Say “enchiladas” to me and what goes through my head is Mexican lasagne: carbs, sauce, cheese, oven, repeat until bubbling. It’s less a recipe than a production line, and this one ran in the Bunker, with the oak bar barely settled (more on that in Siôn’s Bunker). Red onion and the pulled pork went onto the griddle, tortillas got a dip in the sauce, and then it was fill, roll, pack, and bury the lot in more sauce and cheese.
The pulled pork was leftovers, which is what enchiladas are for. It was already cooked, already shredded and already smoked, so all it needed was a reheat on the griddle and something loud to wake it up. I had three somethings on the counter.
A buffalo wing rub, a piri piri marinade and a smoked habanero sauce: Angus & Oink’s Buffalo Soldier, Carringtons’ Piri Pepper Chup and Mr Pikante. None of them has any business in an enchilada, and that’s why they were there. The only conventional thing in the building was the sauce, Old El Paso red enchilada sauce from a tin, which is fine but beige. Dipping every tortilla in it before it got filled was the one reliably boring step.
What rescued it was the jar with no label on it: mixed chilli peppers from my own greenhouse, pickled at home. They did more for those enchiladas than the tin did.
That’s the greenhouse, in the back garden in the summer sunshine, with the raised beds in front of it. Everything in that jar started life in there.
After that it’s a rhythm. Pork down the middle, a handful of grated cheese, fold, roll, and into a white dish until there’s no room left. Over the top went more sauce, more cheese and a dusting of dried coriander. It came out of the oven browned and bubbling, with a crust of crisp pork at one corner, which is the best bit.
The whole production line, start to finish:
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