Pato en Mole de la Ribera

Michoacan, the ribera of Lake Patzcuaro: that is where this pato en mole lives. Not in the north with flour tortillas, not in Puebla with its sweet spice and chocolate argument. This belongs to the P'urhepecha kitchens around Tzintzuntzan, Janitzio, Ihuatzio, and the lake towns where the lago has always fed people: kurucha, acumara, charales, and, when the season and the law allow it, duck.

The sauce is closer to an atapakua than to the mole most outsiders imagine. Chile ancho for depth, chile guajillo for color, chile pasilla for darkness, pepita de calabaza from the milpa, and fresh nixtamal masa to give the sauce its body. The monte gives epazote and nurite. The comal gives the char. The cazuela does the slow work. If you add chocolate because you think all mole needs chocolate, the senora who taught this would take the spoon away from you.

I learned the discipline of these sauces from cocineras tradicionales who carry the public memory of Michoacan: Zacán, Janitzio, Cocucho, Cherán, Uruapan. They do not teach by decorating a plate. They teach by making you listen to the sauce when it fries, by making you smell the chile before it burns, by making you understand that a fiesta patronal dish has obligations. La cocina no es decoración, es trabajo.

Serve it in barro, preferably a dark cazuela like the ones from Patamban or old loza de barro from Tzintzuntzan. The mole should shine with duck fat at the edge and cling to the meat. Cada estado, su propia cocina. This is Michoacan, and it does not need to pretend to be anywhere else.