Hot Tortas
Quesillo (Oaxacan cheese), American cheese, and manchego all melt beautifully, while Mexican meats (carnitas, chorizo, or pierna, made from pork shank,) crisp up on the flat top. Stuffed into the soft telera, insides buttered, spiked with pickled jalapeños, tempered with refried beans, and garnished with a few fresh vegetables, the hot torta stands with the other kings and queens of the sandwich world: the po’boy, the cheesesteak, the hoagie, and the Uruguayan Chivito.

As with any of the great sandwiches of the world, the many moving parts of a hot torta can be subbed in or out, offering customizable sandwiches and a lexicon of different combinations. As Santibañez says in Tacos, Tortas, and Tamales “nearly anything can become a torta.”

Usually made with skirt steak, its flat surface on the griddle achieves the maximum amount of charred meat flavor, which makes the perfect foil for the creamy avocado that serves as its partner-in-crime inside the bolillo roll, spread with beans and crema—or possibly mayonnaise.

Until the 1960s, the cold torta was the only kind of torta in Mexico. Cold tortas are simple; all about showing off the ingredients—ham, cheese, mortadella, or even salt cod—rather than boasting about just how many they have. In his Gran Libro de Tortas, Roberto Arturo Ayala T. (not a big believer in the hot torta) says “really, all tortas should be cold, made from that day’s bread.” The basic torta is made on a telera roll: a soft white roll, usually seven to nine inches long, recognizable for its three humps. The roll is split open, with the much of the bread pulled from the inside of the top, allowing more room for the filling to take over as the prominent flavor. Refried beans are spread inside the top, while the chosen filling is stacked with lettuce, tomato, and pickled jalapeños. Tellez mentions that those pickled jalapeños, present on most tortas in Mexico, are one of the foods she most misses from Mexico, and wishes she could find in New York (where she has yet to find a torta up to her standards.)

The palm-sized torta at La Texoacana offers a glimpse at the tiny, traditional, cold tortas of yore. By the time it was written up in the New York Times in 2007, the tiny Mexico City storefront was already more than seven decades old. The fillings haven’t got caught up in the modern (hot dog) or Western (mayonnaise) trends that other tortas have. Salt cod is popular, along with sardine in tomato sauce, and mortadella. More of a snack than a meal (or three) that are the heaping “tortas gigantes” plying the street carts, the telera here is barely more than five inches long, spread with avocado and garnished with chipotle peppers.

Another of Mexico City’s grandly indulgent style of sandwiches is the pepito. It forgoes the amalgam of meat products that make up the Cubana in favor of one great meat: sliced, grilled steak, marinated in Maggi sauce or Worcestershire.  It is a sandwich that has fully embraced some of the newer, Western elements tortas have absorbed: As a “seasoned pepito eater,” Santibañez suggests in his recipe that it is best served with mayo and even a little mustard.

According to El Gran Libro de Tortas, the warm version of the torta came about when a gay couple, who had been asked to leave a restaurant, heated up the previous day’s cold bread for their meal, calling it “tortas al fuego.” Today, a cart serving this type of torta seems to grace nearly every street corner in Mexico City (many painted with just those words “tortas al fuego”), and it is the sandwich that has most easily made the leap into everyday American life.

Like the cold torta, it is generally made on a telera, the three-humped white bread, or on a bolillo, a similar roll with just a single cut in the top, and with rounded edges. Post-split, the inside is spread with lard or butter, then griddled, prior to adding the beans. Setting it apart from many hot sandwiches, the torta doesn’t see heat as a whole, but rather the bread, cheese, and meat are each griddled separately, then stacked into the sandwich.

In fact, when he begins to discuss them, he gets right into the nitty gritty, arguing that translating the word torta to “sandwich” is like describing a Rembrandt masterpiece as a portrait—accurate, but not doing justice.

Like the bánh mì (the Vietnamese sandwich that’s selling books and driving fast food innovation), tortas are a remnant of French colonialism. (Yes, the French were in Mexico, as anyone who has toasted to the Pueblan victory over the French on the fifth of May should be well aware.) Instead of inheriting the crisp, crackling baguettes of Paris, though, in the years since the 1862 defeat of the French, Mexican sandwiches adapted to soft rolls called bolillos, and then on to the three-humped telera and flat pambazo. Like the supple tortillas you find in tacos, Mexican breads provide a soft, subtle flavor to contain the brilliantly-flavored meats that are the calling-card of the cuisine.

