Mole: A Dish That’s Always Evolving

“In our village, we used to believe that inhaling the smoke from the chiles was beneficial,” shares Elvia León Hernández, coughing lightly from the fragrant haze as she tosses a mix of dried chilhuacle and ancho chiles on her comal. With an escobeta—made from dried palm leaves—she deftly stirs the chiles over the fire burning beneath her clay griddle in the garden of Alfonsina, the restaurant she runs with her son Jorge León just outside Oaxaca. León Hernández is preparing mole negro, the most iconic of Oaxacan moles. It's the talk of the town, known for its rich tapestry of native and foreign ingredients, and she has been crafting it for over three decades.

Once the chiles are crisp and darkened like charcoal, she carefully sweeps them off the comal using a piece of cardboard into a bowl. Next, she toasts other ingredients, starting with the driest: ancho chiles, almonds, sesame seeds soaked in water, cinnamon sticks, raisins, garlic, oregano, thyme, clove, and cumin. A whole ripe banana, peel included, is placed next to onions over the hot coals, followed by tomatoes and tomatillos. The seeds from both types of chiles are also toasted. After removing the banana and vegetables, she crushes the chiles into finer pieces with her hands before focusing on the metate.

Alfonsina’s metate, crafted from river stone for grinding chiles and other ingredients, is both curved and hefty, and she estimates it has been in use for at least 40 years. She places a handful of chiles on the ancient stone, sprinkles them with water, and works them with the mano, or roller, which she grips tightly with both hands. It’s less about rolling and more about pushing down and dragging back, flicking her wrists as she goes. She knows the mixture is ready when it achieves a smooth consistency, with the chiles fully integrated into the metate.

She follows the same process with the vegetables, then with the herbs and nuts. It requires hours of effort and strength. As she grinds the mixtures repeatedly, she reminisces about making mole in Santo Domingo Nundo, her hometown nearly 200 kilometers to the northwest. Back then, there would be about a dozen women lined up with their metates, working side by side. She can still recall the sound of the wind through the trees as they made mole and enjoyed each other’s company. “We talked about life, the fields, the corn and beans,” she reflects. “It was soothing.”

Once each mixture for her mole negro reaches the perfect texture, she heats manteca (pork fat) in a clay pot placed on bricks over a wood fire, just steps away from the comal. She incorporates the chile mixture, followed by the seed mixture, some chocolate, and the remaining ingredients. After sprinkling in a touch of salt, she gradually adds water and chicken broth. For the next couple of hours, she stirs continuously as the pot bubbles, splatters, and releases fragrant smoke.

When you taste León Hernández’s mole negro, which may be served with a protein or as part of an antojito (a masa-based snack like tlayudas or tamales), no single ingredient among the 18 will overpower the others. That’s how she believes it should be. Through the smoke of the comal, the sound of the metate, and the heat of the fire, everything melds into one harmonious blend.

The term “mole” originates from the Nahuatl word “mōlli,” which translates loosely to “watery food,” such as a sauce or stew. Mexico’s 18 ethnic groups have been preparing moles long before foreign ingredients like onions and sesame seeds were introduced. The defining technique of grinding chiles and other ingredients on a metate has deep Indigenous roots, and these early moles utilized what was native: chiles, tomatoes, wild greens known as quelites—varying widely based on the local microclimate, which in Oaxaca is diverse. Some moles crafted in rural villages today still resemble these ancient versions, and many dishes that might be recognized as mole aren't necessarily labeled as such; they may bear Indigenous names or references specific to particular villages.

Oaxaca’s renowned seven moles — negro, rojo, coloradito, amarillo, verde, chichilo, and manchamantel — have gradually incorporated ingredients linked to the postcolonial period, such as onions, garlic, sesame seeds, and various spices. In the Valles Centrales, many moles include a thickener: traditionally, nuts, raw or cooked masa, and tortillas were common, but now cooks might opt for bread or ground sesame seeds, or sometimes forego a thickener altogether. Tortillas remain the only indispensable side dish. 'There isn’t a standardization,' Jorge shares at Alfonsina between services. 'No one can pinpoint whether something is mole or not; everyone has their own interpretation.'

