Masa for Tamales: Cinco Puntos

Michael Sedano

Quince libras de masa preparada, I told her. She nodded, turned, walked to the mixer and began preparando my masa. I wait.

Cinco Puntos. Thirty minute detour, plus a stop at a panaderia because Cinco Puntos specializes in hand made tortillas de maiz and tamales-making necessities.

Cabezas de chivo, the ten-year old sister informs two younger kids following her. Chilango vowels expressing enough asco to make her point, syllables unfurling to present a striking music to the overheard moment. Her siblings nod assent, turning to stare seriously upon the racks of roasted goat and beef heads.

The two tortilla-makers work steadily. The one nearest smiles briefly when I catch her eye then resumes work. Lean in to pinch some masa, roll it on the lip of the metate, pulling away a palmful, pauses, pat-pat, swivelling to face her corner of the stainless steel comal, where a new tort bubbles its readiness as she turns to lay the next one to take its place. 

She pat-pats four more times then leans toward her hot spot while her fingertips finish rounding out the tortilla. She sees a spot and plops down the shaped masa. She keeps a dozen cooking constantly.

Ten feet across the comal at the far corner, her partner doesn't look up. Her comal's fully covered with roasting tortillas, eighteen or more. My friend's burners are inefficient, the woman's comal showing only a few hot spots, one in particular where she puts the fresh ones to start them. Her partner looks to have a six- or eight- tort hot spot in front of her, allowing her to have so many more tortillas. The nearby tortilla maker's output will never surpass her comadre's, the comadre will always hold title of better tortilla maker. It's OK, my friend is young. In ten years, she'll have that spot, and she'll be the best.

Preparando masa takes the right amount of time, allowing a wandering mind's making eye contact with a staring cabeza de chivo. Or the roasted molars smiling under oily tender-cooked lips. Offal eaters we are, judging by the hot case. Cabezas; tripas -- braided and cooked solid, crispy. Look like tripas de leche. Kidneys. Organs roasting on an open fire.

Offal sausage. Fatly bulging membranes of sangre. The sign doesn't say morcilla or any euphemism; Sangre it is. Bolitas chorizo, the best you can find; an unusual chorizo in a short chub. Chorizo -- heart meat, cheeks, trimmings, fat, anything you can chop up and cook tender with lots of red chile and spices.

Chicharrones. Thick chicharrones, saturated, sporting one thin crispy toasted layer. Fried Skin. Fried fat. Crispy chicharrones. No chicharrones de carne here, too bad; deep fat fried lomo, rich and soft. Pull the meat apart with your fingers and eat with your hands. Pickled pork skin, not as much fun eating as a pata.

I pick out two bags of chile negro but: no carne seca , no carnitas, nor chicarrones -- cholesterol, salt, no beef or offal today.

A dozen tortillas de maiz.

Four streets from my home, Food4Less sells 10 lb bags of masa preparada, all the chile, and more, for a tamalada. Even raw cabezas. Cinco Puntos masa may be LA's best. Masa preparada'd while you wait holds its fluffiness still fresh off the beater so the tamales come out moist, light, tender.

A stop at the panaderia to pick out fluffy conchas, soft helotes, and crunchy glistening campechanas. Mission accomplished: masa, chile negro, pan. The entire drive home across stop-and-go surface street congestion I can't get offal off my mind, and those serious faces heeding the voice of that little indian girl, Cabezas de chivo.

Welcome to the Land of Plenty, kids.