Tacos de Tikinxic

Tikinxic is from Quintana Roo and the Yucatan Peninsula. The name comes from the Maya: tik-in-xic, dry-chile fish, the way the recado clings to the flesh once the leaf is opened. You will see it on Isla Mujeres, on Holbox, in the palapas of the Riviera Maya, anywhere a fisherman pulls a mero off the line and the cook has a piece of banana leaf and a comal of charcoal. This is Caribbean Mexico, not central Mexico. The grammar is different. No mole. No chile ancho. The Peninsula speaks in recado, sour orange, banana leaf, and habanero.

The recado rojo is what makes this dish. Achiote, naranja agria, garlic, oregano yucateco, allspice, black pepper. You can buy the paste pre-made from a Yucatecan brand and you should, unless you have the patience to grind annatto seeds in a molcajete for an hour. The naranja agria is the other pillar. Not orange juice. Not lime juice. The bitter orange that grows in patios across Merida and Valladolid and was brought from Spain through Cuba. If you cannot find it, the mix I give you in the ingredients gets close. It is a compromise, not an upgrade.

The banana leaf does two jobs. It seals the fish so the recado steams into the flesh, and it gives the fish that faint vegetal sweetness only a leaf can carry. You pass it over the flame first so it does not crack. My notebook has a margin note from a señora at Mercado 28 in Cancun: pasarla por la lumbre rapidito, no la quemes. Quickly, do not burn it. She would not write you a recipe. She wrote me that one line because I asked her three times. Saber cocinar es saber vivir.

You eat tikinxic with the leaf open on the table, flaking the fish straight into warm corn tortillas with pickled red onion and slivers of fresh habanero. No cheddar. No sour cream. No flour tortillas. The Peninsula has its own grammar and this is how the sentence ends.