The taco and the torta are the twin pillars of Mexican street food, but where the taco is small and sexy and has long since seduced all of America in its many forms, the torta (with its many Mexican sandwich siblings) is just teetering on the brink of international stardom. The small size of a taco makes it an easy step into new flavors, but a sandwich is a meal, it’s a commitment to the milanesa, the carnitas, or the pierna (pork leg) inside. But it’s a commitment spread with butter and refried beans, topped with creamy avocado or delightfully addictive spicy peppers, and piled with any of an endless array of flavorful meats and cheeses. The Mexican sandwich takes the same taco flavors and turns them up to eleven, offering a world of fluffy buns and spicy meats that no food lover should leave uneaten.

Back in 2005, Rick Bayless was still introducing Mexican “submarines” with extensive explanation in his book Mexican Everyday. Four years later, he’d open his own torta shop, called Xoco, and bring tortas to a much wider crowd. By 2012, Roberto Santibañez didn’t even feel the need to explain what a torta is in the introduction to his book Tacos, Tortas, and Tamales

“Tacos are dinner food,” Lesley Tellez says. Tortas, on the other hand, are a lunch food, made to eat on the go (you’ll rarely see seats at a torta stand, she points out), hard to find before noon, and often shutting down before sunset. Tellez, who runs Eat Mexico, a street food tour company in Mexico City, and has written a forthcoming book on Mexican food, says that a torta is essentially a “big, fat, messy Mexican sandwich.” It boasts an array of salty, sour, spicy, and even sweet flavors. “Con todo,” (with everything) is the way to order a torta, says Tellez, meaning that the diner would like whatever toppings (lettuce, tomatoes, onions, spicy pickled peppers) are available. Santibañez concurs, offering his theory that “the torta took all the foods people already loved and made them portable.”

The Mexican palate, Tellez explains, finds the stuff of American sandwiches (turkey, tomato, and cheese, for example) too boring. “[Mexicans] want a different experience, more intense, more in your face,” she says, though she follows up by pointing out that now Mexican street food is growing in popularity in the US. As people want to learn more about other cultures, Tellez says, eating the big, layered, complex sandwiches are an affordable way to explore.

To make the rub, mix together black pepper, coriander, paprika, garlic powder, onion powder, dill weed, mustard, celery seed, and crushed red papper in a small bowl. Coat entire brisket with the rub.

Fire up smoker or grill to 225°F, adding chunks of smoking wood chunks when at temperature. When wood is ignited and producing smoke, place brisket in, fat side up, and smoke until an instant read thermometer registers 165 degrees when inserted into thickest part of the brisket, about 6 hours.

Transfer brisket to large roasting pan with V-rack. Place roasting pan over two burners on stovetop and fill with 1-inch of water. Bring water to a boil over high heat, reduce heat to medium, cover roasting pan with aluminum foil, and steam brisket until an instant read thermometer registers 180 degrees when inserted into thickest part of the meat, 1 to 2 hours, adding more hot water as needed.

Transfer brisket to cutting board and let cool slightly. Slice and serve, preferably on rye with mustard.

Special equipment
Smoker, Roasting Pan

Pick out foreign matter from the peas before placing them in a large bowl, cover generously with water and soak uncovered, at room temperature overnight, adding more water if necessary.

Drain peas, and place them along with the other ingredients and 2 tablespoons water in a food processor. Pulse until the peas are finely ground, about the size of couscous. Roll about 1 tablespoon of the batter into a ball between your palms.

Heat the oil in a large heavy-bottomed pot to 350°F. Carefully deep fry each ball until golden brown, about 5 minutes each. They will fall to the bottom and rise during the frying. Serve hot stuffed in a pita or by themselves, covered in tahini sauce.

To make the cure, in a small bowl mix together salt, pink salt, black pepper, coriander, sugar, bay leaf, and cloves. Coat entire brisket with the cure and place in an extra-large resealable plastic bag. Place in the coldest part of the refrigerator and cure for 4 days, flipping brisket twice a day.

This Montreal smoked meat was made to correct the omission of steaming in my pastrami—fixing a problem has never been so delicious.
For the Cure
1 cup Kosher salt
3 tablespoons ground black pepper
3 tablespoons ground coriander
1 tablespoons pink salt, such as Prague Powder #1
1 tablespoons sugar
1 teaspoon ground bay leaf
1 teaspoon ground cloves
1 whole brisket, around 12-14 pounds, fat cap trimmed to ⅛-inch
For the rub
3 tablespoons coarsely ground black pepper
1 tablespoons ground coriander
1 tablespoons paprika
1 tablespoon garlic powder
1 tablespoon onion powder
1 teaspoon dill weed
1 teaspoon ground mustard
1 teaspoon celery seed
1 teaspoon crushed red pepper
2-3 fist-size chunks of medium smoking wood, such as oak or hickory
Type of fire: Indirect
Grill heat: Low

Remove brisket from bag and wash as much cure off as possible under cold running water. Place brisket in a large container and fill with water and let soak for 2 hours, replacing water every 30 minutes. Remove from water and pat dry with paper towels.

