Un poco picante

Ají is the name of the spicy peppers that grow in profusion in this part of the world.  At the market, the pepper vendor points them out to me in order of más picante (the stunted, unripened green ají) to medio picante (the ripe yellow, orange, and red peppers the size of my little finger) and then on to the other, bigger pepper species.  "Poco pica," he says of this last group, shaking his head despondently.

I ask for the ripe peppers and he hesitates, inquires don't I want the más picante?  I shake my head no, knowing from firsthand experience just how spicy the green ají are: last year, one of my more mischievous students picked one off a bush near the community center and offered it to me, he and his friends shrieking in laughter at my reaction (which was to spit it out rather violently).  Oftentimes it seemed that my students and I were there to entertain each other at each other's expense, me laughing at their childish shenanigans and they at my bumbling efforts to speak and act as an Ecuadorian.  It certainly made for an interesting atmosphere in the community center classroom, and I think one that was on the whole more productive than in their normal school classrooms, where they are expected to sit still, copy from the board, be silent unless called on, and behave.  In any case, we were all learning together, which made us more of a team than anything else.

Nowadays, I work less with the kids at the community center, but I still try to avoid the green ají.  The pepper vendor grabbed a plastic bag and scooped some peppers into it for me, tied it with a flourish, and accepted my quarter with a Gracias, que le vaya bien.  Frankly, I don't know how he makes a living.  The Ecuadorian palate generally abhors food that is even remotely spicy.  He must work hard to move the ají along, but the good-sized handful I bought for a mere 25 cents still left me wondering how in the world he makes a profit.

The one thing ají is used for on a common basis here is in a salsa of the same name.  Any restaurant will have a small bowl of ají on each table, and it's commonly made and kept in the house as well.  It goes with basically any dish you can imagine: empanadas, soups, stews, fried eggs...sortof like some people use ketchup in the States.  There are a few staple ingredients (the ají peppers, tomato, onion, cilantro, lime juice, salt), but aside from those it is up to whoever's making it to decide what other ingredients to add, how to make it, and the level of picante they want it to be. 

I tend to get excited when I find a restaurant where the ají is actually spicy, and I'm routinely disappointed by the watered-down versions that are more popular.  So, in the spirit of being self-sufficient and adventuresome, I decided it was time to adopt the habit of making my own ají and keeping it at home.  Which is how I found myself buying a whole 25 cents worth of ají peppers at the market.

There are different types of ají; the recipe I use was found on this website, which features quite a few gems of Ecuadorian cuisine. 

The gist of it is, you squeeze the lime, mince up the rest of the ingredients, and throw everything in the blender with a bit of potable water.  It comes out looking something like the goo the Swamp Monster might live in (not too appetizing).

Typically, the ají you find here is heavily tomato based and will be red in color.  But this kind - this is the seriously spicy kind, sans tomato.  Like most other ají, it's fairly watery (so it doesn't compare much to Mexican-style salsa, probably what the majority of Americans are familiar with in the way of salsas), which simply means it soaks up well in rice, plantains, or whatever it's mixed with.  Dee-lish.

Best things about this ají sauce: you can tweak it however you want, and it gives a healthy dose of zing to pretty much everything.  My eyes are watering in anticipation.