Enchiladas are hot stuffed animals, wrapped in tortillas and covered in sauce. Whether topped with mounds of cotija cheese, or a silky salsa verde, or a handful of herbs, the dish is a shorthand for deliciousness. Even the name alone – andchiclathat! — becomes a catalyst for anticipation: comfort is at hand. It is on its way! Everything (or at least the next 15 minutes) can turn out very well fine†
The formula is crushingly simple, with possibilities for endless malleability: Fried tortillas are dipped in salsa, possibly topped with crema and cheese and chopped onions, or served as is, or scrapped somewhere in between. But although the origin of the dish is Mexican and dates back to the times of the Aztecs, particularities of your enchiladas vary wildly depending on what you’re partaking in. The enchiladas you’ll find in McAllen, Texas (often sauced with chili gravy) can range from Monterrey’s (where they’re often filled with pollo guisado) in Mexico. Mexico City’s enchiladas share their DNA with their cousins in San Antonio and Brownsville and Galveston, but they each retain a specific characteristic inherent in their place. As Déborah Holtz and Juan Carlos Mena point out in “Tacopedia,” “Each state of Mexico has its own version of enchiladas, although even then the official recipes are a source of frequent discussion.”
One of the enchilada’s many delights is how the dish adapts to its environment, while sticking to the rough calculation of tortilla + heat + salsa: Hi† The dish is also, crucially, Tex-Mex, which, as Sylvia Casares notes in “The Enchilada Queen Cookbook,” is “the oldest regional cooking style in the United States.” Whether found in an after-hours bar along I-10 or at one of the many suburban Bible-study rendezvous restaurants in West Texas, enchiladas are a kitchen staple the way chilaquiles and charrobeans and migas are scooped. in flour tortillas – but our relationships with the dish remain deeply individual. You may prefer a squeeze of lime over your enchiladas suizas. Or you like the little galaxy of a hearty mole sauce over your tortillas. Or maybe you take your enchiladas as they come, thankful for the alignment of the stars that made such a sacred sacrifice.
In Houston, from EaDo to Sugar Land to Montrose and from the Woodlands to the Heights, enchiladas are a staple of absurdly long nights and early mornings. Many boyfriends have told me they’ve found the perfect taqueria — or bar, or truck, or weekend pop-up hybrid — for enchiladas, and they were all correct because all enchiladas are perfect. I’ve eaten enchiladas on food truck benches parked just outside leather bars. I’ve eaten enchiladas with bachelorette parties in the foreground, while the fiancé and her companions brushed salsa off their knuckles. I’ve eaten enchiladas with friends to celebrate (projects completed, moving house, navigating another week on Earth), and to mourn (“Sear that guy, he didn’t deserve you”) and as a simple reminder of the way we are tied to the city itself. Because — like Houston’s myriad offerings of pho bo and buttered naan and khao man gai — enchiladas are tightly woven into the fabric of the area’s sprawl.