Salsa verde
Tomatillos and green chilli blitzed with coriander and lime — sharp, loose, and made in the time it takes to boil a kettle.
Rinse the tomatillos well — the husks leave a sticky film that tastes soapy.
Quarter them and put them in a blender with the chillies, onion and garlic.
Pulse in short bursts until coarsely chopped, stopping well before it looks smooth.
Add the coriander, lime juice and salt and pulse two or three more times.
Taste. Tomatillos vary a great deal; add the sugar only if it is puckeringly sharp.
Pour into a bowl and leave for 10 minutes before serving, which lets the raw onion and garlic settle down.
It keeps three days in the fridge and separates as it stands, so stir it before it goes on the table.
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Sharp first, and sharper than most people expect — tomatillos are genuinely acidic, closer to a gooseberry than to a tomato, with a citric tang that arrives before anything else. Behind it there is a green, slightly grassy vegetal flavour and a faint fruitiness. The chilli heat is clean and immediate rather than smoky. Raw onion and garlic supply a pungency that is quite aggressive for the first few minutes and mellows as it stands. Coriander is the top note and the one that decides whether people like it — it is bright, citrusy and soapy to a substantial minority of the population for genuine genetic reasons. Salt pulls it all together, and the sauce needs more of it than seems right. There is no sweetness unless the tomatillos were unripe enough to need the sugar.
Green and sharp. Coriander is the loudest thing by a long way, then raw onion and garlic, then a fresh vegetal smell from the tomatillos that is closer to cut grass or green apple than to tomato. Lime over the top. It smells cold and clean, and it smells like something that will wake up a plate of rich food, which is exactly what it is for.
Loose, coarse and juicy, with small soft pieces of tomatillo and a slight graininess from the seeds. There is no fat in it at all, which is unusual for a sauce and is why it reads as refreshing rather than rich. It clings just enough to sit on a taco without running off.
Only the blender, and the pulsing is the point — short bursts rather than a continuous run, so the sound should be four or five distinct noises rather than one. On the plate it is silent.
Acid first and hard, then the green vegetal flavour behind it, then the onion and garlic pungency rising through the middle. Chilli heat is the last to arrive and it builds across a meal rather than within a mouthful. Coriander sits over everything from start to finish. The finish is short, sharp and clean — it clears the mouth completely, which is the whole reason it is served with rich, fatty food. Over the days it keeps, the chilli comes forward and the coriander recedes.
Cool or room temperature, never fridge-cold. Cold blunts the aromatics and leaves only the acid, which makes a sauce that is merely sour. Take it out twenty minutes before it goes on the table.
Fat and richness, which is its entire job. Carnitas, carnitas above all — slow-cooked pork and this sauce is one of the great combinations. Tacos of any kind. Grilled meat. Fried eggs. Roast potatoes. Chicharrón. It cuts through everything heavy and does it without adding any fat of its own. It is also very good stirred into a bowl of plain beans. Where it fails is with delicate food, which it obliterates, and with anything already sour.
Very easy, with two things to know: rinse the tomatillos, and stop the blender early. Neither is a skill.
Low, if you can find tomatillos. They are the only ingredient that is not a supermarket staple in most countries, and tinned ones are inexpensive.
A blender or food processor. Traditionally a molcajete — a basalt mortar — which gives a better texture and takes considerably longer. A bowl.
Whenever there is something rich on the table. It is a year-round sauce.
Tomatillos are a summer and autumn crop where they are grown. Tinned ones make the sauce year-round.
Coarse and flecked, not smooth. You should be able to see distinct pieces of tomatillo, distinct green flecks of coriander and distinct pale bits of onion. If it has gone pale, uniform and frothy it has been over-blended, and it will also taste noticeably more bitter — blending drives air in and oxidises it.
Loose and spoonable, with body from the tomatillo pulp rather than from anything added. It should pour off a spoon in a thick stream rather than sitting in a mound.
Nothing raw that presents a risk beyond ordinary raw vegetables, so wash everything. It contains raw garlic and onion, which some people find hard to digest — resting it for the ten minutes helps.
Not rinsing the tomatillos properly, which leaves a bitter, faintly soapy taste that people usually blame on the coriander. Over-blending, which turns it pale, frothy and bitter. Under-salting — this sauce needs a surprising amount and tastes thin without it. Adding the sugar automatically instead of tasting first. And serving it straight from the fridge, which mutes everything except the acid.
Bitter: either the husk film was not washed off, or it was over-blended, and only the second is fixable by making it again more carefully. Too sharp: half a teaspoon of sugar at a time, and no more than a teaspoon total. Too hot: there is no way to remove chilli heat from a made sauce — blend in another tomatillo or two. Harsh and oniony: it has not rested; give it twenty minutes. Watery: the tomatillos were very ripe; strain a little liquid off, or add a small piece of avocado to bind it.
