Chimichangas: Whodunit First?

BY: Leo W. Banks

The Great Chimichanga Quest

Text by Leo W. Banks

Photographs by Edward McCain

The mystery sounded delicious, and it captured my fancy. So off I went, tracking "the great chimichanga." For those not in the know, a chimichanga is a deep-fried burro, usually composed of a flour tortilla folded and stuffed with shredded beef and chiles, surrounded by lettuce, tomato, and onions, then doused with sour cream, guacamole, or hot sauce. The "chimi" is popular at Mexican restaurants in Arizona and, increasingly, throughout the Southwest. But popular isn't quite the word. Some diners go downright nutty over them. Chimichangas have become the food equivalent of the Grateful Dead or the New York Yankees. They inspire excess, loyalty, and legend. I wanted to learn why. I wanted to trace the lineage of this unlikely dish and unravel some of the tales surrounding its origin. I didn't realize I was stepping into a minefield. "It's the most controversial Mexican food around," says Gilbert Mariscal, whose family runs Micha's Mexican restaurant in Tucson. Almost every Mexican chef has a chimichanga creation myth, and it's guarded like an old family recipe. Some laughed at me when I dared broach the subject. Some whispered in my ear. Some made me promise to guard their identity. "Okay," I'd say to them. "We're off the record. Now spill it."

The most common story is the stuff of pure legend: A grandmother in Nogales, Sonora, accidentally drops a burro into a deep fryer, and voila, a cult cuisine is born.

Another story has it that in the 1940s there was a bar in Nogales, Sonora, called the Chimi Chango. Its most popular item was an oven-baked burro, which eventually made its way north and became the chimichanga.

But only a few of the chimichanga experts I consulted believe the dish originated in Sonora. One is Diego Valenzuela of Gordo's Mexicateria in Tucson.

His argument is simple deduction: Early chimichangas were sometimes called chivichangas. Chivo is Spanish for goat, and for years goat meat was a staple along the border.

If he's right, that raises the question: Where are they now? Order a chimichanga in a restaurant in Mexico and wait for the blank stare. They've never heard of it.

Jim Griffith, who runs the Southwest Folklore Center, has set down chimichanga boundaries from the Salt River Valley on the north, down through Tohono O'odham Indian country on the south.

"That's the area where you find the big flour tortillas used to make them," says Griffith. "So I got a hunch the darn things started around there somewhere."

Most say the chimichanga's specific place of birth is probably Tucson. But how did it come about? And who was its inventor?

Another popularly told story is about the truck driver rumbling north from Tucson to Phoenix in 1945, carrying some burros his mother had packed for him.

He arrived at the Mexican restaurant he owned to find that his wife had already cleaned up for the night. Rather than dirty the skillet, she dropped his cold burros into the only thing that was hot: the deep fryer. The result was so good, the trucker added it to the menu as a deep-fried burro.

That yarn comes from Tucson Citizen Editor John Jennings, the first chimichanga detective. In the mid-'80s, he spent weeks sleuthing around, try-ing to dredge up whatever morsel of fact he could about this mysterious food.

He wrote a series of columns. The case was a tough one, nothing but heartburn.

"You'd think it'd be a simple matter of a chef sitting down, inventing it, giving it a name, and that'd be it," says Jennings. "But maybe it didn't happen that way. It might've been more gradual."

Jennings intends to find out. Now, a decade later, he's picked up the scent again. "I want to get back into it because a lot of the old chefs are dying off," says Jennings. "We're running out of time."

I know what Jennings will encounter on the chimichanga trail: bravado, speculation, hope, and excess.

When Gilbert Mariscal remodeled his restaurant in 1984, he decided to celebrate the reopening by cooking a huge chimi-changa, one that was just under 16 feet long. He had to cook it in a specially made stainless steel trough. It took 300 gallons of vegetable oil and permission from the health department.

