I had a curious thought after crossing the entrance door of Cocina de Humo: scented dish soap does a disservice to the enjoyment of food. The same thought showed up while drifting through the busy alleys of the Ozumba market a week before. I still don’t know why that thought manifested so abruptly, maybe I remembered my great aunt’s back patio, immediately evoked by the scene in front of me. I also carried with me the pungent smell of air freshner of the taxi that brought me here, a stark contrast with the raw fragrance of wood and clay of the aisle that welcomed me. Cocina de Humo is a restaurant in downtown Oaxaca City that operates under a closed door and reservations only profile. Two private rooms flank a terrace decorated with clay pots, tropical plants and an imposing Amapolla tree (also known as Dr. Seuss tree) or Coquito in Spanish. In Mexican folk medicine, the Coquito flower aids in the treatment of asthma, ulcers and kidney infections. Its bark and roots are used for the treatment of imbalanced sugar levels in the blood. I reached out to them to take pictures of the space and, hopefully, of cooks prepping food. I had particular interest in seeing the communal table where food is prepared out of comales right in front of guests. Luck allowed me to witness service during a reservation organized by Omar Alonso (a prolific cultural ambassador of the city) and to interview Thalia Barrios and Pau. Pau was busy preparing salsas and starting the fires of the comales. She shared with me a piece of pan de elote and poleo tea. We spoke while she prepared her tortilla station. She talked about Rutila, the house turkey. Her eyes shone when she remembered her grandmother, her experience during the last milpa visit and her favorite salsa de Chile Seco. I collected corn from the granary with her and saw her toast it and ground it for agua de maíz. After a couple of hours I sat with Thalia and her partner Jonathan. The most charming moment was sharing soup with her while she described childhood memories and fulfilling her dreams of becoming a chef in the city. Her respect for cooking traditions expresses without cliche or trendy soundbites. Thalia’s sense of belonging burrows deep through time like the roots of a coquito tree.

THALIA

Thank you for your time, Thalía. How do you experience the preservation of culinary traditions in Oaxaca?
In the city I often hear people say that I'm rescuing traditions. And sometimes I feel uncomfortable with that, because I'm simply sharing what is done in my village. When you live and practice traditions, your perspective is different. Now, most towns in Oaxaca have access to the internet and cell coverage. That’s awakened new ways of thinking in people.
I remember someone told me a comment made by Hugo Durán about the confusion between pre-Hispanic identity and indigenismo. Hugo said that Mexico expects to see Indigenous people in huaraches and traditional dress in order to judge their authenticity.
Hugo came to my village. I told him that there were towns here before the conquest. For example, the Mixe region already existed. Our neighbors speak Mixtec, Zapotec, and Triqui. My village is more recent—founded around the year 1600. We don’t have a native language or urbanization, but that doesn’t mean we don’t have our own identity. The women wear dresses made with fabrics produced here in the city. They’re not handwoven, but that doesn’t mean they’re not authentic. For example, the city of Oaxaca was founded in 1486. But even before that, we already had the capital of Tlaxiaco. Tlaxiaco grew during the Porfiriato and became a major trade center. When I decided to come to the city to study, the Technological University of the Central Valleys was the only public university offering gastronomy. My family doesn’t run restaurants because it’s different in the village. Everyone cooks. Hotels and restaurants aren’t services people consume. A traditional Oaxacan family grows their own corn and has their own garden.
How did Cocina de Humo start?
We’re about to celebrate five years of Levadura de Olla and four and a half years of Cocina de Humo. We started as a tiny space, only serving seven people behind closed doors. Now if you search online, there are lots of “cocinas de olla” and “cocinas de humo”—the concept became popular. For us, it was never a business idea. It started as a way to make our own tortillas and do our own thing. But with the pandemic, it became a business. Sometimes I argue with Jonathan about dessert. He’s from Mexico City and I’m from a small town. In the villages, we don’t eat dessert at the end of a meal. So when we try to explain that to someone who’s not from Mexico, they don’t understand. What we offer instead is candied pumpkin or mango.

Does social media influence people’s expectations when they come to visit?
Yes, definitely. I think that’s why we’ve chosen to stay behind closed doors. In the end, it’s publicity, but sometimes it becomes misleading.
What other cuisines from around the world do you like?
I like Italian and Japanese cuisine.
Would you like to experiment with blending traditional and global cuisines in your career someday?
Maybe later on, when I have more experience. In the village, I never had access to many ingredients. For example, I didn’t try wine until I was twenty, and oysters until I was twenty-one. In the village, we don’t eat bread with savory things. Bread is for dunking, not to accompany food. I think blending culinary traditions has to be done with a lot of respect. I learned to cook by living—it was never consciously taught to me, it was part of my routine, between working the fields and feeding the pigs. Watching videos makes it hard to learn other cultures’ cuisines—it’s better to live them. Not long ago, I was at a restaurant in Mexico City and found a dish that referenced the Mixteca. The waiter told me it was called “Mixteco fish” because it had Mixe chili. And I was telling Jonathan that it’s called Mixteco because it uses pasilla Mixe chili, which comes from the Sierra Mixe—not from the Mixteca. The names might sound similar: Mixteco and Mixe. But they are totally different cultures. In the Mixteca, pasilla Mixe chili doesn’t even exist because it’s colder there. These kinds of errors may sound small, but they’re important. That’s why I say I still have a lot to learn and a lot to taste. In these ten years since I decided to study, I’ve learned so much about flavors—but there’s still a long way to go.

