If you grew up in West Texas or Southern New Mexico, the phrase chicos north of the border isn't just a string of words. It’s a craving. It’s a specific, almost aggressive nostalgia that smells like steam, corn, and spicy red chile.
But here’s the thing.
Most people outside of the 915 area code have absolutely no idea what a "chico" actually is. They think it’s a brand of beans or maybe a nickname for a guy. They’re wrong. Honestly, explaining it to an outsider is like trying to explain the appeal of a humid, crowded dive bar—you just have to be there to get it.
We’re talking about dried corn. Not just any corn, though. This is corn that has been steamed in its husk, usually in a pit or a massive industrial steamer, and then dried until it's hard as a pebble. When you rehydrate it with brisket, pork, or just a mountain of New Mexico red chile, it transforms. It becomes something chewy, smoky, and deeply satisfying.
Why Chicos North of the Border Became a Cult Classic
The migration of food culture is a funny thing. You’d think with the internet, you could get anything anywhere, right? Not really. Chicos remain stubbornly regional.
The heart of the "Chicos" universe is El Paso, Texas. Specifically, the legendary Chicos Tacos (which, ironically, doesn't actually serve the corn dish called chicos—it serves rolled tacos in a tomato broth). This creates a massive amount of confusion for travelers. When people talk about chicos north of the border, they are usually referring to one of two things: the expansion of that specific El Paso restaurant culture into places like Las Cruces or Albuquerque, or the actual culinary practice of cooking dried corn nuggets in the traditional borderland style.
Let's talk about the corn first.
Traditionally, farmers in the Mesilla Valley would take the end-of-season white corn, steam it, and dry it on their roofs. It was a preservation method. It was survival. Today, it's a delicacy that sells for fifteen bucks a bag at specialty grocers in Denver or Phoenix. If you find them north of the actual border fence, you’re usually looking at brands like El Guapo or local farm-packaged bags from Hatch, New Mexico.
The flavor profile is incredibly distinct. It isn't sweet like canned corn. It isn't mealy like hominy. It has a fermented, smoky backbone that holds up against heavy fats.
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The Logistics of Finding the Real Deal
You can't just walk into a Kroger in Ohio and find these.
If you are looking for chicos north of the border in a retail sense, your map is basically restricted to a 300-mile radius of the Rio Grande. Beyond that, you’re relying on "the suitcase method." I know people who fly from El Paso to Chicago with ten pounds of dried corn in their checked luggage. It’s that serious.
There is a company called Barnett’s in El Paso that has been the gold standard for decades. They’ve managed to get their product into some H-E-B locations further north in Texas, but it’s hit or miss.
The struggle is real.
Why? Because the process of making them is labor-intensive. You can't just dehydrate raw corn and call it a day. If you don't steam it first, it won't ever soften correctly when you cook it. It’ll just stay like birdseed. The "north of the border" crowd—the expats living in Seattle or New York—often try to substitute hominy.
Don't do that. It’s an insult to the craft. Hominy is treated with lye; chicos are just heat and time.
Cooking Chicos: What Most People Get Wrong
You’ve finally secured a bag. You’re in a kitchen in Portland or Austin, feeling proud of your find. Now what?
The biggest mistake is impatience.
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Chicos are stubborn. They require a soak, or better yet, a long, slow simmer in a crockpot. Most people treat them like beans, but they actually take longer. If you don't cook them until they "pop" or bloom, they feel like you're eating tiny erasers.
- The Soak: Do it overnight. Don't skip this.
- The Fat: You need pork neck bones or a fatty brisket. The corn absorbs the rendered fat, which is where that "border" flavor comes from.
- The Chile: Use pods. Don't use powder. If you're going to the trouble of finding chicos north of the border, don't ruin it with stale chili powder from a glass jar. Blend up some soaked Guajillo or New Mexico Red pods.
It’s a slow-burn meal. It’s meant for Sundays when the wind is blowing outside and you want the house to smell like a campfire.
The Cultural Weight of a Small Grain
Food isn't just fuel; it’s an anchor. For the Chicano community and those living along the US-Mexico line, these ingredients represent a bridge.
When we see these products appearing in high-end "fusion" restaurants in Los Angeles or Dallas, it’s a bit of a double-edged sword. On one hand, it’s great that the complexity of borderland cuisine is getting recognized. On the other, there’s a fear of "culinary gentrification." When a bag of dried corn that used to be "poor man's food" starts retailing for $20 as an "artisan heirloom grain," something feels slightly off.
But honestly? As long as the flavor stays the same, most people just want access.
The demand for chicos north of the border has actually helped sustain some small-scale farms in the Hatch Valley. Without the "nostalgia market" from people who moved away, these labor-intensive crops might have disappeared entirely in favor of easier, more profitable cash crops like onions or pecans.
Where to Buy Them If You aren't in El Paso
Look, if you aren't physically in the Southwest, your best bet is the internet, but you have to be careful.
- Amazon: Sometimes has them, but they are often overpriced and the turnover is slow, meaning you might get "old" corn that never softens.
- New Mexico Connection: This is a real-deal site that ships Hatch products.
- Farmers Markets: If you’re in Colorado or Arizona, check the local Mexican markets—specifically the ones that have a "bulk" section with dried chiles.
Don't look for them in the "International" aisle of a massive chain. They won't be there. Look in the back of the store, near the ten-pound bags of pinto beans.
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The Future of Borderland Staples
Is the "Chico" going mainstream?
Probably not.
The texture is too polarizing for the average American palate that grew up on soft, mushy canned vegetables. It’s a "challenging" food. It’s toothsome. It’s funky. And frankly, that’s why we love it.
The expansion of chicos north of the border is more about the diaspora of people from the desert than it is about a food trend. It’s about the person who moved to Denver for a tech job but still needs their grandmother's stew to feel human again. It's about a specific kind of resilience.
If you ever find yourself at a dinner table and someone hands you a bowl of what looks like shriveled corn kernels swimming in red broth, take a bite. It’s the taste of a very specific geography. It’s smoky, it’s earthy, and it’s unapologetically tough.
Practical Steps for the Aspiring Chico Cook
If you’ve managed to get your hands on a bag, here is the most effective way to actually enjoy them without breaking a tooth:
- Rinse them like rice. These are often dried in open-air environments; you might find a pebble or a bit of husk.
- Use a pressure cooker. If you don't have twelve hours to wait, a modern pressure cooker can get the job done in about 90 minutes.
- Season late. Like beans, if you salt them too early, the skins can stay tough. Wait until they have started to soften before you go heavy on the salt.
- The Toppings Matter. Fresh lime, raw onion, and maybe some crumbled cotija cheese. The acidity of the lime cuts through the heavy smoke of the corn perfectly.
Finding and cooking chicos north of the border is a labor of love. It requires hunting down ingredients, waiting hours for a simmer, and explaining to your neighbors why your house smells like a smoky campfire. But for those who know, there is simply no substitute.
Go find a bag. Start the soak. It's worth the effort.