About six months ago I was looking online for possible exotic/disgusting topics. Motivated especially by the pandemic--I clearly hadn't been traveling around as much, and had been avoiding large, unfamiliar stores if I could help it. (Sadly that's still the case, but hopefully that situation will be changing fairly soon, with the vaccines.) Anyway, most of the items I viewed were either unavailable to me, or were so sketchy I didn't want to risk trying them. Or they were way too expensive. Longer story short, cuitlacoche was the clear winner of the bunch--it seemed reasonably safe to try, I could order it through Amazon, and it wasn't that egregiously costly.
Cuitlacoche is kind of weird. In that it's a parasitic growth that sometimes forms on the corn plant. It can be pretty devastating, too--studies have found that it can destroy up to a third of an annual crop of corn. Plus it targets sweet corn, which is the type folks usually eat, as the other, "feed corn" varieties are repellent and bad tasting to most people, meaning they're usually only given to livestock. The point being, people presumably started eating cuitlacoche out of desperation, trying to find something to consume as the fungus was ravaging their corn. But, to their probable shock, they found that cuitlacoche was both edible and had a good flavor. So some started growing it intentionally.
Let's get into the substance itself a bit. Cuitlacoche is a fungus, so that means it spreads as airborne spores. It seems to thrive during years when the corn crop pollination period weather is hot and dry, but then turns fairly wet afterward. A nitrogen-rich environment also helps it, meaning that farmers who over-manure their corn might produce more cuitlacoche. After this fungus infects the plant, it shows itself as a blackish growth on the aboveground portions. Only the young cuitlacoche is eaten--the mature fungus is too dry, and is bursting with spores, which evidently don't taste very good.
The derivation of the name "cuitlacoche" is a bit mysterious. Some linguists think that it's at least partially based on native Mexican (Classical Nahuatl) words, but others disagree. Some folks think it's based on a Nahuatl word for "excrement," which alas, probably isn't true. Whatever its original source, the current Spanish-influenced title is one of the most common, along with the similar "huitlacoche." An alternate name is one I quite enjoy--"corn smut." One of the original meanings of the word "smut" is something that darkens or soils, as well as another that simply refers to fungal diseases that attack plants. So, both of these definitions make sense for cuitlacoche. However, to most modern people, "smut" refers to obscene or pornographic material, so something which metaphorically "darkens or soils" people's minds or character. And it's a kind of fun, and induces entertaining interpretations--is "corn smut" the porn that corn plants read or watch? Or is it porn made using parts of the corn plant, maybe the cobs? Or perhaps both? Finally, the "Mexican Truffle" moniker was an attempt to make the fungus sound more palatable to new possible consumers. Which hasn't really worked, overall. Mexicans love cuitlacoche, but those in other parts of world haven't really embraced it. As for how it's usually eaten, corn smut is often eaten with other things, such as within a taco or quesadilla. Or it's sometimes added to omelets, or soups.
Goya cuitlacoche: Came in a 198 gram/7 ounce can. Was a product of Mexico. My first impression wasn't favorable--it looked pretty revolting, a greenish black goop. I tried some plain at first, and I initially thought the taste was weird, kind of like a salty mushroom. (There was salt, and onion, as added spices.) Okay, but not great. The texture was soft and rather slimy, and rather reminded me of cooked spinach. Not chewy and rubbery like most mushrooms. The odor was a little unpleasant, and harsh. However, then I put some on a pizza, which had (regular) mushrooms on it. And this made quite a difference. It really combined well with the crust, cheese, and tomato sauce, as well as its "sister fungus." The taste really grew on me, and I found myself liking it more, even later by itself again. So it started off a little shaky, but closed strong. I wonder what it tastes like in a taco or quesadilla--maybe I should have gotten some to give it a more authentic culinary trial.
I had some misgivings going into this one. Cuitlacoche didn't sound appetizing, and its existence as a parasitic fungal growth didn't really set my mouth to watering. But this helps exemplify why it's important to give unfamiliar foods and drinks a decent try. Sometimes when you gamble you win. I definitely recommend cuitlacoche, especially to people who tend to like mushrooms. Alas, I don't know when/if I'll be able to partake again, since cuitlacoche doesn't seem to be readily available in grocery stores, at least in the ones I now frequent, as a non-nomad. (I'm no longer a field archaeologist, if I haven't already mentioned that.) And it would be prohibitively expensive to continue dropping about $10 for a 7 ounce can, at least in my current economic position. So I implore my fellow Americans to try cuitlacoche and then keep buying it, so the fungus spreads across the supermarkets as well as it does across a field of corn.
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