Enchiladas: A Spicy Love Affair Wrapped in Tortillas

Enchiladas… Once upon a very spicy and slightly reckless time in the steamy heart of Mesoamerica, someone—probably a culinary genius with a flair for drama—decided that simply eating tortillas wasn’t thrilling enough. Tortillas were good, sure, but what if you drenched them in a rich, fiery, unapologetic sauce, stuffed them with anything edible within arm’s reach, and made the whole affair a gloriously messy, fingers-sticky, heartwarming feast? Thus, enchiladas sauntered onto the scene. Blame the Aztecs, if you like—they were already rolling tortillas around small fish long before the Spanish stumbled in with their horses, plunder, dubious fashion choices, and their undeniable talent for dairy.

The name ‘enchilada’ stems from the Spanish word ‘enchilar,’ meaning ‘to season with chilli.’ Not ‘to lightly hint at’ or ‘to gently wave some pepper nearby,’ mind you—to season with attitude. Early Spanish conquistadors even wrote about these early enchiladas in their diaries—because apparently, stealing gold wasn’t enough; they also had to document their lunch breaks in great detail, perhaps hoping history would view them more kindly if they came across as foodies.

Regional varieties? Oh, where to even begin without booking a flight. Mexico has an enchilada for every mood, every existential crisis, and every post-breakup wallow session. There’s the Enchiladas Verdes with their zingy green tomatillo sauce, a kind of electric jolt for your tastebuds that demands you wake up and pay attention. Enchiladas Rojas, sultry and simmered in luscious red chilli sauce, are the classic heart-stealers—saucy and dramatic like your most complicated ex. Oaxaca, the storied land of seven moles, offers enchiladas smothered in deep, complex mole sauce—essentially a culinary thesis disguised as dinner. Then there’s Enchiladas Suizas, a madcap hybrid born from the slightly questionable idea of Swiss immigrants bringing heavy cream to Mexico, turning the dish into a lush, decadent affair that feels like a guilty secret.

What makes enchiladas so utterly, hopelessly special is that they are the culinary equivalent of a choose-your-own-adventure book—but better because you can eat the ending. Meat, cheese, beans, grilled vegetables—it really doesn’t matter what you stuff inside as long as you do it with wild enthusiasm and a slight air of rebellion. And the sauce matters. It’s not an enchilada if it’s not absolutely drowning, gasping for breath, under a heroic amount of sauce like a Victorian heroine swooning in a tragic novel.

When it comes to drinks, don’t you dare be shy. A frosty margarita, its salted rim glinting like a pirate’s hoard? Yes, please. Tequila’s smokier, more rebellious cousin mezcal? Absolutely. Or if you’re feeling terribly sophisticated and wearing shoes that pinch, a glass of robust red wine just to confuse your guests. For the virtuous, agua fresca—that refreshing fruit-infused water—offers salvation from the fiery ordeal about to befall your tastebuds.

Complementary foods are less side dishes and more essential life partners. A wobbling mountain of guacamole that threatens to topple dramatically at any moment. A pile of Mexican rice so generous it could be used as a building material. Refried beans stoically holding their place on the plate like stubborn old men. And if guilt tugs at your conscience, a crunchy jicama salad, bright and refreshing enough to pretend you’re making good choices. But let’s be honest: enchiladas were never about good choices.

Health benefits? Technically, yes. Beans are fibre-filled champions. Tomatoes are antioxidant bombs. Chillies are metabolism-boosting superheroes in edible form. Protein abounds. But let’s not kid ourselves—enchiladas are primarily nourishment for the soul, a bear hug for your insides. If you’re seeking diet food, might I suggest sadness on toast instead?

Where to find them? Follow the heady scent of roasting chillies and gooey melted cheese that wafts through the air like a siren’s call. Mexico, naturally, is the homeland, but you’ll find them anywhere that understands the sacred bond between sauce and tortilla. In London, you might stumble into a neon-lit cantina tucked into Shoreditch, where the smell alone will convince you to cancel all other plans. In Melbourne, food trucks with suspiciously ironic facial hair serve them stuffed with pulled jackfruit because ‘plant-based’ is the new black. In Los Angeles, you’re just as likely to find gourmet vegan enchiladas as you are an abuela’s no-nonsense traditional plate, and honestly, both will make you weep in public.

Feeling the urge to stage your own enchilada extravaganza at home? Here’s how to become an overnight kitchen legend.

Enchiladas Recipe

Start by softening eight corn tortillas. This can be done by warming them gently in a dry pan or giving them a cheeky little dip in hot oil until they’re just pliable enough to roll without splitting dramatically at the seams. In a large bowl, mix shredded cooked chicken (or roasted vegetables if you’re feeling especially smug) with a generous handful of crumbled queso fresco or grated cheddar, a whisper of cumin, and a generous smattering of freshly chopped coriander.

Now for the sauce, the real star of the show. Roast four plump tomatoes until their skins blister with fury. Blend them together with two cloves of garlic, one assertive onion, and a couple of roasted chillies—adjust depending on how many bad life choices you’re willing to risk. Add a teaspoon of oregano, a good pinch of salt, and blitz until smooth. Simmer this fierce red beauty until it thickens into something that could seduce a statue.

Pour a generous ladleful of sauce into the bottom of a baking dish. Roll your fillings into the tortillas with the kind of tender care usually reserved for swaddling infants, and tuck them into the dish like happy little burritos awaiting their destiny. Smother the lot with the remaining sauce—no holding back—then rain down another avalanche of cheese, because restraint is for salads and New Year’s resolutions you abandoned in February.

Bake at 180°C (350°F) for about 20 minutes, or until the cheese bubbles and blisters and the whole kitchen smells like the gates of heaven have swung open, inviting you personally.

Top with decadent dollops of sour cream, a flurry of fresh coriander, and perhaps a few pickled onions if you’re feeling particularly extra. Then dig in immediately, preferably with friends, raucous laughter, suspiciously loud music, and a completely unnecessary second helping—because when it comes to enchiladas, more is absolutely more.