What worked: Each of these falafel’s deep brown and crunchy exteriors gives way to a warm, fragrant, and tender center. They’re fairly easy to make, and miles better than the leaden pucks masquerading as food in many a Middle Eastern wrap.

What didn’t: I couldn’t eek out 24 falafels from the recipe (more like 18), and they cooked a bit more quickly than advertised (4 minutes instead of 5). If you’re a big falafel eater (or feeding a crowd) double up on the recipe for sure.

Suggested tweaks: You can fry these and reheat them in the oven if necessary. 350 for 8 to 10 minutes does the trick. As written, the falafels are fairly spicy; if you’re looking to tone it down, reduce the chili flakes to 1/4 or 1/8 teaspoon.

1 cup dried chickpeas (garbanzo beans)
1/2 medium-sized onion, quartered
1 teaspoon turmeric
1 teaspoon paprika
1/2 teaspoon cardamom
1/2 teaspoon nutmeg
1 clove garlic, peeled
3 springs of fresh parsley
1 teaspoon salt
1 teaspoon ground cumin
1 teaspoon ground coriander
1/2 teaspoon red hot pepper flakes or 1 whole hot chile pepper
1 teaspoon baking soda
3 cups vegetable oil for deep frying

I eat a lot of falafel. It can come from a cart, a restaurant, or even a deli case; I don’t really discriminate. But I probably should be more picky because most of the falafel isn’t great. So much of the falafel out there is greasy and falling apart or dense and dry.

But after making King of Falafel & Shawarma’s falafel recipe in Alexandra Penfold and Siobhan Wallace’s new cookbook, New York a la Cart, I may stop buying my falafel pre-made (unless of course I happen to be in Astoria and can visit the Falafel King himself).

These falafel are made properly, with soaked dried chickpeas and a whole party of spices. Rolled into small balls and fried for just a few minutes, they emerge crisp-tender and fragrant. They’re perfect in pita sandwiches or eaten one by one, with your hands, dipped into a giant bowl of tahini.

Why I picked this recipe: Falafel is probably my favorite street food. Making this version was a no-brainer.

When making pita bread, I like to knead the dough by hand. That’s in part because I like the feel of the dough (what can I say?), but also so that I can sense how much gluten is being developed. We want a well-developed dough with plenty of gluten, so that it will stretch out as it puffs in the oven.

We also don’t want the dough to be too dry, since it needs moisture to puff. If you knead the dough on a board, it’ll seem very sticky, and you’ll be tempted to add too much extra flour—which is not a good thing, since it will soak up and trap some of that necessary moisture.

Try as I might, I never could get my oven to produce the beautiful charred look of a pita that’s baked in a scorching hot wood-fired oven. Even the broiler is too finicky to yield consistent results, sometimes burning the surface.

The solution? Char the pita in a cast iron skillet on the stovetop after baking. Not only do the pitas look a lot better that way, but the charring adds a layer of smoky flavor.

Now all you need is a big ol’ plate of hummus.

A very hot oven is a must in order to get that quick burst of steam inside. If the oven temperature is too low, steam won’t puff the pitas, and you’ll end up with duds. Turn the oven as high as it will go, and preheat the oven with a baking steel or stone,* which retains heat, thus aiding in the creation of steam.

Keep kneading for about 10 minutes. What you’re looking for is good gluten development: The dough should be soft but stretchy, yet not as tight as a wad of well-chewed gum. If you pull on the dough, you should feel some resistance. Does all this manual labor sound massively boring to you? Okay—you can use a stand mixer instead, especially if you’re doubling the batch. Use a dough hook and mix at low speed for eight minutes.

Roll out the pitas to no more than a quarter inch in thickness. This is one of the most important rules, since the dough needs to be thin enough that the heat can quickly penetrate to the center, creating that blast of steam and expanding the pocket before the dough becomes too rigid.

If the dough is too thick, it’ll get overly firm before the heat of the oven can swell the center. The photo below shows what happens when the pita is too thick. No puff!

