The Enchilada Chronicles: encacahuatadas at Cuchara

Revisiting a dish that looms large in your memory can be bittersweet. I was reminded of that on a pilgrimage to Cuchara last week, where I intended to pay homage to their encacahuatadas—enchiladas in what I once described as a "galvanic" peanut sauce.

I first tried this unusual-for-Houston dish back in 2013, when a version filled with queso fresco popped up on the then-new Montrose restaurant's bargain comida corrida, a 3-course lunch that changed every day. (Alas, the comida corrida there is no more.)

The russet-hued, rubbly ground-peanut sauce swamping the tortilla packages enchanted me. I had never tasted anything like it. It offered a peek into the dizzying archive of homey interior Mexican cooking that Cuchara's mostly female kitchen did so well, and that was relatively rare in Houston.

I wrote that the encacahuatadas were "notably fresh-tasting and light on their feet, rolled and sauced and garnished to order," which gave them a distinctly Mexican (as opposed to Tex-Mex) demeanor.

Plus I loved saying "encacahuatadas," (on-kah-kah-wah-tah-dahz), whose root word is Spanish for "peanuts." It rolls off the tongue.

By 2019, when I renewed my acquaintance with the dish and found the sauce so electrifying, it was filled with smashed potatoes. That gave the enchiladas a soothing gravitas that I liked even better than the cheese version.

I've always had a thing for potato enchiladas, which I first tasted in Dallas back in the early 90s and grew obsessed by at the late, great Saltillo Norteño grill here in Bellaire. (There, Lázaro Villalobos, the distinguished bartender, told me that growing up in Mexico, enchiladas were rolled with cheese, chicken or potato. That was it, he insisted.)

Fast forward to last week, when I returned to the Cuchara source to pay my respects. The encacahuatadas (now priced at $20 for three) were likable enough, although they lost heat quickly and with it, some immediacy.

The lake of peanut sauce glowed a deep-golden, sunset russet. A tantalizing roof-of-the-mouth current of chile heat boosted the earthiness of ground peanut. The filling of roughly smashed new potatoes flecked green with scallion comforted. Not quite enough chopped raw onion added a sweet, mild crunch.

But something was missing. Some depth of remembered flavor, some resonance, some something.

I ate every last scrap. I sipped first on one of the day's aqua frescas—a delicate, pastel cantaloupe brew that tasted like early summer—and then, because it was late on a Friday afternoon, ordered one of Cuchara's margaritas.

The $10 classic fresh-lime version struck me as pretty near perfect. It was served on the rocks in a tall jar, rimmed with crunchy big crystals of salt, and made with Espolon blanco tequila, Jalisco 1562 orange liqueur and just enough piloncillo sugar to add a tinge of color and sweetness while not intruding. I could detect that wild little vegetal edge of tequila I always prize.

I hadn't remembered liking Cuchara's margaritas nearly this much. That's the way of things with food, and flavors, and kitchens, and memory. All of them are in constant flux. However much you may long to, you never step into the same river twice.