The first time I made tomatillo chicken chili verde it was in Doña Refugio’s kitchen in Colonia Americana, Guadalajara, on a Tuesday morning that started at the Mercado Mexicaltzingo. She was in a yellow apron with a bleach stain shaped like Florida, and she was not impressed with how I was peeling my tomatillos.
I had signed up for a four hour cooking class. What I got was a life lesson in patience, in charring things properly, and in never, ever reaching for the flour.
The Market First, the Kitchen Second
We met at 8am at the market’s south entrance. Refugio walked fast for a woman in her sixties and she did not look back to check if I was keeping up. She held up a tomatillo, squeezed it lightly, and said the husk should be tight and the fruit should feel heavy for its size. If it rattles inside, walk away.
She bought a kilo and a half. Then poblanos, jalapeños, a white onion the size of a softball, garlic still on the stem, and one enormous bunch of cilantro that she smelled before she paid for. We stopped for a tejuino on the way back to her apartment because the sun was already high and she said no one cooks well thirsty.
What Doña Refugio Corrected Me On
Her kitchen was small. Green tile counters, a gas stove with one burner that ran hotter than the others, a wooden crucifix over the doorway, a radio permanently tuned to a station playing Vicente Fernández and Los Tigres del Norte on rotation. That’s what was on while we cooked. I have played the same kind of music every time I have made this since.
She corrected me three times in the first hour. First, I was rinsing the tomatillos with cold water and rubbing the sticky film off with my fingers. She said good. Then I tried to peel the roasted poblanos while they were still hot and she smacked my wrist with a wooden spoon. Steam them first, five minutes under a plate. The skin comes off in one pull.
Second, I reached for a whisk to help thicken the sauce. She looked at me like I had suggested we add ketchup. Tomatillos have their own pectin, she said. They thicken themselves. The reduction does the rest. No flour. No roux. Nothing.
Third, and this one I remember most, I called what we were making salsa verde. She shook her head slowly. Salsa verde is what you put on a taco. This, she said, waving her spoon at the pot, is chile verde. It is the stew. The salsa is only the beginning.
The Cultural Bit Worth Knowing
Chile verde traces back to Northern Mexico, where indigenous cooks were building stews around the tomatillo nearly 3,000 years ago. The fruit is Physalis philadelphica, domesticated by pre-Columbian Mesoamerican peoples long before tomatoes ever showed up in European kitchens. The canonical protein is pork shoulder, but pollo en salsa verde is a legitimate and old home-cook variant, lighter, faster, the kind of thing you make on a weeknight when there is not time for pork.
The other thing Refugio drilled into me. It is not a New Mexico green chile stew. Those are built on Hatch chiles and usually have no tomatillos at all. And there is no tomato in a real Mexican chile verde. The moment tomato goes in, you are drifting toward Colorado-style green chili, which is a different thing entirely and has its own defenders.
Bringing Tomatillo Chicken Chili Verde Back to My LA Kitchen
Los Angeles is the easiest possible place to recreate this. I get my tomatillos from the Mexican stall at the Grand Central Market downtown, and if I am being lazy the Vallarta on Sunset stocks them plump and cheap year round. Mexican oregano I keep in a jar next to my stove. The lard I get from a butcher in Boyle Heights who scoops it out of a metal tub with a spoon that has probably been there since the eighties.
The first time I tried to recreate this at home I skipped the broiler and just simmered everything raw. It tasted fine. It tasted like nothing Refugio had made. The char is not optional. That charred bitterness under the acidity is the whole personality of the dish.
My Dutch oven is a 5 quart Le Creuset with a chipped enamel lip on the front from the time I dropped the lid getting it out of the cabinet. Still works. Still holds heat like a champion. I have made this in it maybe twenty times.
What I Used
- Bone in skinless chicken thighs, about 3 pounds. Boneless works if you are short on time. Bone in tastes better.
- A pound and a half of fresh tomatillos, husks off, rinsed well.
- Two poblano chiles and two jalapeños. One serrano instead of the jalapeños if you want it hotter.
- A large white onion, quartered.
- Five garlic cloves, unpeeled, roasted right on the sheet pan.
