creative non fiction, New Mexico, southwest

Nooooo. Colorado Chile?

Although for 15 years, before moving to New Mexico, I enjoyed excellent Mexican food in Colorado, I never noticed late-summer commercial chile-roasting on Colorado’s street corners and in its supermarket parking lots.  Arriving in the Valley, I continued to assume this was a practice unique to New Mexico.  

Thus, I was surprised when, one late-afternoon in mid-August, while driving on State Avenue just south of downtown Alamosa, I got the unmistakable whiff―that intoxicating, sweet-smoky odor―of roasting long-green chiles.  Sure enough, a roaster, a gridironed metal drum that revolved just above some propane gas-fed flames, was operating in the parking lot of Atencio’s Market, so I just had to pull into the lot―not, I told myself, to make a purchase, merely to watch and smell.  By the roaster, I joined several other addicts, along with the man with the denim apron, long brakeman’s gloves, and wire brush who operated and maintained the device. 

As I watched the peppers tumble in the drum―slowly, carefully blackening and becoming increasingly limp―my gaze turned to a nearby pallet stacked with burlap bags of freshly-harvested raw chiles.  The bags read that the peppers were from a farm in . . . Pueblo, Colorado? 

I was surprised.  I didn’t think a chile seed had a prayer beyond the air, water, soil, sunlight, and agricultural sorcery of Hatch, New Mexico, the (self-proclaimed) “chile capital of the world.” 

Good heavens, I wondered, had I been enjoying Colorado chile in various Alamosa restaurants since my arrival?

I had to explore this further, so I walked into Atencio’s and headed for the fruit-and-produce section.  In a bin were piled some individual chiles, with a sign indicating they were “hot.”  I held up one.  “From Pueblo?” I asked a nearby employee, a woman un-boxing bananas.  She arched her brows, cocked her head, and nodded as if to affirm the obvious.  I purchased several of the peppers and headed home.  

There, I spread some foil in our stove’s broiler, upon which I laid the washed peppers.  I turned on the broiler.  I dumped some ice into a pot of water. 

I turned the chiles over and over until they had sufficiently blackened and blistered.  I dropped them into the pot of ice water and stirred, to coax the hot chile flesh from the charred skin, a technique I’d learned in our kitchen in Anthony. 

When the ice cubes had nearly melted, I asked myself, Should I don latex gloves?―to protect my hands against the capsaicin, of course.  Nah.  After all, we’re talkin’ Pueblo.  

I plunged my bare hands into the pot and removed the peppers.  I carefully separated the skins (generally not recommended for eating when charred) from the flesh.  Hunger increasing, I took a knife and sliced off the head of each pepper.  Then I sliced open each pepper lengthwise and scrapped away the seeds. 

Reaching for the salt shaker, I suddenly felt all my fingers aflame.  

Alarmed, I opened the refrigerator door and grabbed a half-gallon milk bottle.  Then I flushed both fiery hands with milk, to neutralize the capsaicin―or so I’d once been told.  This providing only slight relief, I rinsed my hands under cold tap water, despite reading that such a remedy was essentially futile. 

But never mind this discomfort: My taste buds were longing, and those chiles weren’t getting any warmer by the thermometer.  I lightly salted the flesh of a chile, cut off a segment of it, and, with a fork (gratuitous, really, at this point), popped the segment into my mouth. 

And, lo and behold, there it was.  That slightly sweet, slightly citrus-y, mostly indescribable flavor.  Then I felt a blowtorch on the lips, which spread to my tongue and gums, and then a firestorm filled the entire buccal region.  

I polished off the remaining long greens.

Well, I thought, Viva Pueblo!

2 thoughts on “Nooooo. Colorado Chile?”

  1. Again, the memories. I lived for the winter of 1981 on Hunt, right next to the railroad tracks and around the block from Atencio corner market (then Kelloff’s) where an under-aged off-campus undergrad with a sudden appetite and thirst could by both a whole roasted chicken in a hot oven bag and a twelve-pack of 3.2 Schlitz for less than 5 bucks. Luxury.


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