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Charles Brommer's chile roaster/photo by Birdie Jaworski
My lungs filled with the rich aroma of roasting green chile as I waited my turn at the gas pumps. Gabriel continued filling the tank of a tired elementary teacher. She slumped in the seat of her beat Ford Escort, head propped against the seat rest, as if five minutes of fuel could hopefully mimic twelve hours of good sleep. I realized she wasn't sleeping; her heavy eyelids meant rapture.
"Cómo estás, Birdie! You smell the chile? It's finally Fall." She reached outside her window and waved a plastic bag of cinnamon-laced biscochitos my way. I accepted a cookie, took a bite.
"Hey, thanks. I love chile season. I can't get enough of that beautiful smell."
The end of September in New Mexico means chile, means waxy green pods stuffed in burlap bags at the local grocer. New deep-red ristras can be seen hanging from balconies and porches, and men man caged machines where the green chile harvest is turned over shooting flames to produce a blistered skin.
Chile peppers have been a part of human diet in the Americas since at least 7500 BC, perhaps even earlier. Archaeological evidence at sites located in southwestern Ecuador show that chile had already been well domesticated more than 6000 years ago, thanks to its self-pollinating nature.
Chiles are considered a true superfood. Rich in vitamin C, a good source of most B vitamins - especially vitamin B6 - they also rank high in potassium, magnesium and iron. Health researchers believe that chile can help keep you cancer-free, can help reduce the amount of insulin required to lower your blood sugar after a meal, can help you shed unwanted pounds.
Chile is so important to New Mexico that it's been declared the state vegetable, even though scientists call it a fruit. Most historians credit Juan de Oñate, the Spaniard who founded Santa Fe in 1609, with bringing cultivated chiles into our area. He spread tiny dried chile seeds he carried from Chihuahua along his route, leaving them with native farmers, with mission monks, with the hope he would one day return to vibrant fields of fragrant spicy peppers.
The old monks roasted chile in the same manner we do today – over fire with a continuous flipping and tossing of the pods so that they are evenly blackened. You can see these roasters at various locations around town – at Lowe's, at Wal-Mart, in a backyard on 5th Street where a quiet man smiles at me as he turns his homemade wire machine. Sometimes I pause and watch him, watch his wiry arms load new green chile into the 55-gallon basket turned on its side, watch him close the hatch, rotate it over a fire fueled by canisters of propane. He concentrates on the chile as it spins, his brown eyes closed tight as if his meditation coaxes them to life, to the daily communion of red or green we take at each meal.
I watched a tall man in black jeans and a baseball cap spin green in front of Lowe's on Mill Street. He chatted with a customer as the broken black skin fell from the wire basket into a trough below the flames. Charles Brommer spoke to me as he fiddled carefully with the cage, made sure his customer's chile burned even and true. He shrugged his shoulders when I asked him how long he cooked chile.
"Just a month. It's my first season. It's a good job, a job where you know you're doing something important."
He laughed, as if roasting chile were actually a small thing, something unimportant. His blue cap shaded his eyebrows, made him seem mysterious, a chile Ninja. But his dark eyes gave away his emotion, his connection to these long green pods.
"I love the smell. On a good day, you can smell it all the way up at Alltel."
I let my grin speak for me, let him know I loved his work, loved the way the sky rose with the scent of our ancient land. He smiled, too.
"I've lived here my entire life," Charles explained, "but I've never tired of this smell. I think I like green chile with enchiladas best. I also love it with eggs. I just don't like it too hot. Medium is best for me."
Charles cut open a burlap bag and hoisted the contents into one of two waiting cages. Lowe's customers walked past, most stopping for a moment to watch, to share a smile. Charles carefully adjusted a gas nozzle until hot flames covered the bottom of the machine.
"I let the machine do all the work," he mused. "There really isn't a trick. Basically I heat the chiles until the skins are burnt, then I turn off the heat and let them slow-cook."
Charles' customer waited patiently on a wooden bench while his chiles roasted. Joachim Romero pointed to the gray smoke as it wafted past us. He wore a dapper striped shirt tucked into pressed jeans, a man reverently dressed for the important yearly sacrament of collecting nature's finest.
"I've been living here for over twenty years, but my family was originally from Las Vegas here," Joachim said with emphasis. "My grandfather, José Leon Romero, helped drive the first cattle to this area and was one of three men who manned the Ilfeld store. I like chile real hot. I like it on everything. I eat it all three meals. There's no way I can eat any food at all without chile."
We waited as the chiles' skins puckered and sizzled, enjoying the aroma, enjoying the simple pleasure of sharing a sacred tradition. Charles brought the machine to a stop. The rotating basket shivered silent, its belly full, ripe with culinary promise. He emptied the chile into a waiting box lined with a heavy black plastic bag.
"I've roasted for folks from Colorado, Arizona, Texas - even a couple from Baltimore who never saw chile being roasted before," laughed Charles. He handled a scruffy broom and swept the small burnt skin peelings into a pile. "People use the roasted skins to feed their chickens. It helps clean them out and helps with laying eggs. I save these peels for anyone who comes and asks."
Joachim handed Charles a tip, then waved goodbye as he hauled his bag of blistered chile to his car. A fiesty crow hit the ground, gnarled feet extended, grabbed a smoldering piece of chile skin and charged toward the clouds. Birds don't carry the same sensitivity to capsaicin - the substance in chile that creates its heat - that humans do. Chile peppers are, in fact, a favorite food of many birds living in the peppers' natural range. In return, the pods' seeds are distributed by the birds as the seeds are passed through their digestive systems unharmed.
Charles cleaned the roaster in preparation for his next customer. The crow circled above us, his body bathed in evaporating smoke. Charles ripped open a new bag and the scent of freshly picked chile mixed with the remnants of the last roast.
"On a good day I make twenty dollars in tips. Like I said, it's a good job. Ah," yawned Charles as he adjusted the height of the flames, "it just smells so good."
Green Chile Sauce
Yield: Approximately 2 cups Cooking Time: 20 minutes
1 tablespoon olive oil 1 cup chicken broth or water
1/2 cup chopped onion 1 clove chopped garlic
2 tablespoons flour 3/4 teaspoon salt
1 cup chopped roasted green chile
1. Heat olive oil in a medium-sized skillet on medium heat.
2. Sauté the chopped onion and garlic in the oil. Add flour and cook
for 1 minute.
3. Add all remaining ingredients and simmer for 20 minutes.
4. Pour over every meal, just like Joachim Romero!
