Arepas : Looking for a Few Good Corn Cakes

By LEILA COBO HANLON

Feb. 17, 1994 12 AM PT

I smell the corn before I even get out of bed. And on that first Sunday morning of my yearly pilgrimage back home to Colombia, I start my quest for the perfect arepa.

A great one is waiting for me when I go downstairs to the breakfast table--a beautiful white corn cake, hot from the grill and, to judge by its girth, loaded with cheese. I’m a slave to lean California cuisine, but I don’t hesitate to slather my arepa with butter, then salt it generously before taking my first bite. The crust is crunchy, the inside is creamy, and the cheese stretches out for miles.

“Perfect!” I tell my mother. “Why is it that arepas in L. A. don’t taste like this?”

“Because these are your grandmother Julia’s,” my mother reminds me. “She’s the only one who uses mozzarella cheese to make arepas .”

Of course. Arepas can change dramatically according to the hand that shapes them.

Arguably the most basic and universal of all Colombian foods, arepas are like a cross between American pancakes and biscuits, made entirely from ground dry or fresh corn, ranging in shape from something as thin as a tortilla to pancakes half an inch thick to little doughnut-shaped dollops. They can be made with or without cheese, butter or salt, according to personal taste and the food they will accompany. They are at their absolute best when grilled over charcoal, although cooking them on a griddle or even baking them will do almost as nicely.

A repas can be found in every region of Colombia. They are, after all, the equivalent of bread, much like their northern cousin, the Mexican corn tortilla, or the more faraway Indian chapati.

The Colombian arepa originated in Antioquia, the mountainous coffee-growing area in the center of the country whose capital is Medellin. According to popular lore, the people of Antioquia (pronounced ahn-tee-OH-kee-ah), better known as antioquenos or paisas , would tear the forests down (a dubious tendency they are still known for) and plant their first crop: corn. And being an inventive group of people, they came up with a basic food, destined to accompany all other foods, which they could make from fresh or dry corn and thus eat all year round.

Arepas are now found in every household in Colombia and Venezuela (they used to be a single country, after all), and every cook claims to make the tastiest of them all.

“The best arepa I’ve ever had?” says Fidel Gonzales, the driver who has been lugging me around my hometown, Cali. “I gotta tell you, they were the ones my mother made when I was a boy. We had them every day, and I was in charge of hulling the corn.”

“No kidding?” I say, impressed. Hulling the corn kernels by hand, a process known as pilar , is tough work. With the advent of hulling machines, hand-hulling is hardly ever done anymore, except in remote areas.

The traditional way of hulling starts with soaking dry corn kernels with water overnight. Then they are placed in a pilon , a partially hollowed-out log. A bit of water is added to ease the job, and the corn is beaten with a wooden club until the starchy interior of the kernels separates completely from the hulls.

“The object is to clean the corn, to leave it white,” Gonzales explains. “Then we would boil the corn to soften it. It has to be soft enough that you can squish it with your fingers. And only then do you grind it.”

The resulting dough, the corn masa , is then kneaded by hand, and this is when you add the cheese, if you want. The best kind available in Los Angeles is a hard white Mexican cheese such as ranchero or panela.

“Once we mixed in the cheese,” Gonzales continues, “we would mold the arepa by hand, according to what we wanted that day--a flat arepa , a round one, whatever. And we would cook them over the embers in the wood stove and there was nothing like it.” He sighs.

His mother still makes arepas every day, but the corn isn’t hulled at home any more. “Who would do it, now that I’m gone?” he points out. “Now she buys hulled corn and grills the arepas over an electric stove. But honest to God, they’re still the best ones. Not even my wife makes them like that.”

My friend Alvaro Gardner, a journalist from Antioquia who used to teach a university class in Colombian folklore, brightens up at the prospect of talking arepas.

“They used the pilon in my grandparents’ house,” he tells me. “You know, it’s a horrible job. The hull is called the afrecho , and there’s a saying in Antioquia, pilar por el afrecho , ‘to peel for the hull,’ which means to work very hard for very little.”

