The best pizza in Guadalajara: Funicula

In 2007 I interviewed a surfer-photographer based in Bucerias for a Guadalajara Reporter story on expat bloggers ("Expat bloggers add fresh perspective to Mexico"). While I didn't include it in the story, he told me that he never misses a chance to stop by a pizza joint called Funicula when he passes through Guadalajara.

I never forgot the advice. It's taken me three years to finally visit Funicula, and now I'm an addict. They serve traditional wood-oven pizzas with not-too-thin crusts and toppings that are difficult to find elsewhere in town: artichokes, capers, sun-dried tomatoes, anchovies, fresh herbs.

The menu includes creative ingredient combinations, and although I couldn't find an online menu, I do remember one thing we ordered recently: "la pazza," half pizza, half calzone. They also serve pastas and other Italian specialties, plus showcase a long wine and beer list. Price range is excellent: 70-80 pesos for a pizza (one size fits all, about medium, easily shared between two people).

And to rave a bit about the setting: it's gorgeous. Downstairs includes an outdoor patio, the second floor hosts the kitchen, and upstairs you have warm, romantic lighting with an open eating counter overlooking the street.

The only drawback is that seating becomes very limited on prime nights at dinnertime, and wait times can reach an hour. The last time we went was a weeknight around dusk when Funicula was just gearing up for a rush, and only a few tables were occupied.

Lopez Cotilla 1906 (Col. Americana). Tel. 33-3615-1237.

Molcajete style salsa, sans molcajete

I know, I just got a new molcajete, so could use it to make just about any molcajete salsa I like. But for anyone without a molcajete, a blender (arguably the most important device in the modern Mexican kitchen) works just fine.

By "molcajete style" salsa I mean that chunky, fresh, hot-off-the-stove flavor. It's the kind of salsa that's perfect for tacos or grilled meats.

The ingredients are very basic:

• 4 tomatoes
• 1 to 2 green chiles (I used 3, but wouldn't recommend it. The salsa was so spicy I couldn't see straight.)
• 1/2 a white onion or a 1 very small onion, finely chopped
• 1 to 2 cloves of garlic, depending on your taste, finely chopped
• salt to taste

STEP 1. Place tomatoes and chiles on a comal or small flying pan on medium to medium-high heat. Turn them over frequently to char the sides.
(The idea isn't to completely burn them -- we're leaving the skin on for flavor.)

STEP 2. Put charred veggies in the blender along with salt. Pulse until smooth(ish).

STEP 3. Add the chopped onion and garlic to the blender. Pulse a few more times. At this point if you feel the salsa is too thick, add a couple tablespoons of water.

Have a taste and season with more salt if needed.

THE RESULT: 

*I'd like to add that there are probably a million variations to a molcajete style salsa, and this is a very simple one. Any other suggestions are welcomed!

My new molcajete

I just picked up this molcajete at the San Juan de Dios market. The molcajete is an essential part of the Mexican kitchen, primarily used to make salsas. It's the Mexican version of a mortar and pestle, made of porous volcanic rock.

It's great for just about anything you want to smash: garlic, whole cloves, chiles, guacamole. It's also the name of a dish served in a molcajete: grilled meat or shrimp with nopales, onion, cheese and salsa, fired up in a hot oven and served with hot tortillas.

The molcajete is going to be dusty right after picking one up at a market, and will need to be cured before use. To cure a molcajete, rinse it a few times then throw in a handful of uncooked rice. Grind the rice to a powder, dump out, and repeat until the rice looks white and clean.

Alternative methods to cure a molcajete:

• Do the same as above, but with rock salt instead of rice.
• Boil the molcajete in water (no soap) for 30 minutes.
• Grind a whole head of garlic in the molcajete, spread the garlic paste on the sides and leave overnight. Rinse off the next day.
• Do the above (garlic), but instead of leaving overnight, bake the molcajete with paste in the oven for 30 minutes. You can also add onion and a bit of cooking oil to the paste before baking.

The molcajete seasons over time just like a cast iron frying pan.

Agua de capulin (Mexican black cherry)

Not much time ever goes by before I encounter a fruit I've never laid eyes on. This time it was the capulin, which according to one translation is the "Mexican black cherry"; another said it's capulin in English too.

