BACALAO, MAFIA, AND THE HOLY SPIRIT OF CHRISTMAS: Baccalà alla messinesse & bacalao a la vizcaína.
Christmas Food.
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“Give affection don’t buy it”, said the catchy jingle of an early eighties commercial. It was intended to discourage Mexicans to fall into the trap of consumerism during Christmas. Its tune and words got printed in my mind and continue to hunt me every holiday season, though, I’ve come to realize that the true spirit of Christmas does not lie either in presents or affection; it’s actually all about food. Food makes family reunions seem joyful, and awaited, or at least bearable in some cases. Fences are mended and political and football rivalries are set apart upon a juicy piece of overnight brined turkey, the caramelized surface of an oven-roasted ham, the pink and tender interior of a delicate slice of roast beef, the spicy-sweet and slightly-fishy taste of romeritos with mole, the moisten-buttery softness of an herb spiced bite of baked salmon, or whatever the traditional family plate is. In our celebration, like in many other Mexican family celebrations, the star of all dishes is bacalao a la vizcaína (salted cod a la Basque), despite all its historical contradictions and peculiar taste or because of them.
Bacalao (the term means “cod” but in México it almost exclusively refers to the dried-salted version, since the fresh one is not as popular or available) is, like many other controversial examples of culinary mythologies, at the same time, the most and least Mexican dish you will find on a traditional Christmas Eve dinner repertoire. The fish itself is far from being native to our coastal geography (although nowadays it’s commonly substituted for the cheaper local option of Campeche shark), and the Vizcaina sauce it is cooked in is Spanish —hence the reference to the Basque region— but not at all faithful to its original version. Spanish Vizcaina sauce is prepared with the pulp of choricero peppers, onions, olive oil, fish stock, and some thickener like flour, stale bread, or maría cookies. Tomatoes —which are essential to the Mexican recipe— are in very few cases added in this version; since it said that they don’t belong to the original recipe (which seems obvious, considering that it probably existed before the colonization of the Americas and the introduction of tomatoes to Europe).
Mexican bacalao a la vizcaína —in contrast— uses no thickeners, stock, or choricero peppers (although some family recipes might add red bell peppers), and has a more complex list of ingredients that include: green olives, capers, garlic, parsley, güero chiles, almonds (in some cases), and potatoes (which can also be optional and are sometimes said to be added as a trick to desalt the fish when it is not soaked properly). This version is closer to a Veracruzana style fish (follow the link to try Karla’s recipe) than it is to a Vizcaína, but even more so, interestingly, to the Italian baccalà alla messinese; one of the dishes that —according to a description by authors, Jacques Kermoal and Martine Bartolomei in La mafia se met à table (1986)— was served in the canonical dinner that the Italian zii’s (“uncles” or “bosses” of the Sicilian mafia) organized in collusion with Víctor Manuel (new king of Italy at that time) to honor General Giuseppe Garibaldi, the Libertador of the Risorgimento, after getting rid of the Bourbons and before they were about to betray him in the Battle Calabria because he had become an obstacle in their plans to control the Italic Peninsula. The only differences between these two dishes are that the Messina-style bacalao adds chopped celery and uses pepperoncini instead of güero chiles.
Salted codfish was first introduced to México early on after the conquest. It was fast absorbed into the culture for the same reason it was already widely popular in Spain, Portugal, France, and Italy; these were predominantly Roman-Catholic cultures (or in the process of evangelization, like in the case of México) and needed fish for their meatless holidays, which at that time meant almost all important catholic dates, including each Friday. Salted cod, more than any other kind of fish (because of its lack of fat) was easily preserved and exported. “Cod became almost a religious icon —a mythological crusader for Christian observance”, says Mark Kurlansky in Cod: A Biography of the Fish That Changed the World.
According to this author, the first people to dry and commercialize codfish were the Vikings in the 10th century, but it was not until the Middle Ages that the Basques started putting salt in it to make it last longer, that its trading took off (though the idea of salting fish was not new, the Egyptians and the Romans did it since Pre-classic era). The Basque became the number one traders of salted codfish in Europe in the 15th Century, which was kind of a mystery to other cod traders like the Scandinavians, the British, or the Bretons, since there was no cod in Spain, and no one could figure out where they were getting it from. There is evidence, indeed, that supports that the Basque set foot in America before Christopher Columbus and got their cod from the banks in the Northern part of the continent. While discoverers wanted to brag about their accomplishments, the Basque traders probably prioritized keeping their sources of wealth secret.
Nowadays, the salt not only serves to preserve the fish, its peculiar flavor, and the tradition of eating it despite all of its contradictions (or because of them); it also serves to seal the memories of abuelas punctually soaking the fish overnight every year at the beginning of December, the fishy odor in their kitchens that we learned to like (or tolerate, at least) because it meant the beginning of the jolly season, the constant reheating and re-tasting of the bacalao from the moment it was first cooked until the Nochebuena dinner, and a few days after… Because bacalao is one of those dishes that only gets better with time, so it is wise to cook it in advance, make enough for the whole season, and always keep a fresh batch of bolillo bread at hand.
On both sides of my family, bacalao is an irreplaceable Christmas dish, but on my father’s side it’s more than a dish, it’s a ceremony. I attribute that to the fact that we are continually trying to resurrect my late grandmother through food, but especially through this dish. So it is important that whoever dares to perform the dinner in her place (in this case, my uncle Eduardo, who has bravely hold that position for over ten years) can make the bacalao taste exactly like hers. Of course, there’s always some slight disagreement.
