A dark kitchen counter in morning light. A terracotta pot sits with its lid on, a wisp of steam at the rim.

A pile of dried guajillo and ancho chiles with garlic cloves.

A Sunday recipe

Birria takes all afternoon.

That is the point. One pot, a bag of dried chiles, and four hours you were going to spend anyway.

Dried chiles softening in a clay bowl of hot water, the water stained deep red. — Guajillo, ancho, chipotle. Twenty minutes in hot water.

It starts with the chiles.

Guajillo for colour, ancho for depth, two chipotles for smoke. Toast them in the dry pot until they smell like something, then soak them in hot water until they give up.

Blend them with garlic, cumin, cloves, a little vinegar and some of the soaking water. That paste is the whole dish. Everything after this is heat and time.

Sear it hard. Then stop rushing.

Chuck roast, cut big. Salt. A pot hot enough to make you step back.

Lid on.

The paste goes over the meat. Stock up to the shoulders. Bay, cinnamon, a splash of vinegar.

Then three hours where you do nothing.

The kitchen smells like it long before it is done.

Hour four.

The meat gives up when you look at it. The broth is dark red and shining with fat. Skim some of it. Not all.

Then you eat.

Shred the meat back into the broth, or lift it out for tacos. Both are correct. The recipe serves eight, or four people twice.

A small clay cup of birria consommé with diced onion, cilantro and a lime wedge.

Consomé

The broth, skimmed, in a cup. Onion, cilantro, lime. Drink it while the tacos fry.

Quesabirria

Tortillas dipped in the fat, pressed on the comal with cheese and meat until the edges go crisp.

A wide terracotta bowl of birria with onion, cilantro and lime on top.

The bowl

Meat and broth, the way it started. Lime on top. A spoon.

Recipe

Authentic Birria, by isabeleats.com. 255 minutes. Eight servings.

Cook it yourself.

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