Chiles en Nogada are The Savory-Sweet Soul of Mexico

Sources disagree about the origins of chiles en nogada: Some say it was first prepared in 1821 by Augustine nuns at Puebla’s Santa Mónica convent. Others point to a cookbook recipe from a century earlier. Either way, the dish is widely prepared every September—Mexico’s El Mes de la Patria (The Month of Our Country)—to honor the day, September 16th, when Mexico declared its War of Independence against Spanish colonization. 

A poblano’s fruity, mellow heat; sturdy walls; and bulbous shape make it ideal for stuffing, but it’s important to be precise about the cooking: You want them to soften so that they’re malleable but not so much that they fall apart. 

I broil the chiles on a rimmed baking sheet until their skins blister and then let them cool uncovered before peeling. (Wrapping them in foil makes peeling easier but also causes them to oversoften and tear.) To hollow out the center for stuffing, I slit one side lengthwise with a paring knife, cut out the seed bulb, and scoop out any remaining seeds. 

Myriad versions of picadillo exist, but for chiles en nogada it contains tomato (often a salsa); minced pork and/or beef; and seasonal fruit and nuts such as peaches, pears, and pine nuts. 

The tomato component can be chopped or pureed fresh or canned fruit, but I wanted some smoky complexity to capture the essence of a charred salsa that some cooks make. So I broiled plum tomatoes (as well as tomatillos for brightness) and onion, jalapeño, and garlic on the same baking sheet as I did the poblanos and then buzzed them in a blender with fresh oregano, chipotle chile en adobo, and warm spices until the sauce was smooth. Then I sautéed ground pork, deglazed the pan with dry sherry, poured in the salsa, and gently simmered the picadillo until it thickened. Cooks often simmer the fruit and nuts with the meat, but I found that letting them merely warm through off heat led to more vibrant flavors and texture. Each bite was a riot of sweet, savory, and tangy, and residual heat melded the flavors while allowing the items to retain juiciness, chew, and crunch.

Making a pristine nogada involves soaking or boiling the walnuts to loosen their skins and then scraping each one clean with a knife. But if you leave the skins on as I do, there’s nothing to do but blitz everything together in a blender—and I’d argue that the flecks of skin add subtle toastiness to the rich sauce. My sauce contains equal parts walnuts and Mexican crema plus chèvre—a distinctly European addition—for more complexity and honey, sherry, and nutmeg for sweet warmth. The sauce envelops each chile and grasps the gemlike pomegranate seeds and parsley leaves scattered over top.