Conkal's Chile Xcatik Kitchens: Mérida's Harvest Edge in September

September in Mérida is when the rain gets serious and the tourists thin out and the chile xcatik comes into season all at once. That last part matters most. The xcatik — long, pale yellow, heat that sneaks up on you about four seconds after you swallow — is the backbone of Yucatecan cooking in ways that the habanero gets all the credit for. And the kitchens that know what to do with it aren't downtown. They're twenty minutes north, in Conkal, where cooks have been charring these peppers over wood since before Mérida had a craft cocktail bar.

I drove out there last September on a tip from a friend who runs a small mezcalería on Calle 62. "Stop eating xcatik in restaurants that stuff it with cheese for tourists," she told me. She wasn't wrong.

1. Why Conkal and not the centro

Conkal sits about 13 kilometers north of Mérida's Plaza Grande, reachable by colectivo from the Noreste terminal on Calle 67 for 12 pesos. The ride takes 25 minutes if traffic cooperates. It won't, but you'll get there.

The town's relationship with chile xcatik is agricultural, not decorative. Families here grow the peppers in backyard milpas alongside tomatoes and cilantro, and the September harvest is when supply peaks and prices drop. You'll see bundles of xcatik sold at the Tuesday and Saturday morning market on the main plaza — 15 to 20 pesos per kilo depending on how early you show up. By 10 a.m. the good ones are gone.

The difference from the centro is proximity. Restaurants in Mérida's historic district source from Mercado Lucas de Gálvez, which is fine, but those peppers have already traveled and sat. In Conkal, a cook might pick them that morning.

2. Doña Margarita's papadzules are the point

There's a cocina económica on Calle 21 in Conkal — no sign, just a blue metal door that's open when it's open — where a woman everyone calls Doña Margarita makes papadzules that have ruined other versions for me permanently. The tortillas are hand-patted, dipped in a pepita sauce that's thicker and grainier than the smoothed-out stuff served at restaurants trying to look polished. The xcatik goes into the tomato salsa spooned on top, raw and chopped, seeds left in.

She serves from around 8 a.m. until the pot runs out, which most days is before noon. A plate of four papadzules with a cup of horchata: 45 pesos.

Skip the empanadas at the stand across the plaza. They taste like any gas station empanada in the Yucatán — premade dough, commercial cheese, zero xcatik despite what the hand-painted sign claims. You're better off spending those pesos on an extra plate at Margarita's.

3. Tikin xic and the argument for whole fish

Most people associate tikin xic with Progreso or Celestún — beach towns where the grilled fish gets doused in achiote and wrapped in banana leaf. Conkal's version is landlocked and, I'd argue, better. The fish comes from the same Progreso catch (delivered by truck before dawn), but the cooks here treat the xcatik as a co-star rather than a garnish. At Cocina Yaxché on Calle 20 near the church, they split the xcatik lengthwise, char it directly on the comal, and lay it inside the banana leaf with the fish before it goes over the fire pit.

The pepper's oils perfume the flesh in a way that just placing sliced rounds on top never achieves. Cocina Yaxché serves tikin xic only on weekends, Friday through Sunday, and only with whole mojarra or robalo. Portions run 90 to 130 pesos depending on size.

I know the conventional wisdom says you eat fish at the coast. But conventional wisdom also says cochinita pita is fine, and we know that's a lie.

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4. The September market and what to bring home

Tuesday and Saturday mornings. Get there by 7:30.

Conkal's weekly market sets up around the central plaza and spills down Calle 21 toward the cemetery. In September, the xcatik dominates: piled in plastic crates, bundled in fives with twine, sometimes still warm from the field. Vendors will let you taste if you ask — and you should, because heat levels vary wildly even within the same harvest. Some batches barely register. Others will remind you this pepper shares a genus with the habanero.

Beyond the chiles, look for recado rojo paste sold in small plastic bags (10-15 pesos each), fresh pepita molida for papadzul sauce, and jícama that's been in the ground since July and comes out sweet enough to eat like an apple. One vendor near the northeast corner of the plaza sells chaya leaves by the bunch for 5 pesos — essential if you want to make brazo de reina back home.

Don't bother with the bottled hot sauces labeled "artesanal." Same Lol-Tun brand repackaged in smaller bottles at triple the price. Just buy the raw peppers and a molcajete if you don't already own one.

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5. Salbutes at dusk, or the case for staying past lunch

Most visitors to Conkal treat it as a morning errand. Market, eat, leave. Mistake.

Around 5 p.m., a cart sets up on the corner of Calle 21 and Calle 30 selling salbutes — puffed fried tortillas topped with shredded turkey, pickled onion, and a xcatik salsa that the cook makes fresh every afternoon. Twelve pesos each. Three is the right number. Four if the morning's papadzules have worn off.

The light in Conkal at that hour does something particular — low and copper-colored through the dust, the church casting a long shadow across the plaza. Plastic chairs. No menu. The cook's name is Don Elías and he has been doing this, by his own account, for thirty-one years. He doesn't want to be on social media. I respect that.

The last colectivo back to Mérida leaves around 9 p.m., but verify with the driver on your way in because schedules shift during the rainy season.