Cool Ceviche For Lazy Summer Nights

The bad news is that it is late August, which means it's hot and muggy outside, which also means that I am cooking-lazy (again). Bad news because I am crazy hungry but don't want to heat not even one tortilla lest my kitchen become a blazing infierno. Then, before I know it, I'll be eating tuna out of a can, just like my cat.

The good news is that I can always make some cool tilapia fish ceviche (Seh-VEE-Cheh) tostadas instead.

Now that summer is almost through, I hope you don't mind if I scoot in this recipe at the last minute. I have to thank my friend Gloria for this one. She is from Eastern Jalisco, where there are no white sandy beaches or fancy sweet tropical drinks with little umbrellas. It probably is the last place you would expect to find a simple yet jump-for-joy no-cook tilapia ceviche recipe. It is a small town, more like a rancho to be exact, not too far from Guadalajara.

So when Gloria and Armando invited my viejo and me over for dinner, I was somehow hoping for something else. I was wishing for something like birria de chivito—stewed baby goat—a dish that is all together authentic and in keeping with the romantic notion of what I think of as rustic Mexican food. Something that could only come out of Mexico's heartland, not anything oceanic if you catch my drift. What I found instead was a huge bowl of this tilapia ceviche with corn tortilla tostadas. I could say that I was disappointed, though in retrospect, I am happy that the poor baby goat was granted a reprieve and did not have to be sacrificed just to satisfy my cravings. Stewed baby goat will have to wait for another day.

Always one to create an event by performing a simple but dramatic act, Gloria presented us with a large bowl of guacamole. It was nothing more than smashed avocado with a bit of salt—and just perfect, not gussied up with salsa or lime juice this time. No need for further embellishment, it really tasted gorgeous just like its fresh green color. The real surprise, though, was when Gloria instructed us to spread mayonnaise on the tostadas before topping them with the ceviche and the guacamole. Its tangy creaminess framed the hot and lemon-tinged ceviche, grounding it, making it more substantial so that it wouldn't just float away as some ceviche recipes do. Of course, the ceviche didn't float away, but I did.

Whenever I enjoy a dish that I know I will be thinking about for a long time, I always ask the cook why she likes it, and why did she decided to cook it this time. I was half expecting Gloria to say, "Eating ceviche reminds me when I saw the ocean for the very first time. There was a flaming orange sun setting over the calm waters of the Pacific just off Puerto Vallarta. Draped across the sky were shades of orange and violet—then a soft twilight descended over us, suffusing everything in a soft, pinkish glow. And suddenly I knew that I couldn't bear to live without it, to listen to the ceaseless bounding of the surf for the rest of my life." Or something quasi-poetic like that.

Instead she rolled her eyes and replied, "Don't you know that I was lazy and I didn't feel like cooking?"

Ay, amiga mía, my sentiments exactamente.

Tilapia Ceviche Tostadas

This is so easy that you really don't need a recipe. This is just a guide so that you can make as little or as much as you want. However, if you have to have a recipe, here it is. Make sure that you use only a non-reactive bowl, such as plastic, stainless steel or glass, while the lemon juice is "cooking" the fish and onions in the frig. It is a no-brainer to say that this dish tastes best icy cold, so lay the bowl of ceviche on a bed of crushed ice.

8 oven-fried tostadas (see recipe below); OR, 8 store-bought tostada shells (for hot, muggy days only!)

1 pound tilapia or red snapper filets, chopped into small bite-sized pieces

The juice of two medium lemons

½ cup diced white onion

½ cup diced green bell pepper, finely chopped jalapeño or serranos, or any combination thereof*

½ tomatoes, the sweetest you can find

1/3 cup fresh cilantro, chopped

salt to taste

1 mashed avocado

mayonnaise (optional)

bottled Mexican-style hot sauce, or fresh chile salsa

In a medium-sized mixing bowl, mix together the chopped fish and diced white onions. Pour in the lemon juice, and using a spoon, mix it with the fish and onions. Cover the bowl with plastic wrap and place in the refrigerator for an hour or two, or until the tilapia is opaque. The tilapia is now cooked. Add the chiles, tomato and cilantro. Add salt to taste.

Mash the avocado and place with the pit in a separate bowl. I made mine plain, but you can gussy it up if you want.

Before serving, spread some mayo on each tostada. Add a large spoonful of the ceviche and serve immediately. Serve with the guacamole, cut limes, and the hot salsa.

*(Variation: If you have the time and don't mind standing over a hot stove, omit the bell pepper and add diced roasted poblanos instead. It is certainly worth the sweat!)

Oven-Fried Tostadas: I adapted this recipe for great oven-fried tostadas from the January/February 2006 issue of Cook's Illustrated. They are crunchy without being too greasy.

about 1 tablespoon vegetable oil

8 store-bought mini corn tortillas

Salt.

Brush each tortilla on both sides with a little oil. Salt them to taste, and arrange them in a single layer on a cookie sheet. Place the tortillas in a pre-heated 450˚oven for about 5 to 7 minutes, or until they start to turn color. Flip them on the other side and continuing baking until they are golden brown, about 2 to 3 minutes. Remove them at once.