What do you consider the most important part of learning global cuisines?
Learning the fundamentals. For example, some things make us feel indignant. There’s a viral video of a woman making a tortilla with a rolling pin. And that’s fine—we do absurd things sometimes too—but some fundamentals exist for a reason. Here, with my family, I allow myself to experiment. Even though I’ve never eaten paella, I can make it. But I don’t have the flavor references to compare it to a Spanish paella. I dare to experiment privately, but not when serving customers or making a public statement about it. To speak about food commercially, the most important thing is to believe in what you're saying. And that’s a matter of identity. In this project, I feel a strong sense of belonging—to my culture, my village, and my family.
Would you like to go back to your village someday?
Well, I go back often—every month or every two weeks. My dream was to get to know the capital. So I feel like I’m living my dream by being here. But I maintain my connection to the village.
Do you see yourself expanding your role as a traditional cook in the future?
Yes, I think later on, when I have more experience. Right now there’s a lot of work to do. There are many things you can’t convey through social media. For example, when we run tortilla workshops for kids, it seems easy, but it takes a lot of time and logistics. Also, we grow our own corn, from scratch. We prepare the land and then plant—it’s something I know how to do well because I’ve done it my whole life. But all of that requires a lot of work and time. Our menu changes daily—we don’t serve the same thing every day. For example, right now the tree on our terrace only has ten flowers; two weeks ago it had about two hundred. And that requires maintenance and care.
What a beautiful metaphor for constant change in a restaurant.
Yes, the tree changes. It might seem like it looks the same every day, but it doesn’t—it’s different every day.
How do foreign food trends become rooted in contemporary Mexican cuisine?
We see it as a matter of survival. Here in Mexico we have a lot in common with foreign processes like Nordic fermentation. We have harsh seasons and good seasons. In Europe, there are months without sunlight, so they have to adapt. A year ago, we went to an island where we ate fermented lamb leg. If we wanted to make that here, we’d have to watch the temperature much more closely, and the process would take longer. But for them it’s totally normal because they adapt to their climate—they’re surviving.

And in Oaxaca, preserving food for long periods isn’t necessary.
Maybe in some states it is, but here we have corn and beans year-round—that’s our foundation. We don’t need to preserve vegetables—we eat what’s available. For example, this soup you’re eating is made with squash. We harvested them in January after planting them in June last year. We’d never had so many—about three hundred, really big ones. We use them in sweet dishes, soups, or atole.
So in your kitchen, ingredients don’t stray much from their original uses?
I really like trying new places and eating what other cooks are making. But because of my sense of identity and belonging, I wouldn’t add butter to this soup in our restaurant. It’s not about being a purist—it’s an ethical issue. Jonathan says I’m a purist about some things and not about others. For example, in the past, people in Oaxaca would have conchita, pan de cazuela, hojaldras, chamucos, and yellow bread for breakfast. Now you only find those breads in the markets, not in restaurants. Sourdough bread became so trendy that every restaurant added it to their menu. And for us, eating mole with a piece of sourdough bread feels strange. Oaxaca has received so much global attention that many tourists come and practically want to teach us how to serve them. In those details, it’s important to protect our culture. Señora Paula is from here—she has deep Central Valley culture, and I’m from the Sierra, so we share knowledge. But they’re still Oaxacan recipes, and we don’t want to lose that.
And how does that philosophy affect your service?
Some people confuse being hospitable with being their servant. But at the end of the day, it’s a business, and you have to find balance.
How did you find your own balance?
By keeping the door closed and waiting for people who truly want to understand the project to knock at the door. And by always preparing food at our highest standards.

PAU

What are you going to prepare, Pau?
We’re going to make egg salsa. We can make it in the molcajete or on the metate. The base is tomato, onion, garlic, jalapeño, and serrano chile, so it has a little heat.
Where did you learn to cook?
I studied public accounting and worked in that field for about five years. Then I moved to a construction company and worked as a secretary. After that, I took a two-year sabbatical. I was at home and got bored. I had a relative working at Levadura de Olla who told me they were hiring and asked if I wanted to go. I said yes. That’s where I started cooking. At first, I only prepared infusions, coffee, café con leche, and chocolate de agua.
Who cooked in your family?
My grandmother. She’s the one who taught me the little I knew. She passed away twenty years ago.
Do you miss her?
Yes, she was like a mother to me. I grew up with her. The first thing she taught me to cook was mole. She sold tamales on the weekends and made mole every eight days.

