Two of my favorite pastimes are so twined in my mind I think “food for thought” is a literal concept. It is nigh impossible to separate the written word from some sensory memory, oft associated with food. Think of the fig in “Women in Love” or Proust’s famous cupcake and you’ll see my literary point. Still, I was bemused to hear a leading question in a should-be stuffy book panel at the L.A. Times Festival of Books. It began, “Why don’t women detectives cook?” I’d never thought about it, but Denise Hamilton, author of “Sugar Skull” quipped, “Tough cookies eat take-out.” It’s true. Those macho guys who detect demonstrate considerable culinary talents, especially on the grill-think Spencer or Travis McGee-but women eat out, almost always on the run, even when they’re not running from anyone. What’s that all about?
It seems to be a gender convention. Mystery-solving girls who cook tend to star in soft-boiled domestic series where they are caterers or nosy housewives, but flatfeet on the street eat grease in almost every form. Their greatest risks to life and limb may be clogging of the arteries. When I wolfed down Hamilton’s book in a single session-it’s that delicious a read-the passage I couldn’t shake was her protagonist, Eve Diamond’s cravings for chilaquiles. Specifically, the mile-high masterpiece at Cha Cha Chicken in Santa Monica, corner of Ocean and Pico. Hamilton describes them as “tortilla strips, coated with eggs and cheese and chiles, and cooked into a molten sculpture, creamy and spicy on the outside, but crisp when you bite down.” Hungry yet?
They’re easy enough to make at home. Diana Kennedy, whose books on regional Mexican cooking are almost legendary in their authenticity, tells us chilaquiles means “broken up old sombrero,” a colorful expression for a thrifty housewife’s recycling of last night’s stale tortillas. There are as many variations as there are villages, but the version that spurs Hamilton’s busy detecting couple to thread their way across 30 miles of interweaving freeways is the gooey, yet still crunchy style of Michoacan. Ill-suited to the South Beach crowd, chilaquiles are a guilty pleasure for the thin of thigh-or, for the rest of us if we’ve had a hard day like our tough cookies.
Drive down to Santa Monica and scarf up a stack at Cha Cha where the bird is soaked in jerk spices, grilled and smothered-a pleasure to groan for, if nowhere to park doesn’t dull the pleasure with pain. Or, replicate it at home with this easy, two step process. In fact, if you’re hungry now, skip the chicken marinade and use roast chicken leftovers rubbed with cumin and dried chipotle. It’s almost as good. Enjoy!
CHILAQUILES
Serves 4
(An irreverent adaptation-a little bit Diana Kennedy from her classic, “My Mexico,” and much more David Rosengarten made easy from his multi-step whopper in his brand new, delicious-to-read compendium, “It’s All American Food).”
2 flattened skinless, chicken breasts
1/4 cup tomato sauce
2 canned chipotle chiles with 2 Tbs. juice
2 sweet onions, peeled; 1 chopped
8 – 10 tomatillos
4 hot chiles (your choice)
5 garlic cloves
1 cup chopped cilantro
Canola or peanut oil for frying
10 corn tortillas-cut in wedges
1 1/2 cups chicken stock
Garnish: Queso fresco cheese, cilantro and crema mexicana (or sour cream). Cha Cha includes eggs, a Baja tradition where you’ll find the eggs scrambled or fried. In the mountains of Mexico, chilaquiles is made with chicharrones (fried pork rind) in lieu of tortillas. There are no rules to leftovers.
1. Soak the chicken overnight in a mix of chopped chipotles and tomato sauce.
2. Pan-roast the veggies. Cut one onion into thick slices and grill with the peppers and tomatillos in a hot skillet until charred. Cook the garlic separately and squeeze into a blender through the skin. Discard the skin. Purée the vegetables in a blender adding 1/2 cup of cilantro and a pinch of sugar and salt to taste.
3. Pour stock into the skillet and return the purée, cooking until slightly thickened-about 5 minutes. Keep warm.
4. Remove chicken from marinade, pat dry and grill 2-3 minutes per side.
5. Heat the oil to 350 degrees and quickly fry the tortilla chips until pale gold. Drain on paper towels. Pour off all but a few tablespoons of oil. Heat half the chopped onion with the chips over low heat until the onion is transparent and the chips sizzle. Pour the warm sauce into the pan and serve immediately.
6. Assembly: Divide stew among four bowls and shred chicken on top. Smother in cheese, and top with onions, cilantro and a drop of crema.