A Shrimp By Any Other Name

"Camarón? You want to name your kid camarón?"

"No, ΄Amá, CAM-er-on. CAMeron. Can't you say it right?" Leave it to his mother to ruin the name he and his wife had carefully chosen for their unborn child.

She spit out the name.

"Ca-mah-RÓN . . . Ca-mah-RÓN? Why do you want to name your son after a shrimp? Because that's what a camarón is. Pónle Prudencio—call him Prudencio like my father. We can call him "Tencho" or "Prudi" for short.

Oh great, might as well start a fund for his therapy now, because, with a name like that, his kid was going to need it. Suddenly, he imagined his future offspring bearing an uncanny resemblance to "Kiko", that sniveling mama's boy and punching bag from El Chavo del Ocho on Spanish TV.

"Well, if you don't like Prudencio, name him Perfecto or Tiburcio like your Tío Tiburcio. How do you like Margarito or Florentino?"

"Like them? Why would I want a paisa* name for my kid? We're not living in the rancho anymore, you know."

"Are you're telling me that your abuelito's name's not good enough for you?"

"I didn't say that—."

"Ay sí, Meester George Looney—."

"It's Clooney."

"Clooney, Looney—a mi qué m'importa—what do I care. Ya que que eres muy matón—now that you're some Big Shot, you're not Maximiliano anymore—" Her voice then took on that of a goat's. "Your name is 'Maaaax.'" She lowered her head, but her eyes bore down on him with a gaze of stern maternal disapproval.

Suddenly she brightened up and remarked, "But that's okay, mi'jo, if you have a girl, you can name her Pachita like me." He groaned. She ignored him and proceeded to enumerate a laundry list of her favorite names: "Fidumina, Eufemia, Gertrudes, Marcaria, those are all beaut—"

"Ya párale, por favor—please stop already—." He held his breath for a second or two, for he knew that what he was about to say was about to go over as well as a stale tamale laying in the pit of one's gut.

"We have already decided on a name for a girl: Mackenzie. Arwen. Pérez."

"Ma-QUÉ??" With a look of complete shock, his mother put her hand over her mouth. She tried saying it again, but only a contortionist could have helped her wrap her tongue around "Mackenzie". As for "Arwen", she was slack-jawed and mute. Nowhere did she hear her own name as she had not so secretly hoped. "Camarón" was bad enough, but those nombrecitos—those ugly little names, "Makení" and "Aw΄"— ¡Uf! ¡Dios mío de mi vida!

"Mira," she held up her hands, and then proceeded to point a long finger in the general direction of his face. "You can name your son "Shrimp" if you want, but if it's a girl, I'm calling her Pachita! And if you don't like my paisa name, then don't eat my my paisa food. Sangron."

And with the bestowal of that heartfelt blessing, The Matriarch de la familia wiped her hands on her apron and swept out of the kitchen with the dignity of a battleship sailing out to sea. Siiting there alone as the day's cooking boiled over, her wayward son began to reflect on the error of his ways.

In the end, I'm happy to report that my friends decided to eat this Mexican Shrimp Cocktail, not name their son after one, thus averting the misfortune of being called Camarón for the rest of his life. Much to everyone's satisfaction, they named their baby Maximiliano after his father. He is the joy of his parents and the apple of their eyes.

But they call him Prudi for short. Well, at least his abuelita does.

*paisa--slang. An unsophisticated country bumpkin. Short for "paisano", or "countryman".

Mexican Shrimp Cocktail

(Coctél de Camarón)

1 pound of uncooked shrimp; OR, 1 pound shrimp, precooked, shelled, tail and veins removed

1 8 ounce jar of clam juice; OR; shrimp stock (cooled)

1½ cups good quality ketchup (no off-brands)

1 large cucumber, peeled and diced

1 ripe avocado, chopped

1 lime, cut up

A squirt of Mexican-style bottled hot sauce or fresh chile salsa to taste

1 fresh jalapeño, seeded and chopped (optional)

1 cup diced green onion, including stalks; OR, any mild onion, diced

1 cup fresh coarsely chopped cilantro

Dash of dried oregano to taste

½ to 1 cup water or shrimp stock(optional)

Salt and pepper to taste

If you decide to use uncooked shrimp, put them a large pot of wáter with salt, pepper, garlic, and cilantro or parsley. They cook up fast, so remove them as soon as the shrimp turns bright pink. Quickly submerge the shrimp in ice water. Save and chill the shrimp stock and use it instead of the clam juice and the water. Make sure to peel the shells and tails off the shrimp and remove the veins. Of course, you can always make it the "lazy way" using precooked shrimp. If you prefer a "watery" cocktail as I do, just add the ½--1 cup shrimp stock or water. Adjust the seasonings accordingly.
Rinse and drain the shrimp. Mix all ingredients, except the lime, in a large bowl and refrigerate for about one or two hours before serving. Add the avocados at the last minute. Serve with wedges of lime. This cocktail deserves to be served with salted corn tortilla strips that have been just cooked in hot oil—¡sabroso!

Serves 4 to 5 people.