This needs to happen quickly—in a mere two to three minutes—so don’t go running off when the pitas are baking. As soon as they puff, they’re done. Over-baking will leave them hard and dry.

If you don’t own a baking steel or stone, you can bake the pitas in a cast iron skillet instead. After rolling out the pitas, try not to tear the dough before baking. Doing so can create a weak point that may fail as the pita puffs, preventing it from fully expanding. Notice that the pita on the left here, which went into the oven with a slight tear, isn’t puffing like the other: Over the course of years of making pitas, I began to notice a tendency for the pita to end up with a much thinner top than bottom after it comes out of the oven. Eventually, I realized that this has to do with pockets of air rising to the surface of the dough during the final proofing step.

The solution: Flip the dough right before baking, and set it top side down on the baking stone. (This trick also guarantees an even distribution of air holes in ciabatta bread.) You know those pitas that crack when you try to open them up, making them impossible to stuff properly? It’s because they’ve dried out too much. To prevent that, wrap them in a clean kitchen towel as soon as they come out of the oven. The cloth traps just enough moisture, while also allowing the pitas to breathe; use plastic, and they’ll sweat and get soggy.
Try as I might, I never could get my oven to produce the beautiful charred look of a pita that’s baked in a scorching hot wood-fired oven. Even the broiler is too finicky to yield consistent results, sometimes burning the surface.

The solution? Char the pita in a cast iron skillet on the stovetop after baking. Not only do the pitas look a lot better that way, but the charring adds a layer of smoky flavor.

Now all you need is a big ol’ plate of hummus.

The best way to do it, therefore, is to knead the dough directly in the mixing bowl. Make sure that your hands are clean!

To do that, lift up the top half of the shaggy mass, pull it toward you, then fold it over on itself. Next, use your fingers or the heel of your hand to push the dough away from you. Give the bowl a quarter turn, then repeat the process.
It’s okay if the dough sticks to the bottom of the bowl, but if it sticks too much to the sides, you can use a plastic scraper to free it. Though it’ll still feel tacky at this stage, you’ll notice it becoming less so while you continue to knead, as the gluten develops and the flour becomes more hydrated from the liquid. Add only a very small amount of flour if the whole thing just seems too wet and sticky.

My first words in Turkish: nar suyu, “pomegranate juice.” You couldn’t walk a block without a sign on the corner for fresh pomegranate and orange juice, and in the less touristy parts of town, a glass squeezed in front of you would cost just 2 lira (a little over $1).
My favorite meat is lamb. My favorite vegetable is eggplant; favorite fruit, pomegranate. Form of carbohydrate? Fresh flatbreads. My favorite food group is dairy; favorite form of dairy: yogurts and fresh cheeses.
Favorite way to eat seafood, as simply prepared as possible. And favorite mode of eating? Lots and lots of little bites of things.
All this, to say: I was destined to love eating in Turkey, where I got my fill of all of the above, and often in small, snackable portions. Here are my 16 favorite foods in Istanbul.

Ingredients
Save Recipe
1/2 pound dried chickpeas (1 generous cup; 225g)
2 ounces picked fresh cilantro, parsley, or mint leaves, or preferably a mixture of all three (about 2 cups; 55g)
6 scallions, white and pale green parts only, sliced (about 2 ounces; 55g)
2 medium cloves garlic, minced (about 2 teaspoons; 10ml)
1 teaspoon (about 4g) ground cumin
1/2 teaspoon (about 2g) ground coriander seed
2 teaspoons (about 10g) kosher salt, plus more for seasoning
2 to 3 cups (480 to 720ml) vegetable oil, for frying
Tahini sauce, hummus, and/or zhug (Yemenite hot sauce) for serving

Using dried chickpeas eliminates the need for flour or other binders, giving you falafel that is light and crisp.
Letting the falafel dough rest after grinding allows starch to seep out, making it easier for the balls to retain their shape.
Making small balls gives you a better ratio of crisp exterior to moist interior.
Falafel often has good flavor, but a pasty, heavy texture. What I’m after is falafel that’s shatteringly crisp on the outside and light, fluffy, almost crumbly on the inside, while still remaining very moist. Light enough that the balls can be eaten completely on their own without having to be shoved into a sandwich full of ingredients designed to distract you from their typical mushiness. (Of course, if you want them in a sandwich, they should hold up in there just as well.) I like my falafel to taste of chickpeas, but also to be packed with herb and spice flavor. Falafel that needs only simple condiments—tahini and hot sauce—to taste great.

