Oaxacan Mole
The tantalizing scent of chocolate penetrated the air. I immediately knew that I had to follow wherever my nose led me. My taste buds were already salivating. In fact, all of my senses were piqued. It only took a moment to discover where the delicious aroma originated. Across the cobblestone street on an orange wall, the word chocolate was written out in large enticing letters calling me to explore what lay beyond the opening. Wayne, who does not have the same affinity for chocolate that I do, does have an exceptionally curious nature, so together we entered into the shop expecting to find a café serving hot chocolate or maybe a confectionary. What we encountered was an insight into an ancient cultural tradition.
The shop seemed to be oddly divided into two rooms, neither of which appeared to be serving hot chocolate or selling artisanal candies. The retail store side certainly had some interesting items that caught my attention, particularly blue and white dessert plates that matched bowls that I bought in Guadalajara years ago. During my momentary distraction, I realized that Wayne had disappeared into the other side of the store. Something mysterious seemed to be happening there. While the store side was dark and empty, the other end of the room was bursting with activity. Past the counter adorned above with papel picado, an aproned attendant weighed cacao. Finally, I found where the delicious aroma originated. Beyond the counter, the room opened into a larger space with benches lining the walls and machines in back. Men and women carried buckets full of mysterious ingredients. The scent of chocolate was strong, but the aroma was now more complex. My acclimated nose detected chile peppers and sesame seeds, but still I did not venture forth.
The sound coming from the back of the room and the dozens of people in the small space were imposing. Finally, Wayne sought me out and beckoned me to witness with him the making of mole, from scratch, for Day of the Dead. I soon discovered that the ominous sound at the back of the room was a row of enormous industrial grinders. Men carelessly tossed the entire contents of buckets, chiles whole with stems and seeds, into the grinders. What emerged was a complex paste of family recipes passed down over generations.
The longer we observed, the more we noticed that the ingredients in each woman’s bucket were as varied as the women. We stood fascinated, watching the color variations of each mole recipe. Mass-produced canned mole from the grocery store would never be looked at the same.
We left the store with an intense appetite and a heavy bag full of blue and white dessert plates. Days later while exploring the colorful marigold-filled streets near the zócalo in Oaxaca City, we happened upon a little shop selling the greatest variety of mole paste that we have ever seen. The packets of various sizes ranged from black to green and were labeled with exotic names. With a newly purchased suitcase in hand, we returned to Guatemala City still marveling at the culinary side of Oaxaca, Mexico’s Day of the Dead.