I'm not sure how common capulines are because Gustavo had never tried them either. A lady in the street sold them to us along with some mangoes. She instructed us to make agua de capulin by mashing them up with our hands.

Capulines are the size of small grapes, and have a large pit and not too much flesh. We did as we were told, and squished the capulines in a glass bowl until the pits were mostly separated from the fruit. Then we strained the fruit, pushing as much juice through as possible. The result was a thick capulin concentrate to which we added sugar and water to fill the pitcher.

The result: a pretty refreshing agua fresca, but a less than appetizing color. I think I might name it the "Mexican brown cherry." (I'm not fond of agua de tamarindo for the same reason.) The flavor was agradable but nothing to write home about. For one, it didn't taste anything like cherry. The capulin has a very earthy flavor, and the only other fruit it reminded me of was mulberries.

So, an interesting culinary experience--it's always fun to try out new flavors. But not sure I'll become a capulin fan.

How to make Agua de Guayaba

Behold the guayaba. A small, yellow, head-shaped fruit with creamy flesh, filled with hard seeds that get stuck in your teeth. Deliciously sweet, and excellent in an agua fresca.

Aguas frescas are so simple to make that they hardly call for a recipe, but they weren't in my repertoire before living in Mexico. A step by step instructional is listed below. If you're making agua with any seedless fruit you can skip the strainer.

STEP 1. Quarter 4 to 6 guayabas. I had 4, so I used 4. You can cut off the ends if you want. (See optional STEP 7.)

STEP 2. Toss the quartered fruit into a blender along with 6 to 8 tablespoons of sugar. Add 4 to 5 cups of water. (This is no exact science.) Alternatively, you can boil the water with the sugar first to make an easy dissolving syrup.

STEP 3. Blend!

STEP 4. Place a small strainer on top of a pitcher to catch the seeds. (I have a prettier pitcher than this one, but it doesn't fit in the fridge.) Pour blended mixture through it.

STEP 5. Mash the juices down with a spoon until all the good stuff is in the pitcher.

STEP 6. Add water to top off the pitcher, stir a bit, and you're ready to go! Serve immediately with ice, or stick in the fridge for later.

STEP 7. (OPTIONAL) Give extra bits of guayaba to Sabina. What a greedy parrot.






In recent years, aguas frescas have been completely taken over by sugary sodas. The weekly entertainment mag Dia Siete just put out a great article about the history of aguas in Mexico (click here to read), and the fruits and other unusual ingredients that make them. Recipes included. If you read Spanish, I highly recommend it. For those who don't, I'll translate the opener:

15 years ago, squeezed lime, sweet pineapple, juicy melon, refreshing watermelon or any piece of fruit was mixed with natural water to prepare a pitcher of agua fresca that --at the center of the lunchtime table-- not only hydrated the majority of Mexican families, but also provided many natural nutrients. Today, 8 of every 10 Mexicans consume soft drinks with their meals. As one of the regions of the world with the largest diversity of fruits, it might be worth refreshing ourselves with aguas once again.

Strange fruit — la pitaya

I laid awake in bed last night trying to come up with a way to describe the pitaya using words. It's a fruit straight out of Avatar, a thing the size of a peach that only appears once a year for a limited time only. It's trucked through the streets and markets of Guadalajara in wagons, buried in green straw. It's prickly.

Gustavo bought some, put them on a plate on the kitchen counter, and told me not to touch them (because of said prickles). I stayed out of the kitchen all afternoon, shooting sideways glances at the fruit every now and then. I've seen Invasion of the Body Snatchers. You never know.

Once you open the pitaya, which Gustavo did with a kitchen towel instead of his bare hands, you get a ball of densely packed seeds and stringy pulp that tastes like sweetened nothing. Breaking apart the fruit with your hands is not unlike opening a snowball. Some are red, others purple, and some are a pale green.

We made agua de pitaya which was blood red, almost grotesque. It didn't have much of a taste, but was icy and refreshing down to the soul. The pitaya shows up right before the rainy season in June, and I had felt chronically dehydrated since April.

The pitaya, or dragon fruit, according to Wikipedia.