In the old days, the remaining afrecho was sold by the pound and strained for mazamorra , a potent drink made from fermented corn. And if the corn is fermented a little bit more, you have the right consistency for a special kind of Colombian tamale masa.

There are many kinds of arepas , depending on whom you talk to, but Gardner has narrowed them down to half a dozen. First you have your basic arepa , a bit smaller in diameter than a corn tortilla, and usually half an inch to an inch thick, depending on whether it has cheese or not.

Then there is the larger flat arepa . “It’s so thin it’s called de tela , (‘the sheet’), “ Gardner says. “I like mine very toasted, then I cover it with butter and fold it before eating it,” he adds. “I have them for breakfast and for the algo , the snack.”

There are also the small round arepas , made without any salt, butter or cheese and eaten with main dishes such as beans, steaks and chorizos. “My least favorite,” I comment.

“Oh, it depends what you eat them with,” Gardner replies. “You know, they say God’s only mistake was to put a big seed inside avocados instead of stuffing them with arepas .”

His favorite: arepas de mote , which are thicker, made from unhulled dried corn and cooked in a covered pan under the charcoal embers ( rescoldo ). “Wonderful,” he says. “But I have to go to Medellin to eat those.”

Then there is the egg arepa from the Pacific and Atlantic coasts, which is stuffed with a raw egg and then fried for the exact amount of time it takes the egg to cook inside the dough.

And of course, there are arepas de choclo , made from ripe corn on the cob, the kernels ground fresh and unhulled.

The best ones in Cali, my friends assure me, are made in a little joint in the sexta --Sixth Street, the hippest street in the city. It’s called Arepas de Choclo el Hornito (The Little Oven Choclo Arepas), and its only distinctive feature is a big wood-burning oven that faces the sidewalk.

My mother and I look skeptically at the two jeans-clad teen-agers in the shop, Alvaro Rubio and Carlos Naranjo. But they say they are the ones who make the arepas and they would be glad to show us how they do it, right there in the kitchen.

The “kitchen” is a tiny room, slightly bigger than a broom closet, inside the garage. A huge wicker basket full of fresh corn cobs sits by the door, amid a dozen oil stains, resting against an old truck. Flies buzz over the corn and inside the kitchen as Alvaro dons a dirty apron, sits down on a stool next to the basket and proceeds to scrape the corn cobs with a knife.

My mother eyes the big blocks of white cheese and butter on the counter, no doubt wondering how many flies have lounged on them during the day. Ah well, I figure, if we haven’t died yet after a lifetime of eating food from street vendors, it certainly isn’t going to happen now.

Rubio pours the scraped kernels into a small grinding machine. “We add water, a little bit of sugar and baking soda so that it will rise,” he explains. Ground choclo is runny, not kneadable like cooked corn masa. This means the arepas are not shaped by hand but poured into small individual baking pans. At any rate, Naranjo says, arepas de choclo are good to eat in the afternoon or for supper; white arepas are for breakfast.

Before we go up to the oven, Rubio points out the butter. “This,” he says proudly, “is our secret ingredient. We cream the butter with salt and put it inside the arepas when they’re done, with a slice of cheese.”

It takes just a little over five minutes for a batch of arepas to cook in the wood-burning oven. Mom and I get the first two, and the sweet corn combined with the salty cheese and butter is delicious. By then we decide that most of the germs must have died during the cooking. “It was worth it,” Mom says approvingly as we head back to the car.

At dinner that evening, my brother samples Rubio’s arepas and concedes that they are good arepas de choclo . But, he insists, for the very best white arepas (made from that laboriously hulled dry corn), we had to go to a place--or rather a chain of places--called La Areperia.

Next day, Fidel Gonzales and I go to the nearest La Areperia, where we are told that the arepas are made fresh every day in the factory and then delivered to the outlets, where they’re cooked. We decide to look for the factory.