The family ritual usually takes place around the first or second week of December when “the bacalao tasting” is held at my uncle's house as soon as the first batch is ready. There can be any number of people invited, family and close friends, but only one individual who can approve of the taste of bacalao, and that is my father (mainly, cause he’s the oldest sibling). So, this is how it goes: everyone is sitting at the table surrounding my father, a piece of bolillo with a generous spread of bacalao is given to him while everyone remains silent, watching his poker face (which kind of comes naturally to him) as he chews away. Then, at some point, my uncle will look at him and ask impatiently: Well, Zamorita? (his brothers and sisters gave him that nickname after he told this joke: two men were at the train station buying tickets and one of them asked “Do you have tickets for Zamora?” and the woman at the stand answers “No.” [Meaning the town called Zamora], and then the guy turns to his friend and says: “Zamorita you’re fucked”). After making a little suspense, my father would reveal the story of how my grandmother’s secretly used to add a couple of tablespoons of ketchup to round up the taste of bacalao at the end: “So, that’s what’s missing”, he would conclude.
Not everybody loves Bacalao, though (not even in my own family, as strange as it may sound), because like kimchi or Camembert it is more of an acquired taste. Sometimes, even the people that come to love it can initially reject it. It smells funny when uncooked; it has that extremely concentrated fish taste that you either love or hate (it can be deceptively called “wacalao” by some of its dissidents). But if you open your taste buds and give it a chance, you might get hooked on its unique tastefulness and become inexplicably attracted to the explosive combination of flavors that results from its multiple layers of umami: the salted-dry fish, the over-cooked tomato sauce, the garlic, the onions, the güero chiles, the capers, and the olives. Soon, you’ll start craving it like me every year, at the beginning of winter. Bacalao is essentially a Christmas food, even if you freeze some leftovers to make tortas after the holidays or during Lent, it’s not intended to be eaten all year round because, like other preserved goods, holiday dishes, and the arrival of Santa, part of the magic is in the waiting.
BACALAO A LA VIZCAÍNA
4 to 6 people
I adapted this bacalao recipe from my grandmother’s. She didn’t use any almonds or bake the tomatoes, and she only used potatoes when it was not soaked well enough to absorb the excess salt. I do like to add potatoes but if I add them, I do it until I serve it because I cook bacalao for the whole season and potatoes don’t keep well. When you buy salted cod you’ll find it in three different presentations: whole with bones (which you have to carefully take out after you boil it in water), whole without bones, and shredded. I prefer the “whole” version since I feel it’s is more natural (I’m not sure if that’s true, but I like seeing the complete fish), though it is a drag to clean, so do as you wish.
Ingredients:
1 k of salted cod, soaked in cold water and rinsed a couple of times during 24 hrs
1 1/2 k of tomatoes (you can skip the baking process below and use good quality, whole canned tomatoes, in this case add just 800 g)
1 onion
150 g of green olives
50 g of capers
3 to 6 chiles güeros, depending on spiciness (save the rest of the jar and put it on a separate bowl to serve on the side)
40 g of slivered almonds, toasted
Olive oil
1 head of garlic halved
sea salt
2 days ahead…
Preheat the oven to 160*C (320*F).
Cut the tomatoes in halves and put them in a pan with the garlic, add salt, and drizzle with some olive oil.
Bake the tomatoes for 25 minutes or until they are dehydrated and slightly brown but still soft.
Put the tomatoes into a jar and cover with some olive oil, and let rest in the fridge for 2 to 4 days.
Rinse de bacalao and cook it in a pot with water for ten minutes or until it is tender.
Let the bacalao cool, shred it, and set apart.
Slice the onions and sautée them in a generous quantity of olive oil.
Mash some of the garlic you baked with the tomatoes, add them to the onions, and then add the tomatoes, let cook for 10 minutes on low heat, and then add the bacalao.
Let cook for 10 more minutes, add the rest of the ingredients, and then cook for 5 more minutes. * If your bacalao is not red enough you can always add some tomato paste (or ketchup, like my grandmother).
You most likely won’t need to add any salt, but try it, some times it can turn a bit bland after you soak it, but do it at the very end because it keeps concentrating after it cooks. You might even have to add water after reheating it.
You can double or triple this recipe and freeze it for the whole season and until lent. Always have a batch of fresh bolillos (ciabattas, baguettes, or country bread) at hand.
BACCALÀ ALLA MESSINESE
4 to 6 people
The recipe that comes in the book that I mentioned in the text (La mafia se met à table) is made with fresh cod, in which case, the fish is called merluzzo since there is a differentiation in names for the fresh and salted version in the Italian language. I did find more recent versions on the internet made with salted cod. The first recipe uses white olives, but other versions use black olives. Also, the first version didn’t have peperoncini. This is a combination of both recipes.
Ingredients:
800 g fresh or salted cod (soaked and rinsed a day ahead)
500 g of potatoes
500 k of tomatoes, follow the same process as with the bacalao or use good quality, whole canned tomatoes
100 g of black (or white if you can find them) olives
50 g of capers
100 g of diced celery
1 onion, diced
Olive oil
Salt (you probably won’t need any if you use the salted cod version)
Pepperoncini (you can add it in flakes or whole, I prefer whole but didn’t have any so I used chile de árbol which works perfectly as a substitute)
Cook the potatoes until tender in salted water, peel them, and cut them into slices.
Sautée the onions in a generous amount of olive oil.
Ass the celery and then the tomatoes.
Add the rest of the ingredients, then add the fish and cover.
Let cook for 5 to 10 minutes or until the fish is tender.
Serve with bread and a glass of white wine o rosé (I would favor something bubbly).
If you don’t want to do cook your own bacalao this Christmas and happen to be in the Mexico City area you can buy it from me. It is preserved in airtight glass containers, so you don’t have to refrigerate until you use it, and it keeps for a whole year. Email me to request at renata.lira.larios@gmail.com or send me a message through Instagram @renataliralarios. It’s 850 pesos / 43 dollars per jar of 900 g / 32 oz.