The mole negro looked like liquid obsidian, thick and glossy, with a sheen that caught the light like oil. I was in the kitchen of a woman named Abigail Mendoza, in the village of Teotitlan del Valle, outside Oaxaca City. She was stirring the mole with a wooden paddle that was older than I was, and the smell was so complex that I could not identify individual ingredients. Chocolate, yes. Chile, certainly. But also sesame, clove, cinnamon, avocado leaf, and something else, something I could not name. 'Thyme?' I asked. She laughed. 'No. Hoja santa. Holy leaf. You cannot make mole without it.' She had been making mole for fifty years, and she still roasted her chiles on a comal over a wood fire.
The Seven Moles of Oaxaca
Oaxaca is known as the land of the seven moles, though the actual number is closer to twenty. The most famous is mole negro, made with chocolate and at least twenty other ingredients, including six varieties of chile. Mole rojo is similar but uses fewer chiles and no chocolate. Mole coloradito is sweeter, with tomato and anise. Mole amarillo is lighter, with tomatillo and hierba santa. Mole verde is fresh and herbal, made with parsley, cilantro, and epazote. Mole chichilo is rare, made with burnt chile seeds and beef broth. And mole manchamantel, literally 'tablecloth stainer,' is a fruity mole made with pineapple and plantain. I tasted all seven during my week in Oaxaca, at restaurants, markets, and family homes. Each one was a different universe.
Making Mole from Scratch
Abigail agreed to teach me her family's recipe for mole negro. The process took two days. On the first day, we roasted chiles, tomatoes, onions, garlic, and spices on the comal until they were blackened and fragrant. On the second day, we fried everything in lard, ground it in a metate, a stone grinding tool, and simmered it in chicken broth for four hours. The metate work was the hardest part. The stone is heavy, the angle is awkward, and the grinding requires a circular motion that uses muscles I did not know I had. Abigail, who is seventy-one, ground the paste effortlessly. 'You need twenty years of practice,' she said. 'Or a blender.' She does not own a blender.
Where to Eat Mole in Oaxaca
The best mole in Oaxaca is not always in restaurants. It is in markets, at family celebrations, and at small fondas where the cook makes one mole per day and sells it until it runs out. I ate excellent mole negro at the Mercado 20 de Noviembre, at a stall that had been operating for forty years. I ate mole amarillo in the village of Zaachila, at a Sunday market where families sell food from temporary kitchens set up in the street. And I ate mole coloradito at Casa Oaxaca, a restaurant that elevates traditional recipes with modern presentation. The mole was served with duck breast instead of chicken, and the combination was revelatory. A meal at Casa Oaxaca costs thirty dollars. A meal at the market costs four. Both were excellent.
The History and Meaning of Mole
Mole predates the Spanish conquest, though the modern versions incorporate European ingredients like cinnamon, cloves, and sesame. The Aztecs made a sauce called molli from chiles and chocolate, which was reserved for the nobility. Today, mole is the centerpiece of celebrations: weddings, baptisms, and funerals. It is never eaten casually. Abigail told me that in her village, a family without mole at a wedding is considered poor, regardless of their actual wealth. The sauce represents time, effort, and care. It cannot be rushed, and it cannot be faked. The chocolate must be real, the chiles must be fresh, and the cook must be patient. These are not negotiable.