What kind of tea is this?
It’s poleo (pennyroyal). It’s very traditional in the villages. They prepare it for weddings and when they dance with the turkey. Supposedly, it helps relieve a lot of ailments.
Do they dance with a live turkey?
Yes, yes, yes. They dance with it, open its wings and everything. People hand out little sprigs of poleo, and they dance with that too. The tea helps with digestion when something doesn’t sit well. Chamomile helps with inflammation, and poleo helps with infections. It’s also good for hangovers.
And what is this cake made of?
Tender corn. When the corn is young, we call it elote. This cake doesn’t have flour—it’s just eggs, a little milk, and corn with the husk. We don’t grind the corn completely; we leave it a little coarse so it has texture. Now we’re going to bring some corn to toast. We’ll take it from the granary.
Can you tell me about Rutila?
Rutila was very small when she was brought to us—about three or four months old. We named her Rutila. As she grew, a relative of the chef came one day and said she was going to feed Rutila. When she saw the turkey, she asked why we called it Rutila. “Because she’s a girl,” we said. “No, ladies,” she told us, “Rutila is a male!” But by then, he had grown up with the name Rutila, so we just left it that way.
What kind of wood do you use at Cocina de Humo?
We usually use oak. That kind of wood gives us embers. Now we’re going to toast the corn—this is how we make our corn drink. We toast the corn regardless of color—it could be yellow, red, or white. We keep toasting until it starts to pop.

Where does your corn come from?
It comes from the chef’s hometown. We don’t have a problem sourcing corn. It’s grown in the chef’s village, San Mateo Yucutindoo. The corn is starting to pop—it’s complaining that I’m burning it! We recently had an event celebrating the harvest.
What was the event about?
They brought all the corn harvested from the fields. It was planted in July and harvested in November. We filled the place with ears of corn. People from the chef’s village came to talk about their experience as farmers—how they plant, harvest, and care for the corn.
What impacted you most about that talk?
Well, the chef always tries to involve us in every step—planting, cleaning, harvesting. I got to help with planting, and it was very different from what I’d seen before. For example, they use a digging stick or iron bar to make the holes. You carry a pouch with seeds, and you plant three at a time: corn, beans, and squash. First, you make a hole, drop in the seeds, and then cover it with your foot. It’s like a dance. You have to imagine your own row—the furrow isn’t marked. You create the path with your steps. It was a beautiful experience. They even shared food with us—what they bring to the fields. They gave us an egg taco with a dry chile salsa. During the event, a woman from the Isthmus came to make mole de maíz, and another woman made a delicious bean mole.
From what you're sharing, it sounds like you discovered traditional Mexican food twice—once in childhood and again when you started working?
Yes, when I started working here, I already had an idea thanks to my grandmother. I knew how to make mole amarillo and mole verde. I didn’t study gastronomy, but I’ve learned so much from Chef Denise, Chef Thalía, and Chef Jonathan.
From your perspective as an accountant, do you think a restaurant is a good business?
Yes. My grandmother didn’t go to school, but she always said, “Look, mija, food will always give you a profit. You’re never going to lose. If you don’t sell it, you eat it.”
Did your grandmother have a business?
Yes. At home, on Sundays, she sold traditional snacks—tamales, atole. For many years, she sold tortillas.

Do you dream at night?
Yes, I do. Sometimes dreams feel like something I’ve already lived. Before working here, I used to dream that I was doing something related to cooking. When the chef interviewed me and offered me the opportunity, I thought about it a lot. I hesitated. I was kind of resistant to accepting it. Then I realized it was what I truly wanted. Now that I see myself here, I say—it’s okay to dream. I once dreamed I was cooking and panicking because there were so many people. Now I serve up to 17 people—10 all by myself.
Now that you’ve fulfilled your dream of working in a kitchen, what do you dream about?
About continuing here.
In your experience, how are culinary traditions passed down through generations?
They’re kept alive as long as the children are interested. In my family, for example, none of my sisters like cooking. So I was the one who got taught. I was always by my grandmother’s side.
How would you describe Oaxaca in culinary terms?
Oaxaca has it all—we have beaches, mountains, everything. I think our gastronomy is incredibly rich. It’s one of the largest states. We have 570 municipalities, and every region has its own traditions, typical dishes, and its own mole. For example, here in the Central Valleys, we use mole coloradito a lot.
What’s in mole coloradito?
It’s a very simple mole, but it’s packed with flavor. It’s a party mole. It has ancho chile, guajillo, puya chile, and tomato.
What dish would you like to learn to cook?
Oh man. Here, for example, we make a delicious barbacoa tamale. It’s a lot of work—you have to be very dedicated. Also, during the rainy season, we make mushroom-based dishes. We even hold an event to go forage for them.
What kind of mushrooms do you collect?
We have manita, egg yolk, lion’s mane, hen’s foot, and cow’s tongue. Cow’s tongue has the same texture and flavor as beef tripe. The corn is toasted now—so we put it in the blender, add water, strain it, add sugar, ice, and serve. This is our corn water.

Cocina de Humo (english)

Cocina de Humo (español)