Hatch Chiles Are Great, But Have You Explored the Chiles of Northern New Mexico?

“Chile cultivation began here,” states Danny Farrar from Rancho La Jolla, a chile farm located in the quaint town of Velarde. By “here,” he refers to northern New Mexico, distinguishing it from the south, especially considering the popularity of the renowned Hatch chiles, which most people associate with New Mexican green chile.

The village of Hatch in southern New Mexico hosts a highly celebrated chile festival each year, and due to one of the most effective agricultural marketing campaigns of the past century, the term “Hatch” has come to represent New Mexican chiles broadly, despite the diverse strains available throughout the state. “Many of those ‘Hatch chiles’ aren’t even cultivated in New Mexico,” notes Matt Romero, a farmer in northern New Mexico’s Espanola Valley. Both Farrar and Romero are part of a select group of northern chile farmers dedicated to cultivating traditional, unmodified strains through small, family-run operations. “Here,” Farrar mentions, “it’s about truck farming: I can load everything I grow into my pickup and head to the farmer’s market in Santa Fe.” In contrast, chile farmers in southern New Mexico often require multiple trucks and cultivate extensive acreage.

One need not overlook the Hatch chile to appreciate the chiles from the north. True Hatch chiles are delightful—they were developed back in 1907 to be mild, meaty, and flavorful. However, the heirloom chiles from northern New Mexico deserve equal recognition, and while they may not have the same name recognition (or marketing funds) as the Hatch, their lesser-known status adds to their charm. “In some parts of California, there’s excellent wine, but many people remain unaware,” Romero explains, drawing a parallel to the state’s smaller wine regions. “Those wines are enjoyed by a knowledgeable local audience, and the finest varieties rarely leave the area. It’s the same here with the chiles. We cultivate small boutique plots. We sell locally.”

Despite farming at high elevations, Romero and other locals assert that the conditions in the Espanola Valley—which encompasses the unceded ancestral lands of the Pueblo, Tigua, Jicarilla Apache, and Ute peoples—are ideal for growing chiles. “We’re at elevations of 10,000 to 12,000 feet,” Romero states. “We experience four distinct seasons. It cools down at night, even in the height of summer. Plus, our days are longer. In the south, those areas weren’t traditionally agricultural—they relied on irrigation. Here, Indigenous peoples have been farming for generations.”

However, the primary appeal of northern New Mexican chiles lies in their flavor. “Green chile is why you move here; red chile is why you stay,” Romero shares. But “the truly exceptional chiles come from the heritage varieties,” explains Gillian Joyce, executive director of Alianza Agro-Cultura de Taos, a local agricultural advocacy organization. She refers to the non-hybridized chiles that families sell at roadside stands between the towns of Velarde and Rinconada, 23 miles south of Taos; local farmers offer them at farmer’s markets, and residents of northern New Mexico bring bushels to gatherings. Despite their cherished reputation among locals, these chiles are largely unnamed—much like heirloom tomatoes, they are not products of large-scale commercial farming, but rather a testament to history.

“They all have slight differences,” Farrar notes. “They might originate from Santo Domingo Pueblo, Sandia Pueblo, or San Felipe Pueblo. Each village has its unique strain. Generally, northern New Mexican green chiles are thinner-skinned, perhaps due to our shorter growing season. They also tend to be a bit sweeter, especially when they mature to red.” (Red chiles are simply green chiles that change color over time.)

Claiming that New Mexicans have a deep passion for chiles is an understatement. The state’s unique question (the only one of its kind in the U.S.) is Red or green?, and local excitement for chiles peaks in the fall during the height of green chile season.

Much like New Mexico itself, the green chile serves as a cultural emblem, merging the traditions of the Hispano and Indigenous peoples who have lived in the region for generations. “New Mexico boasts its own unique culture,” states the state’s poet laureate Levi Romero, who teaches Chicano studies at the University of New Mexico. “This is especially evident in the northern region, where our roots trace back to European and Mexican heritage.” (New Mexico achieved statehood only in 1912.) “We are a blend of Native Indigenous and Spanish ancestry. That defines us as New Mexican, as does our cuisine.”

The so-called green chile is far from uniform. Across New Mexico, there are around 100 different varieties of the long green pods the state is famous for, and enthusiasts like Farrar could likely conduct a Pepsi Challenge to test their knowledge. Chiles from the north are generally sweeter and spicier (though not always). This heat often makes it challenging to find local chiles featured in restaurants in northern tourist hotspots like Taos and Santa Fe, as many establishments opt for milder southern chiles to cater to visitors.

To savor the unique flavor of northern New Mexican chiles, visitors should explore the weekend farmers markets in Santa Fe, Espanola, and especially Taos, where they can sample local celebrity chile roaster Marcos Cortez’s creations at Cid’s Food Market. Cortez’s family has been cultivating chiles in the area since the 1980s; he mastered roasting at 13 and, now at 38, boasts two decades of experience at Cid’s as a dedicated chile-roasting expert.

“You really have to monitor your chile,” Cortez explains. “Attention is key to prevent burning. I use a classic hand-held roaster that Danny [Farrar] sold us, which allows me to have better control while flipping.” He recognizes the ideal flame temperature by the sound of the whooshing. “The secret,” he notes, “is sweating it in a plastic bag, which helps to blister the skin.”

Joe Marcoline, who runs the small-batch hot sauce brand Taos Hum, cultivates 20 varieties of chiles at Walking Trout Farm, his 26-acre property located in Velarde, near Taos. He picks a classic northern New Mexico green chile and holds it up to the light. “It’s a darker green,” he explains, in comparison to the Hatch. “It’s spicier, with a distinctly rich autumn flavor.”

Aside from Farrar and a few others, most farmers shy away from growing chiles this far north in the state. However, Marcoline, with his background as a hydrogeologist, discovered what he believes to be a unique microclimate ideal for peppers. He has developed his own irrigation system, greenhouses, wood-fired bed systems, and pumps. “The yield is consistently plentiful,” he remarks about the area, “and the colors are always vivid, much like the sunsets in Taos.”

The contrast between northern and southern chiles reflects a broader cultural divide in New Mexico, extending beyond just heat levels and pod colors. “Northern New Mexico is distinct,” Farrar notes. “We were isolated for centuries, whereas southern New Mexico shares more in common with Texas. The state is essentially split in two.”

The divide also has economic implications. Matt Romero points out that in the north, “Santa Fe is essentially the only affluent city. Many long-time residents have turned to farming out of necessity.” In his Rio Arriba County, the poverty rate was about 24 percent in 2019. Consequently, chiles have become a significant source of pride for Northern New Mexicans, particularly for the small-scale farmers who continue to thrive amid larger commercial operations in the south.

“I spent 20 to 25 years as an electrician, but I eventually returned to farming,” Farrar shares. “Farming is my roots. It requires passion and dedication. It involves a lot of labor, and we face challenges like hailstorms and frost. It’s risky. Yet, it connects me to my grandparents. There’s something magical about witnessing growth,” he continues. “I remember irrigating under a full moon, seeing the trees shimmer and glow.”

Diana Spechler is a novelist and essayist residing in Texas. Adria Malcolm is a photojournalist and cinematographer from Albuquerque, NM, focusing on immersive, long-term narratives.