We finally find it, 20 minutes away, and after much begging and pleading (the owner is absent today) we are allowed inside. La Areperia’s manager describes the business as a fast-food operation. They buy hulled corn in bulk and do everything else there in the factory. Even the cheese and the butter are made especially for them.

The secret of their eight years of success, he says, is simple: fresh arepas , made with 100% natural ingredients and with toppings, such as meat, chorizo or fish, that make them complete meals. Not bad for fast food. In fact, the manager proudly claims that they export them to the States. I take half a dozen home to sample--they can be frozen--and we all agree over lunch that they are pretty exquisite.

I’m scheduled to return to Los Angeles the next day, and every goodby call is laced with arepa -cooking advice: “Dip your fingers in milk when you shape them.” “No, dip your fingers in water when you shape them.” “Use brown sugar for the arepas de choclo .”

The last call is from my cousin. “Are you taking Areparina with you?” she demands. (Areparina is a brand name of ready-to-use arepa meal: precooked white corn, finely ground and needing only to be mixed with warm water before being shaped.) “Actually, no,” I reply. “They sell it in the Latin markets in L. A. And anyway,” I add proudly, “I plan to grind my own corn.”

On the plane, I wonder how long my resolution will last, and during my layover in Bogota, I decide I need inspiration. This is, after all, the home of the best arepas I really have ever eaten, from a tiny cafeteria in front of my old university. The place is still there and so are the arepas , cooking outside on a hot grill. The cheese is still ground with the corn, and they still tasted mildly sweet.

“How do you make them?” I ask.

“I really don’t know,” the woman behind the counter replies. “We buy them fresh every morning and only cook them here.” I head back to my plane no wiser, but at least certain that my favorite arepas were made from freshly ground corn.

Back home, I vaguely wonder whether Angeleno arepa -makers are copping out by using Areparina instead of the real thing. To deal with my fears, I go to Cali Viejo, a Colombian restaurant in Van Nuys that, as its name implies, is owned by people from Cali. Not surprisingly, Jorge Restrepo, the man in charge of the arepas , is a full-blooded paisa.

Restrepo assures me that yes, he grinds the corn. “We get the corn in bulk from Miami,” he explains. “I cook the corn here, for around two hours, and the next day I grind it.” He says he waits one day to do so, because hot corn masa is sticky and hard to handle. “The masa is still a little bit rough after grinding,” he says, “so I also knead it with my hands until it’s soft and silky.”

Restrepo fashions two kinds of arepas : the small round ones to serve with the main dishes and arepas with cotija cheese, which is kneaded into the dough by hand.

But when he’s home, he makes a third variety. “I soak my hands and knead the masa very, very well. And then I make very wide and thin arepas , pulling each with my hands until it can’t get any thinner. Then I grill them and have them for breakfast.

“They’re hard to do,” he adds. “Sometimes it takes me 10 minutes to do each arepa .”

Restrepo has his own grinding machine at home. “All homes in Colombia have a grinder. And here in L. A. they should do the same,” he says firmly, “for tradition’s sake.” I agree--guiltily, because I still haven’t bought my grinder.

“You know,” explains my friend Emilia Vinasco over arepas and coffee a couple of days later, “my dad was a paisa , and in our house arepas always had to be made with fresh corn.

“And today, when I go to the Latino market to buy the corn, they always ask me why I bother, why I don’t just use Areparina? And it’s not just that they’re so much better with the fresh corn, but that it’s such a joy to grind them and knead them myself, and shape the fresh masa with my hands.”

Back in my own kitchen, I’m still kneading my Areparina dough, but not for long. As I prepare to pack my belongings to move into a new home, I’ve already told my Colombian friends what I want as a housewarming gift: a grinder. Who knows, maybe the perfect arepa will be as close as my own grill in Los Angeles.

The basic ingredients of arepas--including hulled corn, masarepa (precooked corn flour) and ready-made dough for arepas from fresh corn (masa para arepas)--can be found at most Latino markets, including the ones listed in the box at left.