"We rolled the tortilla on stainless steel mesh with handles on the sides," says Mariscal. "It took 10 people to pick it up and slowly lower it into the trough. It was like carrying a coffin."

To add still more uncertainty to the chimichanga legend, Mariscal says the first fried burros weren't made by Anglos, or even Mexicans, but by Indians, probably Tohono O'odham or Yaqui.

"They fry their bread, and my mother al-ways told us they fried their burros, too," says Mariscal.

That fits with something else the folklore center's Griffith said: The first chimichanga he ever saw was on sale at a booth at Tuc-son's Pasqua Yaqui Village.

It was Easter, maybe 1956 or 1957. "I was with a guy who ate a lot of Mexican food, and he'd never seen one before," says Griffith. "For the record, it was spelled with an M."

Diego Valenzuela's first encounter with a chimichanga was about 1959. He was in a Mexican restaurant in Tucson's Ash Alley, the town's beatnik section.He was served a chimichanga covered with mayonnaise instead of hot sauce.

"Must've been some strange gringo version," says Valenzuela. "Mayonnaise."

It might've been a joke, chimichanga humor. It exists. One chef told me a story that doesn't qualify as serious creation myth, but it's a good rib-poker.

There was a fellow named Jimmy from San Diego who enjoyed visiting a certain brothel across the line in Tijuana. He became a regular, well known for his love of fried burros and the rowdy parties he hosted.

They were called pachangas. After a while, these blowouts became known as "Jimmy's pachangas," and it wasn't long before some beer-soaked brothel-wag decided that fried burros needed a new name.

I don't have to tell you what he picked. Beatnik food? Jimmy's pachangas? This thing is getting out of hand. The questions only mount.

It's a riddle wearing a sombrero snoozing against a saguaro shaped like a question mark and wrapped in a serape woven of eccentricity. Consider what George Jacob has in mind.

He plans to write a book about Club 21, the Tucson Mexican restaurant he's been running for almost half a century. His book will have a chimichanga chapter.

Jacob will argue that it's food folly for any single person to claim credit for its invention. Then he'll tell the story of how the chimichanga was added to his menu.

He remembers the day in 1950 exactly. He was confronted with a crabby snowbird, an Easterner suffering an affliction that tended to elevate his nose.

The man ordered a green chili burro and complained that the tortilla was raw and needed cooking. Jacob did his best to convince the fellow that flour tortillas are supposed to be that way.

Up went the sniffer. "No," the fellow insisted. "Cook it."

Jacob dropped the burro into a pan and fried it like a pancake, brushed it with shortening, and browned it on both sides.

The man was deliriously happy. Jacob tried one himself and liked it so much he added it to his menu. He called it a fried burro. Later the name became chimichango, and by 1955 the moniker was chimichanga.

"It was all to keep the snowbirds happy, and that's the truth," says Jacob, who still has his menu from 1950.

I have to admit riding the chimichanga trail is frustrating work. Every person you talk to adds another sighting, and the legend only expands. It's Bigfoot with cholesterol. But I agree with newspaper detective Jennings that the first deep-fried burro was probably noshed somewhere around Tucson, and probably in the early '50s. I'm not certain about his theory of chimichanga evolution, though. I'm more of a creationist. I like the image of a chef toiling away in

trail is frustrating work. Every person you talk to adds another sighting, and the legend only expands. It's Bigfoot with cholesterol. But I agree with newspaper detective Jennings that the first deep-fried burro was probably noshed somewhere around Tucson, and probably in the early '50s. I'm not certain about his theory of chimichanga evolution, though. I'm more of a creationist. I like the image of a chef toiling away in the cramped kitchen of some unremarkable adobe shack on a steamy desert night, news about Eisenhower blaring out of the Philco radio sitting nearby. And suddenly, by accident or design, the deep fryer pops and sizzles, throwing a billow of smoke out the screen door and across the hanging moon. Okay, okay, it's romantic nonsense. But the chimichanga inspires such notions, and I think I know why. It's the name. Names mean a lot. Look at This recipe is from Judith England, who was born on the family ranch near Magdalena, Sonora, Mexico. She and husband Gene have owned an illustrious business, their Santa Cruz Chile Company, in Amado, Arizona, since 1938. That's authentic enough for me.

