For me, mole has always been personal. It’s a bridge to my family, my memories and to Mexico itself. But lately, it’s become political too. In these past months, as Trump’s administration has run roughshod over any pretense of humanity in the way America treats immigrants, I’ve been thinking about how culture itself can be criminalized, policed, restricted and erased.
So when I heard that Pujol, Enrique Olvera’s Michelin-starred Mexico City restaurant, was bringing a pop-up, and his famous mole, to Los Angeles, I knew I had to go. I wasn’t hungry just for mole but for my people, our culture, to be seen, even celebrated.
Ten kitchen and wait staff traveled to Olvera’s L.A. restaurant Damian for the event. That detail hit me hard because of the risks in crossing borders at a time when every Latino entering the U.S., no matter how or why or with what legal status, is suspect. Even inside the U.S. the border follows you. The message is clear: Perceived outsiders are untrustworthy by default.
Still the Pujol chefs and servers came, and brought with them Olvera’s mole madre — a constantly aged, evolving mole that has been developing (almost like a sourdough starter) for a full 10 years. Some call it iconic. But as Olvera says, “We’re not trying to make the best mole — just our own.”
That’s the heart of it. Mole is memory, place, family, self.
At the pop-up, I expected to be served one mole, the mole, the mole madre. Instead, we were served three.
The first was a mole de olla — meaning, cooked in a clay pot. (I’m used to the term “de la olla” referring to beans — frijoles de la olla, soupy and whole, not mashed or refried.) I was surprised to find that this mole wasn’t traditional, that is, it wasn’t a sauce poured over meat.
Instead, it coated a tender short rib, more like a basting than a pour. And the flavor went deep: dark, smoky, with a chocolatey-coffee undertone — not sweet, but rich and complex. If I hadn’t known it was mole, I might’ve mistaken it for a sophisticated barbecue glaze. The short rib itself was fatty, fork-tender and indulgent.
The next mole arrived like a tribute to artist Josef Albers’ “Homage to the Square” — except this was a composition of nested circles on a round, white ceramic plate. At the center was an adobe-red mole nuevo, alive with brightness and vibrancy. The mole madre encircled it, just as its name suggested, like a mother cradling her child, a culinary pietà. Hand-written in pen, the menu noted the mole madre had now been aged for 3,676 days. The color was a deep, dark brown — like the bark of an ancient oak tree after a rainstorm, earthy and noble. The colors reflected not only the dish’s depth but also the palette of Los Angeles, its temporary home.
And it was served sans protein. Suddenly, the richness of the short rib in the previous course made sense — it had fulfilled the need for heartiness, allowing this dish to stand on its own.
I scooped a tortilla outward toward the plate’s edge — from the younger mole to the madre mole. The first bite was lively, spiced and bright — already better than almost any mole I’d ever had. Then the mole madre : thicker, more like pudding than sauce, reminiscent of the dense Spanish hot chocolate served with churros.
It had the presence and gravitas of the San Gabriel Mountains — rising sharply from sea level to 10,000 feet. Just like those mountains catch the light — pink, orange, purple — this mole revealed layers of spice and complexity. It didn’t just have depth; it had archaeological, geological depth.
And yet, I had to laugh. It was a good thing I hadn’t brought my mom or my tias to the pop-up. As transcendent as the dish was, they would’ve said: ¿Y la carne?
When we asked how the mole evolves, our waiter explained that the ingredients change with the seasons. Before coming to Los Angeles, the chefs had added guava, apples and pears.
Excited, I asked, “What will you add while you’re in L.A.?”
The waiter smiled. “We don’t have plans to add anything.”
But I wanted them to. I wanted Los Angeles to give the mole something in return — a gesture of reciprocity. When my family visits from Mexico, they bring raw cheeses, dried shrimp, artesenal pan dulces, beaded art made by the Huichol. We reciprocate with See’s candies boxes, Dodger gear, knock-off designer purses from Los Callejones.
Couldn’t the chefs take something back? A flavor? A symbol? Something to mark that they weren’t just visitors, but familia returning to ancestral soil here in Los Angeles, a city that was once itself part of Mexico?
I thought of the loquats in season, sweet and floral, growing in backyards across L.A., so delicate they cannot be sold in markets. They’d make the perfect local accent. I thought of the sour cherry juice from a Georgian dumpling house in Glendale, its tartness would add a contrast to the mole’s depth. I thought of David Mas Masumoto, the Japanese American farmer in the Central Valley whose family was imprisoned during World War II but whose peaches still flourish.
Then I remembered the orange blossoms, blooming at the Huntington in San Marino. I’m writing a book about the Huntington gardens, and I know those trees once bore fruit picked and packed by Mexican laborers, 100 years ago. The Pujol mole, I realized, could hold a memory, just as those trees do. L.A. oranges and mole madre — they’d form a kind of culinary Latinidad, a genealogical and territorial fusion through food.
I turned to the waiter and said, “Please, take our oranges back with you. They’re a link — across miles, generations. They belong with your mole.”
He promised to pass the message on to the chefs.
I had come to taste a legendary dish, to be sure. But in the savoring, I was struck by how precarious everything feels in this moment. I found myself yearning to convey how deeply what’s Mexican and what’s American are still connected, people to people, gente to gente, no matter what the government in Washington says.
Every mole carries a story, even if it doesn’t earn Michelin stars. The story tastes of a living, evolving history. And I want that story to shine.
Natalia Molina is a professor of American studies and ethnicity at USC. Her latest book is “A Place at the Nayarit: How a Mexican Restaurant Nourished a Community.”
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