- A packed cup of fresh cilantro, stems and all.
- A cup and a half of low sodium chicken broth.
- Mexican oregano and a little ground cumin.
- Two tablespoons of lard. Canola if you have to.
- Kosher salt, black pepper, and one lime.
How the Cook Actually Goes
Broiler on high. Everything on a sheet pan in a single layer. Turn once. Pull the garlic early if it darkens too fast. While the vegetables blister you have about twelve minutes with nothing to do, which is the perfect amount of time to put on Chavela Vargas and eat a couple of salted tortilla chips out of the bag. Refugio would have approved.
Steam the chiles under a plate. Peel. Deseed the poblanos, leave the jalapeño seeds in if you like heat. Blend everything with cilantro and half the broth into a rustic sauce. Not a foam. About twenty seconds of pulsing.
Brown the chicken in lard, in two batches. Don’t crowd the pot. Pour the salsa in and let it hit the hot fat. It sizzles and darkens from bright green to olive. That is when you know it is right. Nestle the chicken back in, add the rest of the broth, cover, and let it braise low for 35 to 40 minutes.
Skim. Reduce if it needs it. Lime at the end, always at the end. More cilantro on top.
The Next Day
Refugio told me the second day is better. She was right. The fat firms up in the fridge, you scrape a little off, and when you warm it up the sauce has settled into something deeper and less bright. Cold leftovers, eaten standing up at the counter with a warm tortilla. Better than the original.
I think about her kitchen a lot. The yellow apron. The wooden spoon she smacked me with. The trip changed me a little, in the small quiet way trips do when someone bothers to teach you something properly.
Tomatillo Chicken Chili Verde
Ingredients
Equipment
Method
- Position an oven rack about 6 inches below the broiler and set the broiler to high. Arrange the husked and rinsed tomatillos, poblanos, jalapeños, quartered white onion, and unpeeled garlic cloves on a rimmed sheet pan in a single layer.
- Broil for 8 to 12 minutes, turning the vegetables with tongs halfway through, until the tomatillos are collapsed and blistered, the chiles are blackened in patches, and the onion edges are charred. Pull the garlic out earlier if it darkens too quickly.
- Transfer the poblanos and jalapeños to a bowl and cover with a plate for 5 minutes to steam. Slip off the loose blackened skins, pull off the stems, and scrape out the seeds from the poblanos. Leave the jalapeño seeds in for more heat. Squeeze the garlic out of its skins.
- Add the roasted tomatillos with their juices, peeled chiles, onion, garlic, cilantro, Mexican oregano, ground cumin, 1 teaspoon of the salt, and 0.5 cup of the chicken broth to a blender. Blend to a rustic, slightly chunky sauce, about 20 seconds. Do not overprocess into foam.
- Pat the chicken thighs dry with paper towels and season all over with the remaining 0.5 teaspoon salt and the black pepper.
- Heat the lard in a heavy Dutch oven over medium-high heat until shimmering. Working in two batches so you do not crowd the pot, brown the chicken thighs for about 3 minutes per side, until deep golden. Transfer to a plate.
- Pour off all but 1 tablespoon of the fat. Pour in the blended salsa verde; it should sizzle and darken. Scrape up any browned bits stuck to the bottom of the pot with a wooden spoon and simmer the sauce for 4 minutes, until it deepens from bright green to a duller olive green.
- Nestle the browned chicken back into the pot along with any resting juices. Pour in the remaining 1 cup chicken broth, enough that the chicken is about three-quarters submerged. Bring to a gentle simmer.
- Cover, reduce the heat to low, and braise for 35 to 40 minutes, turning the chicken once halfway through, until the meat is fork-tender and easily pulls from the bone.
- Uncover, tilt the pot, and skim off any excess fat that has risen to the surface. If the sauce is thin, simmer uncovered for another 5 to 8 minutes to concentrate. It should coat the back of a spoon.
- Turn off the heat. Squeeze the juice of the lime over the stew and taste for salt, adjusting as needed. Scatter with more chopped fresh cilantro.
- Serve hot in shallow bowls with warm corn tortillas, rice, and beans on the side, and pass extra lime wedges at the table.