the oven and will crack the moment it cools. If you lift them too soon, they fold in half and lose their ears. Wait. They are worth it. Asi se hace y punto.
1 serving (about 33g)
Culinary guides, cultural storytelling, and the editorial depth that makes cooking meaningful.
Discover Culinary Explorer
Chef Lupita
Mérida's pale egg-yolk-and-vanilla kisses, tiny cookies built on eight yolks and a perfume of orange blossom, sandwiched with guava paste and dusted heavy with powdered sugar.

Chef Lupita
Yucatán's twice-baked rusks, half finished with sugar and half with flaky salt, built to drink coffee or hot chocolate with at any hour of the day.

Chef Lupita
Mérida's lard-enriched bizcochos, denser and crumblier than their agua cousins, the kind of pastry that appears at breakfast, at merienda, and on the table whenever family walks through the door.

Chef Lupita
Yucatán's flaky puff pastry balls, filled with sweetened cream cheese kissed with lima dulce, baked until the layers shatter under the sugar coat. The pan dulce of every Mérida baptism and birthday.