Photograph by Kevin A. Roberts
If you saw Once Upon A Time in Mexico (in which, we would like to point out but cannot because our editor has instituted a completely unreasonable fatwa on our mentioning her again in print, the remarkable Salma Hayek has a starring role), you know cochinita pibil. Johnny Depp, as Agent Sands, has a thing for cochinita pibil. So much so he kills any cooks he encounters in Mexico who put out a version that’s outstandingly good—just to “maintain balance” in the culinary scales of the country.
A true cochinita, a whole suckling pig, might be a little too much for even the heartiest of appetites. So instead of Porky Junior, Milagro Modern Mexican’s version of cochinita pibil is, like most others today, made from a pork shoulder. (Which is also called a pork butt, even though it’s really from the front, shoulder area of the pig. Which is complicated nomenclature to be sure and which is why, when we were at the meat counter at our neighborhood Schnucks a few years ago, a Latina was trying to explain, to the butcher, with her limited English, that she wanted this specific cut. “No, no!” she said, exasperated. “De butt! De butt!” she said, whacking at her own to get the point across.)
Pork shoulder, of course, is about as tender as a drill sergeant. It achieves a flaky, succulent moistness only after a long, slow cook, ideally a braise of some sort. That’s the pibil part. The word comes from the Mayans, who’ve also given us, chocolate, textiles, and the incipient end of the world. Pibil means “to bury.” In this case, the reference is to a stone-lined pit where the piggy once met his steamy, delicious fate. Webster Groves apparently is fussy with ordinances surrounding the digging of such holes; Milagro makes use of a regular old oven. But Milagro does go with an essential for true pibil cookery: banana leaves.
The cochinita part, incidentally, as well as the marinade for the dish, didn’t come from the Mayans. They are contributions of the Spanish, who brought both pigs and citrus fruits to the New World, and who quickly made pests of themselves as the new conquistadors on the block.
Maybe it’s because we brought up the whole Johnny Depp thing; the waitress was reluctant to tell us what exactly they use in the marinade at Milagro. The standard ingredient is a bitter orange, also known as a Seville orange, or a Mediterranean orange. It’d be a milagro if it isn’t something like that at Milagro, something with a citrusy smack, one that deepens and mellows over the long braise, which softens the meat delectably and infuses all the flavor. (We’re guessing blood oranges, since they also appear, pureed, in some of Milagro’s margaritas.) The banana leaves impart moistness; they also lend a subtle taste, a tropical undercurrent that’s as much fragrance as it is flavor. Just as some places skip the bitter orange ingredient in the marinade, coming up with a slurry of limes, lemons, and vinegar that gives a lesser product, we’ve heard of places that cheat with their pibil presentations: they wrap the pork in aluminum foil along with a ripe banana, then braise it. It doesn’t work and you can tell the difference with every bite of the cochinita here.
The other ingredient you’ll notice is achiote, a hard little seed that’s crushed and soaked to produce a dark rich color. Achiote doesn’t add much taste. But that beautiful candy apple and cinnamon look of the meat? That’s from a brisk massage of achiote.
Paired with a tumble of roasted corn kernels mixed with queso fresco and garlic mayonnaise, and some cumin-spiked, roasted potatoes, the pork is topped with ribbons of pickled onions. All of it works together, the spiciness of the crisp potatoes, the smoky tang of the corn, and that flaky, moist pork.
Agent Sands would approve and for the time being, at least, Milagro’s version of cochinita pibil is sufficiently so far ahead of the culinary pack that no immediate homicides are necessary to keep things in balance.
Milagro Modern Mexican, 20 Allen Avenue, #130, Webster Groves, 314-962-4300, milagromodernmexican.com
