Birria De Res – Slow-Cooked Beef Stew With A Rich, Spiced Consommé.

The chihuahua almost ended up in the birria, ¡ay Dios mío! It was a whole thing.

Birria. Now, birria ain’t just soup, mija. It’s a history lesson, a family tradition, and a potential emergency room visit all rolled into one delicious pot. Originally from Jalisco, Mexico, it started as a poor man’s dish. See, they used all the leftover bits of goat – the scraps no one else wanted – and turned them into something magical. Think resourcefulness, okay? Like my mother turning old curtains into outfits for me. (I still have pictures, don’t even ask.) Nowadays, people use beef—much more popular—but the spirit is the same: take something humble, add a ton of spice, and simmer it until it falls apart.

It wasn’t always beef though. They say in the old days you could tell how important someone was by what kind of animal their birria was made of. Goat for everyone else, fancy sheep for the landowners… even a pig if you were really somebody. (Which explains why my uncle Hector thinks he’s better than everybody, he claims his grandmother had a pig for birria!) But now, beef is king. And honestly, it's easier to find good cuts without starting a feud with the neighbors.

My cousin, Esmeralda, she thought she was a chef, right? Wanted to “elevate” the birria. Added cinnamon sticks, star anise... ¡Ay, Jesús! It tasted like Christmas threw up in a pot. My abuela almost hit her with a chancla. (That woman’s aim is legendary, let me tell you). She said, “Birria is respect, Esmeralda! Not a spice rack experiment!” Honestly, she wasn’t wrong. Now we just keep Esmeralda busy making the tortillas. Safer that way.

Speaking of torture devices (tortillas), making those by hand is a whole other level of commitment. My tía Rosa used to make them for every single family gathering, hundreds of them. She’d be at the comal all day, slapping and flipping. She swore that only handmade tortillas could properly soak up the consommé. (She also swore my hair looked better short, but we don’t talk about that.) Then one year, she pulled a muscle in her wrist! The drama! We had store-bought tortillas for Thanksgiving. I swear, my grandfather didn’t speak to her for a week.

And don’t even get me started on the consommé. That glorious, spicy broth is the soul of birria. You gotta skim it constantly, get rid of all the impurities. My brother, Ricardo, he tried to help once. He ‘skimmed’ half the flavor out of it! Said he was being thorough. Thoroughly ruining the birria, more like it. Abuela sent him to clean the patio. With a toothbrush.

Then there's the chili selection. My abuela has a secret blend. A very secret blend. She guards it like Fort Knox. No one knows what’s in it—except her. And maybe old Manolo from the market, because she buys bulk chiles from him. (Rumor has it they were sweethearts in their youth. Scandalous!) But you need ancho, guajillo, pasilla… each one brings something different. Too much ancho and it's bitter, too much guajillo and it's overly fruity. It’s a delicate balance, mija, a delicate balance.

One time, Tía Mildred decided to make birria. Now, Tía Mildred means well, she really does. But her cooking is...an adventure. She added a can of diced tomatoes. Diced tomatoes. To birria! My abuela nearly fainted. The entire family descended into chaos. It ended with a very stern lecture, a lot of apologies, and Tía Mildred making flan for everyone. Which, honestly, is her specialty.

And the dipping! Oh, the dipping is crucial. You gotta have cilantro, chopped onions, a squeeze of lime… some people like adding a little bit of oregano. My husband, Carlos? He adds hot sauce. Everything gets hot sauce with Carlos. He claims it "enhances" the flavor. I claim it's a cry for attention.

My abuela used to say that birria is more than just food, it’s about bringing people together. About sharing stories, laughing, and maybe arguing a little bit. It’s about remembering where you come from. About passing down traditions. And about making sure nobody puts diced tomatoes in the birria. Seriously.

Last year, we had a birria-making competition. All the cousins participated. It was fierce! There was sabotage (someone swapped out my chiles!), accusations, and plenty of trash talk. But in the end, Abuela declared a tie. Because, she said, “As long as we’re all here, eating together, it doesn’t matter who makes the best birria.” (She was just trying to keep the peace, we all knew it.) But even still, she kept sneaking extra portions of my birria. Just saying. And the chihuahua? He stayed far, far away from the pot this time.

Recipe

Birria de Res - Slow-Cooked Beef Stew

(A family tradition simmered to perfection.)

Ingredients 🌽🥘

• 3 lbs beef chuck roast, cut into 2-inch pieces
• 1 lb beef short ribs
• 2 tbsp vegetable oil
• 1 large onion, chopped
• 6 cloves garlic, minced
• 4 dried ancho chiles, stemmed and seeded
• 4 dried guajillo chiles, stemmed and seeded
• 2 dried pasilla chiles, stemmed and seeded
• 1 tsp cumin seeds
• 1 tsp oregano
• ½ tsp ground cinnamon
• ¼ tsp ground cloves
• 1 bay leaf
• 6 cups beef broth
• 2 tbsp apple cider vinegar
• Salt and pepper to taste
• 1 lime, quartered (for serving)
• Cilantro, chopped (for serving)
• White onion, finely chopped (for serving)

Tools 🔪🥄

• Large Dutch oven or heavy-bottomed pot
• Blender
• Cutting board
• Knife
• Measuring spoons & cups

Steps

1. First, rehydrate those chiles! Boil water in a small pot, pour it over the dried chiles, and let them sit for about 20-30 minutes until softened. (They’ll look all wrinkly and sad, but trust me.)
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2. Drain the chiles (don't throw out the soaking liquid!), and add them to a blender along with the cumin, oregano, cinnamon, cloves, and about 1 cup of the chile soaking liquid. Blend until smooth. (This is where you feel like a mad scientist.)
3. Heat the vegetable oil in your Dutch oven over medium-high heat. Brown the beef chuck and short ribs in batches, seasoning with salt and pepper. Don’t overcrowd the pot; we want browning, not steaming. (Carlos always tries to do everything at once…it never ends well).
4. Remove the browned beef from the pot and set aside. Add the chopped onion and cook until softened, about 5-7 minutes. Then, add the minced garlic and cook for another minute. That smell? Heaven.
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5. Pour in the blended chile paste and cook for 2-3 minutes, stirring constantly. (This is important—you don’t want it to burn!) It will smell amazing, but be careful, it might make you sneeze.
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6. Return the beef to the pot. Add the beef broth, apple cider vinegar, and bay leaf. Bring to a boil, then reduce heat to low, cover, and simmer for at least 6 hours, or until the beef is fall-apart tender. (Honestly, longer is better. My abuela simmers hers for eight.)
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7. Once the birria is cooked, remove the bay leaf. Shred the beef with two forks. Taste and adjust seasoning with salt and pepper as needed.
8. To serve, dip tortillas into the consommé and fry them until crispy on both sides. Fill with the shredded birria and top with cilantro and onion. Serve with extra consommé for dipping.

Make-Ahead / Storage

Birria actually tastes better the next day! You can make it up to 3 days in advance and store it in the refrigerator. The flavors meld and deepen over time. Reheat gently on the stovetop.

Side Dish Pairing

A simple Mexican rice and a fresh avocado salad are perfect companions to birria. My abuela always said, "The best things take time, just like good birria."

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