AREPAS WITH CHEESE

1 pound dry corn kernels, hulled

1 quart water

1 pound ranchero or panela cheese

2 ounces butter or margarine

In pot cover corn with water and bring to boil. Cover and cook over medium heat 30 minutes, until you can squish corn with fingers.

With hand or electric grinder, grind corn and cheese together. Cheese can be blended in when kneading dough or ground together.

When ready to knead, knead in softened butter to give moisture to dough. Knead until well blended. Then, with wet hands, shape 1/2-cup batches of arepas dough into 4-inch patties. Place on hot grill.

To form arepas, make 2 (1/4-cup) patties and lay thick slices of cheese in between. Press edges together. Corn can be cooked in advance. Arepas can be frozen individually. Cook on barbecue or on griddle until each side is brown. Makes 10 patties.

Each serving contains about:

249 calories; 297 mg sodium; 53 mg cholesterol; 19 grams fat; 9 grams carbohydrates; 13 grams protein; 0.32 gram fiber.

VARIATION

Thin Arepas

Do not use cheese. Shape arepas and make as thin as possible, spreading with fingers. Then place on grill till toasted on both sides. Serve with butter and salt, alone or with beans or meat.

Note : Grinders can be purchased at the markets listed in the box on H12. Also, Robinsons May and other department stores sell Corona and Universal grinders.

AREPAS MADE WITH MASAREPA

1 cup precooked corn flour (arepa meal)

1 1/2 cups boiling water

Dash salt

Cheese

In bowl mix flour, water and salt. Knead until soft. Let dough stand 5 minutes.

Shape 1/4-cup batches of dough in wet hands. Make ball and press out from center into 1/3-inch thick patties. Cook over grill.

To fill, shape thinner arepa, place thick slice of ranchero, panela or mozzarella cheese, put another arepa on top, like sandwich and seal. Grill on both sides.

To accompany beans or any entree, shape small round arepas and grill. Do not add cheese or salt. Makes 6 (3-inch) patties.

Each serving contains about:

72 calories; 39 mg sodium; trace cholesterol; 1 gram fat; 15 grams carbohydrates; 2 grams protein; 0.14 gram fiber.

CHOCLO AREPAS

1 1/2 cups fresh corn, about 5 ears

Sugar

3/4 cup corn flour

1/4 cup butter, softened

Cheese

Cut corn from ears. Grind corn once in meat grinder. Do not drain liquid. If corn is not sweet, add sugar to taste, 1/2 to 1 teaspoon. Stir in corn flour. Mix in softened butter by hand until completely incorporated and smooth.

Pour 1/2 cup mixture into buttered 1/2-cup muffin tins. Bake at 425 degrees 30 to 40 minutes until firm to touch and lightly browned. Cut in half. Serve with butter or panela cheese. Or when done cooking, open arepas in half and add butter and thick slice of ranchero or panela cheese. Makes 4 arepas.

Each serving contains about:

279 calories; 134 mg sodium; 31 mg cholesterol; 13 grams fat; 38 grams carbohydrates; 5 grams protein; 0.94 gram fiber.

Colombian Resources

MARKETS

Liborio Market, 864 S. Vermont (at 9th Street), Los Angeles, (213) 386-1458.

Spectors, Victory Boulevard and Buena Vista Street, Burbank, (818) 841-0132.

Yayabo Market, 11922 S. Hawthorne Blvd., Hawthorne, (310) 978-0887.

El Camaguey Meat Market, 10925 Venice Blvd., West Los Angeles, (310) 839-4037.

RESTAURANTS

Cali Viejo, 7363 Van Nuys Blvd., Van Nuys, (818) 892-8969.

La Red, 9508 Sepulveda Blvd., North Hills, (818) 892-5818.

Chibcha Restaurant, 2619 Sunset Blvd., Los Angeles, (213) 413-9502.