Tacos de Longaniza

Longaniza belongs to central Mexico. Hidalgo, Tlaxcala, Puebla, the State of Mexico. Every town has its own version and every carniceria its own spice blend, but the bones of the sausage are the same: pork shoulder, vinegar, garlic, chile ancho, chile guajillo, sometimes achiote for color, sometimes clove or cumin for depth. This is not chorizo. Do not buy chorizo and call it longaniza. They are cousins, not twins. Longaniza is longer, leaner, more vinegared, and the spice profile leans into chile rather than paprika.

The taco itself is a weeknight dish. A working person's dinner. You buy the longaniza from the carniceria that morning, you fry it on the comal in the evening, you eat it standing at the counter with the radio on. The technique is almost nothing: crumble, render, crisp, spoon onto a doubled tortilla. But the dish lives or dies at the carniceria. Bad longaniza is dry and grainy and tastes like nothing. Good longaniza weeps red fat the moment it hits the iron and that red fat is the entire reason you are making this. Do not pour it off. Do not blot the tortilla. The grease-stained bottom tortilla is the signature.

My mother made longaniza tacos on Tuesdays when she did not have time for anything else. She had a carnicero in the Mercado Medellin who knew her by name and would slide an extra sausage across the counter without charging her. She would render it in a black cast iron skillet that had belonged to her own mother, double the tortillas without thinking about it, dice the onion small, and call my brother and me to the table without ceremony. Saber cocinar es saber vivir. Some of what you know how to cook is for company. This is what you cook on Tuesday.