Carmen's Mole
We came to celebrate Daisy’s birthday. “We” in this case refers to a mostly 30-and-up crowd in stunning attire, each with a distinct blend of oddball passions. The venue: Carmen’s flat, a spacious and impeccably decorated apartment that somehow marries leopard print and teal velvet with dim and moody large-scale paintings. The host and several others have taken their fashion cues from the menu, swishing around in long, Mexican-style dresses, full of brightly colored embroidery. On each guest’s arrival, roses and drinks are immediately administered. Even for the underdressed, the room does a lot of work to elevate the vibe. It’s easy to feel elegant here.
I am offered a hibiscus sour. I feel trepidatious—I’ve had one too many throat-punching, syrupy beverages centered around that attention-hungry flower, and I find sours are often uncomfortably indulgent of such excesses—but I throw myself on the skill and mercy of the host. I am rewarded with a well-balanced cocktail. A luscious drizzle of syrup luxuriates in a foamy egg-white bath, cushioning the hibiscan blow and creating room to enjoy the spirits underneath. It invites sips more than deep draughts. Given the earliness of the evening and the lightness of my own constitution, I sip it slowly.
Waves of guests arrive to increasingly warm fanfare. Along the way we discover it’s Carmen’s birthday as well, a fact she casually brushes off. Clearly she is more at home as hostess than as the guest of honor. We snack on blood oranges brushed with some sort of floral essence, and Carmen reveals she has a passion for perfumery. I would later find this was just a prelude for the evening’s nasal acrobatics.
Once a quorum is present, it’s time for dinner. Three massive pyrexes are unveiled, tightly packed with mole chicken enchiladas. Nine inch tortillas are filled, rolled, and tucked in with incredible efficiency, each one a light meal in itself, and the starchy array is smothered in rich, chocolatey mole sauce. A sprinkling of pomegranate and sesame seeds add a light and playful rhythm on top. Sharing the table we have the remainder of the cut-and-scented oranges, a large bowl of refried beans, and three different jars of pickles.
The mole's aroma is deep and nutty. I detect chocolate, chili, a mix of earthy spices, and something toasty that’s hard to place. I’ve read about moles that include toasted baguette, but that doesn’t seem quite right. Perhaps sesame is carrying all that toastiness, but I’d bet money there’s something else going on. Like all good moles, it’s impossible to detect all the notes at once.
I take a bite. The blended chili is soft and relaxing, a languid heat that builds slowly but never dominates. The flavor spreads and lasts. Underneath is a grassy note: green peppers, cooked al dente, yield to tooth and tongue. It’s clear the depth of the mole will take time to probe and assess, but I’m also surprised by the chicken. It’s blanch-white and shredded, but creamy at the same time. On further inspection I discover cheese beneath, mild and squeaky, buffering the chicken from below. It’s satisfying to bite through.
To me, a good dark mole feels deep and distant. It’s slow and profound, like when a usually confident friend meets you in a moment of vulnerability and you sit in respectful silence together. Mole isn’t here to be understood or analyzed, it’s here to be felt with. It’s already whole, and in encountering it you confront the irreducible strangeness of your own heart as well. After all, some parts of us are foreign even to ourselves.
Carmen’s mole has some of this poignant complexity. But I, buoyed from its depths by the remains of my hibiscus sour, find myself wandering upward into lateral bouquets rather than plummeting into the mole’s depths. The cheese and chicken aid in this regard, providing a smooth and clear middle ground to stand on, a reference point between earth and sky.
The beans were pretty good. Honestly it felt like they were just along for the ride in the midst of that crazy mole. The pickles, however, are intense. The white onions are redolent of cumin, the shallots have a punchy tang, and the little slices of radish have a peppery kick. All are direct and unapologetic, bold accents that step to front of the palate. Whenever you've had enough of the mole and beans' languorous monologue, the pickles are there to interrupt and refresh with staccato clarity.
After dinner we had plenty of time to digest and chat. This delay was critical: the heat needed to disperse and settle for us to properly encounter the desserts. Here Carmen was able to really stake her claim in scent with two dishes, both boldly fragrant: a smoky flan and baklava with edible perfume.
I hate flan. It’s always too sweet, too eggy, or both, and all that vanilla can make the cloying sweetness worse. But here I encounter none of those annoyances. A thin caramelization—not crisp, but just enough to embitter the flan’s sugary skin—complements a deep and pervasive smokiness. With egg serving as base note rather than theme, flan and I get along far better than usual. I’d come back for more if I weren’t stuffed.
But not too stuffed for baklava. Of everything on the table, it’s the baklava that’s the most transparently a vehicle for fragrance. I recognize in it the same basic binding I find present in almost every perfume. I once visited a conceptual art exhibit in which someone had made perfumes emulating different pollution profiles in different cities. Despite their variety of foulness, they shared an aromatic kinship with every composed scent I’ve encountered before. I don’t know or understand what comprises that foundation, the sovereign glue of scent, but here in the baklava it holds together floral arrangement of mostly roses.
Despite its bouquet however, this perfume does not touch my memories of rosewater. For me, all rosewater leads back to the hand of a woman I loved, who would gently drizzle it over homemade knafeh. I’d had knafeh before, but it was often oversweetened, stiff, and pointless feeling. I never wanted a second helping. But hers felt like the real thing. The shredded filo was so delicate and toasty, the sweet cheese would just melt into me. She’d measure out the syrup and rosewater carefully, enough to notice but not to overwhelm. Her knafeh was a welcoming presence, warm and supportive, always inviting, never demanding. I still miss her.
Now, with baklava in hand, I expect the scent of rose, nuts, and honey to grab all those memories and haul them to the surface to be felt again. But it doesn’t. The base of the edible perfume somehow insulates it from my memories. It elevates the baklava to a wispy fantasy, a flirtatious debutante greeting everyone on the dance floor, all twirling skirts and sidelong glances. Its aroma is affectionate, charming, and never serious. After all, we’ve just gotten acquainted. Why talk about the past when we're at such a lovely party?
Some part of me is grateful my encounter with the baklava is so light. But another part of me would prefer the quiet company of the mole, or even the flan. They would make room to acknowledge the missing knafeh. Even if a memory no longer demands attention, it still deserves a seat at the table.
Carmen restores me to the present with another cocktail. The table has been cleared, and the scent of roses has disappeared with it. Hushed voices and gestures indicate it's time to sing happy birthday. Even after cleansing my palate with herbal liqueur, smoke and honey linger in my mouth, a mix of old and new. And with all these flavors on my lips, I stand to join the chorus, open my mouth, and sing.
