Is there a culinary innovation more practical than the tamal? Tamales, believed to have originated in Mesoamerica as early as 8000 B.C., were considered sacred by pre-Hispanic civilizations and were offered to the gods but were also used as portable fuel for long journeys, hunting excursions, and armies in battle. To make tamales, corn kernels are steeped in water and calcium hydroxide (lye)—a process called nixtamalization—then rinsed, drained, and milled to be turned into masa, a nutritious and filling paste seasoned with salt and lard or oil. A big spoonful of masa—plus some combination of meat, vegetable, cheese, and salsa—gets tightly wrapped in dried corn husk, then steamed until firm. Earlier this year, archeologists posited that not even the steeping liquid was wasted by the Mayans. In a pair of ancient stone toilets, they discovered microscopic by-products of nixtamalization; the leftover lye water, it seems, was used to flush.
At Evelia’s Tamales Restaurant, in North Corona, Queens, the facilities are luxurious, but the origin story is one of pure practicality. In 2000, Evelia Coyotzi left Tlaxcala, Mexico, and her two-year-old son, to find a job in New York. In September, 2001, she was working at a McDonald’s near the World Trade Center. When it closed after 9/11, she began to make tamales at home, in Queens, to sell from a shopping cart on the corner of Junction Boulevard and Roosevelt Avenue. (Later, she upgraded to a proper pushcart.) In the shadow of the elevated subway tracks, she arrived every day at 4:30 a.m. to catch the early-morning rush of commuters eager for a guajolota, also known as a torta de tamal—two tamales, husked and stuffed into a crusty roll, a further improvement on efficient portability—and a cup of warm atole, a drinkable porridge made from sweetened masa.
For twenty years, Coyotzi made a living this way, through inclement weather and frequent hassling from the N.Y.P.D., having been refused one of the city’s inexplicably meagre number of street-vender permits, earning countless loyal customers and catching the attention of Anthony Bourdain. In January, 2020, she took out a lease on a storefront half a mile from her cart’s usual spot. This past March, she finally opened it.
An undercurrent of pragmatism runs through the bright, clean counter-service restaurant, which opens only slightly later than the cart, at 5 a.m. (It closes at 10 p.m.) But there’s also a sense that Coyotzi is finally getting to relax a little, and have some fun. Hanging on a wall of faux greenery is a neon sign that reads “live / love / eat tamales.” On the Web site, managed by her now twenty-four-year-old son, John, there is merch for sale; a cheerful printout taped to the deli case the other day announced “tenemos ice coffee.”
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A selection of tortas includes the Viagra, featuring breaded chicken, chorizo, and sliced hot dog, and the Supreme, whose cross-section reveals Flamin’ Hot Cheetos encased by Oaxacan string cheese. An atole called Galleta is made with crushed animal crackers. Masa is pressed into tortillas for tacos, scattered with crumbles of sweet-and-salty neon-pink chorizo, minced white onion, and cilantro; for huevos divorciados, topped with gently fried eggs and thick red and green salsas; and for sale in packs of three, to accompany carnitas and barbacoa by the pound.
Still, tamales are the main draw, both the traditional, in corn husks, and the Oaxaqueño, featuring heftier portions of masa, which take on a blockier shape when wrapped, Oaxaca style, in slick banana leaves, tied with twine. I’m especially partial to the traditional tamale laced with a chili-based sweet-and-smoky mole that plays perfectly off the pure, nutty flavor of the corn and hides tender shreds of chicken. Through the doorway into the kitchen, enormous stockpots of tamales are visible on the stove, steam forcing their plastic-wrap lids to go convex, bulging into domes, antiquity adapted. (Tamales $1.50-$3; other dishes $3-12.) ♦
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