Refried Bean Chimichangas

The runner bean is traceable in the Tamaulipas Mountains of Mexico back to 7000 B.C. With instinctive wisdom, early cooks combined beans and corn tortillas. Later came flour tortillas and cheese. Some Mexican Julia Child added chiles. Place tortillas, warmed in oven so they fold easily without cracking, on counter. Center ½ cup of beans on each. Fold top and bottom edges in, roll over, and tuck ends in. Heat oil and fry chimichangas until speckled. Drain on paper towels. Garnish with greens and salsa.

Heat lard or oil in heavy pan large enough to hold beans. Spoon beans in with a little water to stir easily. Not too thin, however; beans must be thick. Stir in cheese and cook until melted through beans. Add green chiles.

FWC Chimichangas

In 1972 the Faculty Women's Club of the University of Arizona loved trading recipes at their Friday Night Foreign Foods get-togethers. Shirley Sacamon contributed this meaty chimichanga.

Bake meat at 250° to 300°, foil-covered, 2 hours, adding a little water if needed. Cool until fat solidifies. Skim. Shred meat and retain ¼ cup of the meat juices. Combine meat and juices in large fry pan and add chiles, tomatoes, Goldwater's Chili Mix, and remaining spices. Cook slowly until moisture is gone, about half an hour.

ous and thoughtful. I agreed with him and added my plug for chimichanga. I love the word. It has star power. It makes you turn your head. You can't help but say it again and again. It's an unforgettable play of sounds and syllables, a mysterious mouthful.

To assemble chimis, place 2 tablespoons longhorn cheese on each tortilla. Top with 2-3 tablespoons meat mixture. Add 2 tablespoons Jack cheese. Season with garlic salt and pepper. Fold all sides in and secure with toothpicks to make a square. Deep-fry in 1 inch hot oil until golden brown. Drain on paper towels. Top with remaining cheese. Serve on a bed of shredded lettuce, topped with sour cream, guacamole, and salsa.

Cowboy Macho Chimichangas

SERVES 3

Crumble chorizo sausage and ground game into heavy fry pan. Cook over medium heat until browned; drain. Stir in seasoning and tomato sauce, green chiles, and taco sauce. Bring to a boil, then simmer, stirring until thickened. Jalapeño peppers are for muy macho guests only. Spoon mixture onto centers of flour tortillas. Fold in opposite sides and roll up, using toothpicks if necessary to keep filling inside. Use deep fry pan and oil or lard to within an inch from the top. Oil is ready when bubbling. Very hot oil cooks chimis faster, yet prevents them from being saturated. Place chimis on their "seam" to seal. Turn and remove with tongs when both sides are bronzed. Drain on paper towels, top with jalapeños and cheese.

The Great Chimichanga Quest Shrimp-Stuffed Chimichangas

SERVES 2 OR 3 Bob "Cookin' Wild" Hirsch and his wife, Mary, have prepared hundreds of fish and game meals, usually outdoors. This chimi variation is a Sonoran special.

Fry bacon crisp enough to chop. Remove bacon and retain about 2 tablespoons fat in pan. Peel and devein shrimp, then chunk. Grill in pan 1 minute. Stir in cheese, salsa, tomatoes, and chiles. Turn to blend but not long or shrimp will toughen. Divide and pile on tortillas. Fold all sides over and fasten with toothpicks. Slide with care into hot oil and brown lightly. Drain on paper towels. (Or bake in 400° oven 7-10 minutes, no more.)

