In Mexican Mountains, New Life for an Ancient Delicacy

COTIJA DE LA PAZ, Mexico — On one side of the mountains is the so-called Hot Earth, a region plagued by drug violence and infested with clandestine marijuana fields. On the other is the Bermuda Triangle, so named by the truckers who lose their loads to highway bandits.

Nestled in this unlikely spot, two hours from electricity and the nearest town, residents make perhaps the most celebrated cheese in Mexico. Their Cotija cheese dazzled gourmands in Europe last November when it took the prize for best foreign cheese at the prestigious world cheese championship in Cremona, Italy.

It's no easy task finding the cheese makers. The road leading to their remote mountain ranches is littered with grapefruit-sized rocks as it winds perilously around cliffs and fields of agave.

For the ranchers in these far-flung mountains of western Michoacán, the award represents an opportunity to escape poverty and stem the exodus of people from this region to the United States. Instead, they hope to export their cheese north of the border.

The cheese makers of Cotija (pronounced co-TEE-ha) still have a hard time believing their cheese beat out some of the best cheeses in Europe. This remote part of Mexico feels about as far from fashionable Italy as you can get. The ranches cling precariously from the sides of mountains and milk cows outnumber humans.

José Vargas Barajas, the cheese maker whose aged Cotija took the prize, didn't know what the inside of an airplane looked like before flying to Italy last fall.

"For 400 years we have lived the same way here in the mountains," he said. "All that time we didn't really know what we had. We're just discovering it now."

Fans of Cotija cheese include former President Vicente Fox, who reportedly bought more than 100 pounds during a surprise visit to Cotija a few years ago and still sends envoys to the region to stock up.

Aged, crumbly and unusually salty and pungent for Mexican cheeses, Cotija is sprinkled like Parmesan and has become an indispensable ingredient in Mexican cuisine, garnishing tostadas, enchiladas, beans and mole. A milder version is melted in quesadillas or fried.

In the 1970s, a legion of imitation Cotija cheeses flooded the market, nearly driving out the original mountain-dwelling producers. And while Cotija-style cheese is readily available in supermarkets in Mexico and Mexican immigrant neighborhoods in the United States, few have ever tasted authentic Cotija cheese, made in its place of origin.

"You might go to the supermarket and try a Cotija-style cheese and say, 'What's the big deal?'" said Edmundo Escamilla Solís, a Mexico City food historian and chef. "But then if you have a chance to try the real thing, then, yes, it's a wonder."

Authentic Cotija cheese can only be made in the mountains near the town of Cotija, say its makers.

"The key is the milk," said Crescenio Chávez Barajas, the mustachioed head of a cheese makers association. "We never use milk from anywhere else. We know what the cows eat and how they're cared for. They have to come from the mountains, right in the middle, where it's not very hot and not very cold."

The cheese comes in several varieties, but the best are aged for months before being eaten. It has a rock-hard rind to protect against the elements, a necessity in the mountains where there still isn't electricity for refrigeration.

The distribution network for authentic Cotija cheese consists mostly of immigrants returning from the United States. They flood the nearby town of Cotija de la Paz during the Christmas holidays, before returning to communities near Atlanta, Texas and California. Officials estimate there are twice as many local residents living in the United States as in the Cotija area. And immigrants send back more money to Michoacán than any other state.

"In December we don't fit in the city," said Mayor Antonio Barajas Valencia, whose son is studying in Macon, Ga., and whose in-laws live outside of Atlanta. "We have to walk around because there are so many cars on the street. Then when people go back they take their cheeses and sell it or give it away."

The best cheeses are sold at Tonino's Store, just off Cotija's main plaza, where owner Rosa María Lua's family sells leather saddles, iron horseshoes, scythes and huge wheels of cheese.

Lua says she's known for having a highly developed sense of taste. "(The ranchers) ask me to taste their cheeses — I'll tell them if it's good," she said.

For Karina Silva, a University of Iowa medical student, the Cotija cheese is a link to her roots. She migrated to the United States with her family when she was 15, but always buys some cheese when she comes back to visit.

"In (the United States) there's lots of stores that ... sell Cotija-style cheese, but it's not the same," said Silva, 27. "I keep it in the freezer so it lasts."

Cheese makers, who also sell at regional cheese festivals, dream of exporting their cheese formally to the United States and selling it in mini-supers in Mexican immigrant neighborhoods or high-end gourmet shops.

In the aftermath of the Italian award, the Cotija producers are exploring export deals and are talking with a fair trade organization in Mexico. The Mexican government recently bestowed upon the cheese a collective trademark, similar to the one that certifies authentic tequila.

They also hope the newfound attention will spur the government to provide services: paving the rutted road to their ranches, building a communal storehouse for the cheeses and finally bringing electricity to the area.

But along with the pride that the prize in Italy brought (the certificate is on display in a Cotija museum), cheese makers say it has increased pressure to produce top quality cheeses.

"With the fame comes more responsibility, more discipline," said Javier Vargas, a 42-year-old father of six who wonders if any of his children will follow his footsteps.

The ranchers say the area desperately needs the boost from exporting or the tradition may die out. For too many years, the younger generation hasn't seen a future in cheese.

"The mountains are isolated, we're so far from town, it's hard to make and there are few profits," Chavez said. "Our hope is to export at good prices so our families can have a nice little house."