True Mexican food? Tempe's Cocina Chiwas is true to itself

Here in Phoenix, Mexican food is religion.

People state with confidence that they know real Mexican food. They grew up with it. They’re surrounded by it. The border is just a couple of hours away. Who, outside of Mexico, could be better informed about what is and isn’t authentic?

And yet, when you ask these acolytes of Mexican cuisine to elucidate, very few of them — including those who immigrated from Mexico — seem to agree about what “real” Mexican food actually is.

The Church of Mexican Food is a balkanized institution. Some factions are stridently evangelical, some happy to keep to themselves, but all maintain the conviction that theirs is the way and that others are poor, misguided souls.

But Armando Hernandez and Nadia Holguin don't need to be saved.

Hernandez and Holguin were both born in Chihuahua and have trained in some of the Valley's most prominent kitchens. Together, they created Tacos Chiwas, a drive-thru taco shop that expanded into a mini-empire of critically acclaimed restaurants. Recently, they teamed up with Rene Andrade and Roberto Centeno to launch Bacanora and Espiritu, collecting sold-out seatings and national accolades along the way. Their latest concept, Cocina Chiwas, opened in Tempe in February.

But even for restaurateurs with this level of success, the dogmatic attitudes of local diners can be tricky to navigate.

I know those attitudes, and I've had those conversations with more than a few lifelong Phoenicians who proudly point to “authentic Sonoran” food that looks a lot more like what I used to eat at a Midwestern suburban Chi-Chi’s in the 1980s than anything I’ve seen south of the border. That isn’t a value judgment. Mexican food, AZ-Mex and even suburban chain Mex are all culturally relevant in their own ways, and delicious is delicious wherever you find it.

But it does suggest that the future of Mexican cuisine in Arizona may ride on whether we can stop bickering about what Mexican food is and adopt a more inclusive attitude about what it can be.

What is Mexican food, anyway?

Cocina Chiwas sports the kind of modern, clean-cut look that fits right into the young suburban aesthetic of the Valley's premiere college town. But the menu doesn't fit neatly into any of Phoenix’s pre-established pigeonholes, in large part because Hernandez and Holguin don’t either.

“It’s a cliché, but I’m neither from here nor there, yeah? I was born in Chihuahua, but I grew up [in Arizona],” Hernandez says. “So [Nadia and I] are in this weird limbo of just trying to create something that’s ours.”

The clearest example is their quesadillas, gorgeous organic flour tortillas topped with Mexican meats and vegetables, piled with a blend of Menonita and asadero cheese, and baked to a charred crisp in the restaurant’s wood-burning oven. Are they quesadillas? Pizzas? Tlayudas? Cheese crisps?

Does it matter? They're delicious.

I enjoy the chorizo version with its gentle, sour tang, and the birria quesadilla is tasty and pointedly on-trend. But the one that sings is the vegetarian quesadilla, topped with a disarmingly humble combination of onions, mushrooms, spinach and jalapeños.

I love the irony of serving a Caesar salad at a Mexican restaurant, even if the joke might fly over the heads of diners who didn't know that it was invented in Tijuana. Highlighting a Prohibition-era Italian-ish dish that improbably became Baja California’s most famous culinary export feels like a self-deprecating lesson in the many ways the foods of Mexico can defy expectations.

But I love it even more when the kitchen puts its stamp on the classic by serving “Broccolini a la Caesar,” with stout yet tender stalks of smoky, grilled broccolini standing in for the usual romaine. It’s both familiar and rebellious, a bit of a “Why the hell not?” creation, Hernandez explains, and it works.

Playing with expectations

No, Cocina Chiwas is not your typical Mexican restaurant, but even in Mexico, what is typical these days, anyway?

There’s a persistent, stagnant attitude north of the border that regards Mexico as a nation frozen in the 19th century. Some folks could use a reminder that Mexico is a modern nation with cities filled with people who travel the world and like to play with and modernize their cuisine.

“A lot of things that we’re trying to do, is it familiar?” Hernandez asks. “Hopefully. But we’re also not trying to give you exactly what you expect. That makes no sense to me. Why would I explore the idea of giving you exactly what already exists in your mind?”

That’s how Hernandez and Holguin landed on sweet salsa macha, one of the menu’s secret weapons. Traditional salsa macha is an oily concoction made with toasted chiles, seeds and nuts. Sugar? Not so much. And its transformation at Cocina Chiwas was mostly a lark inspired by Hernandez and Holguin’s experience outside of Mexico.

“That comes from a more Asian background, where we’re like, man, I really like the way they kind of play with a little bit of heat, a little bit of sweetness,” Hernandez explains. “It’s kind of a fun thing where it’s like, oh shit, I think we’re onto something.”

Yes, they are. They take flanken-cut short ribs — the same cut as L.A.-style galbi (another Asian nod) — and glaze them with sweet salsa macha that caramelizes and drips down, along with rendered beef fat, into a waiting plate of pinto beans below. It’s a smart and confident crossover dish that’s even better when a version made with whole beef ribs is on the specials menu.