For chef Veronica Aquino Ambrocio, who prepares meals for a reforestation initiative in San Martín Tilcajete, mole embodies the comfort of caldo de guajolote, a rich turkey broth that imparts a unique flavor to the moles of Santa Ana Zegache. She combines this broth with chiles while crafting her mole negro or coloradito. Growing up, her family couldn’t afford meat to accompany the mole, so they used white beans instead. For Carina Santiago, who operates two restaurants in Teotitlán del Valle, mole brings back memories of her grandmother grinding fresh oregano and thyme on a metate to prepare mole de castilla, typically thickened with bread and paired with turkey. Thalia Barrios García, owner of Levadura de Olla in Oaxaca and hailing from the mountainous San Mateo Yucutindoo, associates mole with the delightful surprise of family members arriving with baskets of wild mushrooms collected at dawn for mole amarillo con hongos.

This means that in the restaurants, homes, and markets across Oaxaca, everyone has their own unique take on mole. Some may prefer ancho chiles, while others opt for costeños. Some might thicken their sauce with bread, whereas others use masa. Some might char the chiles more thoroughly than others, and while some blend the ingredients, others still use a metate. Oaxaca is not just home to seven moles; it’s a land of 7,000 moles. The more you attempt to define them, the more you understand they elude definition. They are everything. They are nothing.

I first met León Hernández and León in late 2018, shortly after they launched Alfonsina together. Prior to this, she had been making and selling tortillas daily, along with various antojitos, to neighbors, while León honed his skills in professional kitchens. Initially at Casa Oaxaca, he learned to create traditional Oaxacan dishes, later becoming a key player at Pujol in Mexico City — Enrique Olvera’s acclaimed restaurant known for its Mole Madre, Mole Nuevo dish — and contributing to various aspects of Olvera’s culinary group, focusing on moles and masa.

Upon returning to Oaxaca, León aimed to establish something special with his mother at their family home in San Juan Batista la Raya. Every peso he saved contributed to purchasing kitchen equipment and constructing a small dining room with a comal. They transformed the courtyard by adding tables and an outdoor kitchen with another comal and fire pit. Initially, it was just the two of them, but their team quickly expanded, as evident in the bustling kitchen before a recent lunch service. León’s stepfather, Macedonio García, is nixtamalizing corn in a large pot over an open fire for tomorrow’s masa. León’s brother Rubén, the sous chef, is peeling pitaya and crushing almonds for dessert, while his wife Claudia manages reservations and the dining area. Aunts and cousins are busy preparing, making tortillas, and serving guests, all wearing T-shirts that proudly read “Familia.”

Landrace corn, a cherished heirloom variety native to Mexico, forms the foundation of the Alfonsina menu. In the mornings, it features in León Hernández’s traditional comida corrida, while in the afternoons, it stars in León’s more eclectic lunch and dinner offerings. Sourced from local farmers in their ancestral village, this corn is crafted into tortillas, tlayudas, sopes, tamales, and tostadas, with the moles remaining a staple throughout.

Mole is a dynamic reflection of personal journeys and unique inspirations. León Hernández’s moles draw from her childhood traditions and the classic mestizo techniques of the valley. In her village, they prepared just one type — a spicy red mole akin to coloradito. Chiles were ubiquitous, with none of the foreign seeds or spices found in her current mole negro. After moving to Oaxaca, her mother-in-law introduced her to mole negro and estofado, which León Hernández modified, reducing sweetness and boosting the chiles, staying true to her roots while creating her own versions.

León vividly recalls his first taste of his mother’s mole in Santo Domingo Nundo. Elvia offered him a cucharilla, a local Dasylirion used as spoons at Alfonsina, and the mole was vibrant and full of life. Even back then, he felt it was more than just food: it was central to birthday celebrations, weddings, and Semana Santa (Holy Week), often enjoyed with shrimp cakes known as tortitas de camarón. 'The occasion didn’t matter,' he reflects. 'Preparing the mole was a celebration in itself.' To some purists, León’s moles may not fit the traditional definition; they are fresh and more aligned with pre-Hispanic styles, inspired by local produce in whites, greens, and yellows that reflect the seasons, sometimes incorporating ingredients like yuca or pulque. He devises many of these moles while exploring the Mercado de Abastos in Oaxaca, reminiscent of his mother’s spicy creations.

'I believe they are evolving and maturing,' León Hernández remarks about her son’s moles. 'They’re full of surprises. I absolutely love them.'

There’s a deep respect between them for each other’s craft. They often work side by side in the kitchen: He might demonstrate the best way to clean chiles for optimal flavor extraction, while she teaches him a specific technique for grinding herbs. At times, she stirs one of his moles while he prepares chiles for hers, blurring the lines between their creations.

While crafting his moles at Alfonsina, León reflects on how his approach connects him to the past. At 18, working at Casa Oaxaca, he was tasked with making the restaurant’s moles using recipes for large batches—50 kilos at a time. Back then, he had no experience with mole: making it was traditionally a skill taught to girls. 'I had to figure it out myself,' he recalls. This experience sparked his interest in his mother’s cooking, setting him on a lifelong quest to understand his identity and heritage.