Lee's Vegetarian Chimichangas

SERVES 2 OR 3 Eggs and a cheese with character transform a chimi into an innovative breakfast pleasure. Add vegetables and the chimichanga rolls up for lunch or dinner. A great way to use leftover meat, crab, or chicken. Lee Fischer, of the Golden West publishing family, writes about his burrito recipe in What's Cookin' in Arizona. A chimichanga is basically a fried burrito here's a healthy baked one.

Beat eggs together until frothy. Melt butter in heated skillet. Add your choice of onions, red or green bell or chile peppers, mushrooms, potatoes, zucchini, or sprouts. Stir until cooked crisp, add beaten eggs and scramble together. Remove from heat. Place warmed (in oven) tortillas on baking sheet. Fill with vegetables, allowing space to fold over edges. Fasten each with toothpicks. Lightly brown in 350° oven. Remove toothpicks. Top with cheese and salsa. Garnish with sour cream and avocados.

Chimichangos Dulces de Tubac

(Sweet Thingumabobs from Tubac)

SERVES 6

From Richard Wormser's witty Southwest Cookery, published by Doubleday. Since nobody could tell him what chimichanga means, he called them "thingumabobs," and spelled them with an "os" instead of "as."

Tortillas

Mix flour, salt, and cinnamon thoroughlyly. Cut in lard with a knife. Add enough water to mix into rather elastic dough. Cut the dough into lumps the size of an egg. Chill half an hour. Powder baking board with flour. Butter hands. Pat out each dough ball as big in diameter as the largest skillet you own. Put skillet over moderate heat (300° to 325°) or medium on electric stove. Heat skillet until a drop of water dances and steams. Lightly heat each tortilla for a minute on each side until slightly brown or speckled. Remove and stack in a towel. Set aside.

Filling

Stew enough apricots, peaches, or dried apples to make 2 cups, adding 2 tablespoons raisins, if desired. Stir ¼ cup granulated sugar and ½ teaspoon grated lemon Grind into fruit. Bring to a boil, stir, and cool.

To assemble chimis, fold each tortilla 2 inches down from the top and up from the bottom; spread the cooled filling from fold to fold, 2 inches in and 2 inches from the right-hand edge. Spread a little butter an inch from the fruit. Roll the chimis right to left around the fruit. Heat lard to 370°, bubbling hot. Drop chimichangas in one by one. Remove as they turn golden. Drain on brown paper. Serve hot, sprinkled with powdered sugar. Add anise seed, if desired.

Chocolate Chimichangas

SERVES 5 OR 6 These bite-size chimis are the creation of Norman Fierros, known in Phoenix and Beverly Hills for cooking Mexican dishes with flair and flavor surprises. Quite detailed, this combination of melting chocolate and crisp tortilla is worth careful effort. Recipe shared by Barbara Fenzl, from the gorgeous Southwest the Beautiful cookbook, Collins Publishers.

Cut the chocolate bar along lines into 16 1-oz. bars. Using a ruler and a sharp knife, cut off sides and bottoms of the tortillas to make straight edges. Cut top halves in the shape of a wide upside-down V like an envelope with its flap open. Heat tortillas in hot oven or on a warm griddle to soften, 30 seconds per side. As they warm, place in plastic bag to keep soft. Place chocolate pieces 1 inch from bottom of each tortilla. Fold bottom over chocolate. Holding it in place, fold right side of tortilla over the chocolate and bottom fold. Fold left side over, then roll up tortilla into a folded packet. Secure with a wooden skewer. Fry chimichangas in one inch of hot oil until golden, 3 to 5 minutes. Drain on paper towels. Remove skewer and serve warm, sprinkled with powdered sugar.

Tucson-based Leo W. Banks gained great insight writing this story, and a few pounds to boot. He also wrote about Skull Valley in this issue.

Edward McCain, who also lives in Tucson, ate his first chimi in 1980, and it was love at first bite.

Phoenix-based Louise DeWald's latest cookbook is Chabela's Fiesta Memories and Recipes.