Yes, up to a day ahead, and it is arguably better after a few hours as the raw alliums settle. Beyond two days it dulls. Stir before serving.
Three days in the fridge, covered. It separates as it stands and needs stirring; that is normal and not spoilage. It also gets hotter over the first day as the chilli infuses, and slightly duller after two.
Not applicable. Heating it makes a different sauce — good, but cooked, and no longer this.
It freezes acceptably and comes out softer and duller. Better to make it fresh, since it takes ten minutes.
Genuinely useful. It goes on eggs, into a braise, over roast potatoes, and it is the base of chilaquiles verdes and salsa verde enchiladas if you cook it down with a little stock.
Linearly, with one caveat — a blender needs a minimum volume to circulate, so a half batch may need pushing down repeatedly.
Jalapeños in place of serranos are milder and slightly more vegetal; both are correct. Green tomatoes are not a substitute for tomatillos — they are a different plant with none of the citric sharpness, and the sauce made from them is flat. Tinned tomatillos work well and are the practical answer outside Mexico and the United States; drain them and cut the lime back slightly, since they are packed in acid. White onion is traditional and red will do at the cost of colour.
Vegan, dairy-free, gluten-free and nut-free as written, with nothing to adapt. It is one of the few things in the collection that is naturally everything.
Fresh tomatillos from a Latin American grocer or a well-stocked supermarket, still firm and filling their husks; a tomatillo rattling loosely inside its husk is old. Tinned as the fallback. Serrano or jalapeño chillies. A large bunch of coriander with the stalks on.
Tinned tomatillos are much cheaper than fresh outside the Americas and make a perfectly good sauce. Use the coriander stalks rather than throwing them away — they carry more flavour than the leaves and are usually discarded.
Nothing notable. Using the coriander stalks is a small real saving of something usually binned.
About 25 calories a serving. It is essentially a raw vegetable puree: no fat, very little sugar, a useful amount of vitamin C from the tomatillos and the lime. It is the lightest thing in the collection by some margin.
Worth it, and it is the most useful ten minutes in the collection. No cooking, no equipment beyond a blender, no fat, three days in the fridge, and it improves almost every rich thing you put it next to. The only barrier is finding tomatillos, and tins solve that.
Mexico, and pre-Columbian.
Salsa verde, or salsa verde cruda to distinguish the raw version from the cooked one. Tomatillos are simply tomates in Mexico; the red fruit that English calls a tomato is a jitomate. That reversal catches out a great many recipes in translation.
SAL-sa VER-deh. Tomatillo is toh-mah-TEE-yo.
Green sauce. Tomatillo means little tomato, which is botanically misleading — it is a different genus, Physalis, and a closer relative of the cape gooseberry than of the tomato.
The tomatillo was domesticated in Mesoamerica and was the important fruit in the region's cooking well before the tomato was — archaeological and codical evidence puts it in Aztec agriculture, and green sauces of tomatillo, chilli and herbs are among the dishes Spanish chroniclers recorded on arrival. That makes this one of a small number of recipes in the collection whose ancestors are genuinely pre-Columbian rather than merely old. The sticky residue on the husk is a real botanical feature — the plant produces compounds that deter insects, and they are bitter, which is why rinsing is a genuine instruction and not a fussy one.
Along with its red counterpart it is one of the two sauces that sit on every Mexican table, and the choice between them is a running domestic preference rather than a rule. The raw and the cooked versions are treated as different sauces with different uses rather than as a shortcut and a proper method.
Every day, with anything. It is not a dish for occasions.
A molcajete — a three-legged basalt mortar — ground rather than blended. It gives a genuinely different texture: crushing releases the juices without whipping air in, so the sauce is denser, darker and less bitter than a blended one. If you own one it is worth the ten minutes.
The blender is the change, and it is a real one rather than a neutral convenience: it aerates and oxidises the sauce, lightening the colour and adding a bitterness that a mortar does not. Pulsing rather than blending is the compromise and is why this recipe insists on it.
Cooked versions — boiled tomatillos, or charred under a grill until blistered — are equally traditional and taste completely different: sweeter, deeper, less sharp. Roasted garlic instead of raw makes a mellower sauce. Avocado blended in makes salsa verde con aguacate, which is creamy and very good on tacos. The chilli varies by region and by household, from mild jalapeño to habanero.
It is a straightforward raw salsa. Where it is more explicit than most is the rinsing instruction and the reason behind it, and the direction to stop the blender before it looks smooth.
No attribution. It is a traditional preparation with no author.