Watching her son prepare mole, León Hernández reminisces about arriving in San Juan Batista la Raya at age 20. It was meant to be a brief stop on her way to the United States, as many from her village were migrating there. Santo Domingo Nundo was losing its people. León, just 4 years old at the time, feared that moving to the States would erase his memories of Mexico. Understanding the gravity of this for her son and the community, she declared to her family, 'We aren’t leaving. We’re staying in Oaxaca.'

In the early hours, while most of Oaxaca still slumbers, I stroll with León through the Mercado de Abastos. He explains that in the past, every vegetable and chile was an heirloom variety cultivated in specific microclimates. However, as access to commercial products grew over recent decades, this changed. Villagers began favoring cheaper industrial sugars and salts over traditional items like panela and handcrafted salt. These shifts not only altered the flavor of mole but transformed the entire ecosystem of ingredients and the livelihoods tied to them. As we encounter vendors from distant rural communities with their avocados and tomatoes spread across blankets and tables, León shares, 'I had to persuade my mother to start using tomato riñon,' holding up a large, ridged red tomato. 'She used to pick the cheapest options and didn’t see the value in paying five times more for this variety.'

León was determined that Alfonsina would also embrace this shift. Specifically, he sources corn from small farmers in Santo Domingo Nundo. He actively seeks out forgotten or displaced ingredients throughout Oaxaca. In the sierra, he discovered a community growing criollo chiles and making chintextle, a smoked chile paste. On the coast, he gathers criollo hibiscus flowers and collaborates with sustainable fishing communities in Puerto Escondido. In the jungle of La Chinantla, he found cacao growers, while in La Mixteca, he sources pulque and wild mushrooms. Alfonsina is evolving into a thriving ecosystem for these producers and his family.

Back at the restaurant, León is crafting a mole inspired by a vision he had that morning at the market. Though it's a new creation for him, he feels confident in his flavor combinations. He begins by grinding pumpkin seeds in a Vitamix. Next, he chops parsley, garlic, and onions, adding them to a hot pan with whole manzano chiles—larger, milder habaneros with similar flavor. After a few minutes, he tosses in an abundance of squash blossoms, which wilt and soften in the pan after about 30 minutes.

In the blender, he incorporates part of the mixture, tastes it, and nods in approval. After further blending, he samples it again, adding more from the pan until the Vitamix starts to steam. He quickly sautés some parsley, blends it in, and then combines everything back in the pan. The process continues: stirring, blending, returning to the pan, adding more chile—until he achieves the perfect texture and flavor. He offers a cucharilla with some mole to León Hernández, who nods in agreement. Just like his mother’s moles, no single flavor dominates, but there’s a pleasant kick of spice.

As he prepares fish and mustard leaves to accompany this unnamed mole, we discuss Pujol’s renowned Mole Madre, Mole Nuevo dish. A hallmark of modern Mexican fine dining, this two-mole presentation features an aged mole negro that is continuously enriched with fresh mole, akin to a sourdough starter, topped with a new mole rojo.

For food enthusiasts and global diners, the Pujol dish presents a cutting-edge experience, one that dazzles on social media, yet it draws from deep-rooted traditions during village festivities. In Oaxaca, crafting a mole can take five days or longer. The initial days focus on preparing the chiles: cleaning, charring, and grinding. Then comes the celebration day, when the mole is shared with the community. However, the true magic occurs the following day, when families reheat the mole at home—the famous recalentado—enhancing its flavor immensely.

“My mother taught me the significance of this practice,” León explains. “Reheating isn’t for everyone in the village, just for your family. That’s what matters. This is the essence of Mole Madre, Mole Nuevo: recalentando, recalentando, recalentando.” This reheated mole represents tradition, a cherished meal crafted not for tourists but for the people of Oaxaca. As long as moles are being prepared, the joy of recalentado will endure.

León explains that it was Olvera's concept to layer the mole nuevo on top of the mole madre, allowing diners to experience both moles together and savor the nuances shaped by time. Inspired by this, León decides to present his mother's mole negro alongside the light-green mole he has just prepared, placing them side by side on the plate rather than stacking one over the other.

Writer and photographer Nicholas Gill co-authored the Latin American Cookbook and pens the Substack newsletter New Worlder. Juan de Dios Garza Vela is a photographer specializing in food and travel. When not engaged in photography, he also creates illustrations and murals. Currently based in Guadalajara, he can’t envision life without tacos.