Rinse chickpeas and place in a large bowl. Cover with cold water, adding enough to allow the chickpeas to at least triple in volume. Cover and let stand at room temperature overnight. The next day, drain, rinse, and carefully dry chickpeas in a salad spinner.

Combine chickpeas, herbs, scallions, garlic, cumin, coriander, and salt in the work bowl of a food processor. Pulse until chickpeas are very finely minced, stopping the food processor to scrape down the sides as necessary. A handful of the mixture squeezed into a ball should be able to barely hold together. If not, process a little more.
Transfer mixture to a bowl, cover, and place in refrigerator for 15 minutes to allow time for more starch to seep out of chickpeas. This will help the balls retain their shape better once formed. Using a tablespoon measure, scoop out heaping spoonfuls of the mixture into your hand. Gently shape each into a ball (you will not be able to roll the mixture like cookie dough; this is okay) and place them on a clean plate.

When all the balls have been formed, fill a deep cast iron, carbon steel, or nonstick skillet or Dutch oven with 3/4 inch of oil. Heat over high heat until oil registers 375°F on an instant-read thermometer. Serve immediately with tahini and/or hummus on the side, or stuffed into pita bread with tahini, tomatoes, cucumber, pickles, and shredded cabbage. Carefully lower chickpea balls into oil one at a time, allowing a little space between each ball and cooking in batches if necessary. Adjust heat as necessary to maintain a temperature of between 350 and 375°F. Allow to cook undisturbed until well browned on bottom sides, then carefully flip balls with a fork until browned on second side, about 4 minutes total. Transfer cooked chickpea balls to a paper towel–lined plate and season with salt. Repeat with remaining chickpea balls.

Serve immediately with tahini and/or hummus on the side, or stuffed into pita bread with tahini, tomatoes, cucumber, pickles, and shredded cabbage.

Special equipment
Salad spinner, food processor, instant-read thermometer

While I think it’s likely that the bagel is a descendant of ka’ak, the most relevant insight of the journey of this ring-shaped bread through history is that it isn’t uncommon for people to adopt the foods of those they interact with and to evolve those foods in unique ways. While ka’ak uses sugar water to ensure sesame seeds adhere to its exterior, bagels use the latent moisture and heat from boiling or an egg wash to add a wide variety of textures and flavors to their crusts, whereas simit opts for the grape syrup known as pekmez to ensure that sesame seeds (or poppy, or flax) stick. The processes are similar, yet different, used to the same ends but producing vastly different flavors and textures, and these few examples don’t even cover the many different ways in which each of these breads have been enjoyed for centuries. Innovation and tradition need not be mutually exclusive.

There are other breads that are both similarly shaped and bear the trace of Arab influence. Girde naan, a bread which looks identical to the present-day bagel that’s still baked by the Muslim Uigurs of northwestern China, is another possible descendant of ka’ak, given that Islam flourished in China during the Middle Ages, when Arab maritime traders had a monopoly on the spice trade.

And simit, the Turkish “sesame bagel,” has a similar story. In the 15th century, the Ottoman Turks were the dominant power across Southeastern Europe, Western Asia, and North Africa. During that time, their court cuisine relied on Kitab al-Tabikh, which, after being translated by Muhammed bin Mahmud Şirvani, the court physician of Sultan Murad II, and embellished with a few recipes of his own, formed the core of the first Ottoman cookbook.

The common thread between these similarly shaped breads, of course, is their proximity to spheres of Arab influence, whether they were trade routes or areas conquered by Islamic empires. In essence, obwarzanek, tarallo, girde naan, simit, and bagels are examples of culinary fusion, which is as old as cuisine itself. Centuries of conquest, migration, and trade have allowed culinary traditions to meld and evolve, both naturally and by force.

It raised the question: Does the bagel really have Arab origins?

In her book The Bagel, Maria Balinska tracks the origin of the bagel to Bona Sforza, an Italian woman from Bari who arrived in the royal Polish city of Krakow in 1518 to become queen. It’s also in Krakow, according to Leo Rosten’s The Joys of Yiddish, that the first written mention of bagels was found in 1610 Jewish community ordinances. But bagel-like bread was not new to Poland. Food historian Maria Dembinska* traces the first written mention of a ring-shaped bread made of wheat flour that was boiled before baking—referred to as obwarzanek—to Polish royal family accounts from 1394.

Dembińska Maria, and William Woys Weaver. Food and Drink in Medieval Poland: Rediscovering a Cuisine of the Past. University of Pennsylvania Press, 1999.

So where could Arab influence fit in? Well, for that, we’ll have to go back to the Middle Ages.