“I grew up eating with my hands. That’s what I do,” Hernandez says. “I intentionally made [the beef back ribs] that way so people have to use their hands. And I see people using their fork, and I go and tell them, listen, grab it with your hands and eat it. There’s something about the primal effect of going in and eating it off the bone.”

That’s precisely how it went down at my table. Those who attempted to knife and fork it loved the beans, but couldn’t make heads or tails of the ribs. Pick that bone up, though, and suddenly it’s a different dish. Its carbonized char nestles right under your nose like a meaty mustache and your lips get coated with the sticky sweet glaze of spicy salsa macha. You lick your fingers as you gnaw and munch and tear bits of intense, smoky meat right from the source in between pauses for spoonfuls of lush, complex beans laced with chiles, sugar and beef fat.

This type of messy, carnivorous hedonism might not be for everyone, but it’s a dish with purpose that’s meant to nudge you somewhere you might not otherwise go.

More familiar territory

That said, there’s plenty here that will be abundantly familiar.

The chile relleno is a mild riff on expectations, a roasted Anaheim stuffed and fried in a light egg batter, topped with requesón — ricotta’s Mexican cousin — and set adrift on a pool of tomato and crema puree that pops with the kind of bright intensity I wouldn't have thought possible with early season tomatoes.

A special of enchiladas verdes is a stunner — simple chicken, naked and plain, wrapped in excellent corn tortillas and drenched with a salsa verde so vibrant I think I discovered another sense. No fear if they’re off the menu, though. The chicharron — a plate of crisply prepared pork belly — utilizes a similar sauce.

The tuna ceviche doesn’t quite hit for me. It’s clean and fresh as can be, but the flavor feels restrained, and the cut of tuna — intentionally or unintentionally — is a little tough.

The tacos de papa were so close. I love the pillowy cabbage and mashed potato filling, but I suspect a little more time in the fryer would have taken those shells from tough to crunchy. And I’m not sure the bone marrow dish needs the bone marrow. It comes with a roasted sweet potato and instructions to mix the two, but the tiny bit of marrow gets completely lost in the hefty potato, which is such a beacon of sweet simplicity that it deserves to be the star anyway.

Hernandez will openly admit that they’re still weeding out the hits and misses. But there’s no shortage of hits.

A different dish, to be sure, but the blue heirloom corn empanadas hit the sweet spot that the tacos de papa just missed. Their flavor is gentle comfort, with a filling that’s more about the potato and less about the chorizo and cheese accents. But the texture of these deep blue beauties is dynamite — a hot and steamy filling enrobed in a crunchy coat, topped with a cooling punch of fresh pico and crema.

And it’s tempting to skip over the chile con queso, but here it plays like a riff on Tacos Chiwas’ famed rajas gordita with a fan of chips surrounding a melted morass of onions, roasted chiles and cheese that pulls like a deep dish pizza and evokes Chihuahuan food's desert roots.

If you want to really get down with Mexican food's more sultry side, order the asado de puerco — an intense, spicy stew of pork spare ribs, including all of the delightfully slurpy bits of braised rib tips, boasting the kind of rich, succulent flavor one can only get from cartilage and gelatin plus plenty of heat and time.

Or, if you’re bone-averse, bring a few friends and get the parillada. This massive, sizzling platter is mounded with juicy grilled skirt steak, tender pork al pastor and some fabulous chorizo with potatoes that have sucked up all of the ruddy, spiced pork fat. This is all familiar territory if you're modestly versed in street tacos, but the meats are rarely seasoned so well and cooked so perfectly. Add a pile of thick, fresh corn tortillas, punchy salsas, some pickled nopales, grilled cebollitas and a hefty tub of rice and beans, and you might need more than a few friends. If you come up short, the leftovers make for one hell of a taco night later in the week.

A challenging future

Given the current labor crunch in the restaurant industry, Cocina Chiwas’ weakness is predictable, and Hernandez knows it.

“Our biggest downfall is always going to be service,” he says. “It’s hard to instill, listen, guys, be excited about this. We’re doing something. I think that’s the hardest thing.”

The building is slick and the food is mostly sharp, but the service very much depends on the evening. Staff who’ve bought in are bursting with good vibes, but it isn’t difficult to tell who’s really on board and who’s just punching the clock. On one visit, we never received a specials menu. On another, the cocktails were outstanding, but by the time they arrived, the dishes we’d ordered them with had been served, eaten and cleared.

But once the mains are gone, dessert is worth your attention. The tamal de dulce, made mostly with pecans, hits a perfect sweet-but-not-too-sweet note, dressed with mascarpone and piloncillo syrup. And if the panna cotta’s texture seems a touch more robust than you expect, that’s because it’s mostly made of corn — clean and light, topped with a tart berry compote and crisp toasted nuts.

One could argue about the ways these dishes do or don’t adhere to a strict interpretation of Mexican food, however it’s defined, but there’s a signal coming through loud and clear: The food at Cocina Chiwas is informed by tradition, it captures the essence of Mexican cuisine and it channels that energy through the lived experience of a couple who have one foot in Chihuahua and the other in Arizona.

As Hernandez puts it, “I hope that if anything, we inspire people to not think about Mexican food in the same straight line. Do something that’s different, that’s fun. We love Arizona, and we want Arizona to become better.”

Amen.