Bocoles – Thick Corn Patties From Veracruz Filled With Beans Or Meat

The smoke alarm went off because Abuela tried to toast a tortilla directly over the gas burner. It’s just Tuesday, honestly.

These bocoles? They're from Veracruz, a place where the Gulf Coast humidity hangs on you like a wet blanket—¡ándale!—and the food is built to last. You need something substantial when you’re hauling in nets or working the sugarcane fields. Bocoles are basically fat corn cakes, thick enough to hold a filling. Think of them as mini, handheld pies, but made of masa instead of pastry.

They have roots way back in pre-Hispanic times, obviously. Corn was life, right? The original folks figured out how to nixtamalize it, turning those kernels into something actually edible (and nutritious!), and then they started experimenting. These weren’t fancy pastries at first – more like a practical way to get a lot of calories in one sitting. When the Spanish showed up, things got interesting. They brought their meats and cheeses, and the locals… well, they incorporated them. ¡Claro que sí!

Over time, different regions developed their own versions. Some are fried, some are steamed, some are cooked on a comal (a flat griddle). But the basic idea remains: a hearty, flavorful patty that can be enjoyed for breakfast, lunch, or dinner. My abuelita, she learned hers from her abuela, who learned hers… you get the picture. A long line of women perfecting the art of the bocol.

This particular recipe? This comes with drama. Every single time. The first attempt I made, I forgot the lard. Abuela nearly fainted. “¿Lard?! ¿Cómo puedes hacer un bocol sin manteca?” Like I'd committed a crime against humanity. And then there was the year my cousin Luis decided to add habaneros to his filling—pure evil, mija, pure evil.

Tía Mildred once tried to make "diet bocoles" using wheat flour. Let me repeat, wheat flour. The scandal! She claimed they were "lighter." Abuela threw a wooden spoon at her. It missed, thankfully, but the message was received. Honestly, Tía Mildred has...eccentric tastes. Last Christmas she served fruitcake. Fruitcake!

The thing about bocoles is, everyone thinks their version is the best. My Aunt Elena swears by adding pork cracklings to the picadillo (the meat filling). My neighbor, Doña Rosa, uses queso fresco in hers, which is fine, but not traditional. Everyone’s got an opinion and they aren’t afraid to share it. It's like a food fight waiting to happen.

And then you have the stuffing itself. Beans are classic, black beans seasoned just right, but you can also go with shredded chicken, beef, even seafood if you’re feeling fancy. Abuela always makes a huge batch of picadillo, enough to feed the entire neighborhood. Which she pretty much does. People just wander into the kitchen while she’s cooking, grabbing samples off the comal.

Last week, I was attempting them again. Carlos—that’s my husband, usually very quiet—walked in, took one bite, and said, “Needs more salt.” Just…needs more salt. After all that work. Men! But he wasn’t wrong. It needed more salt.

I remember being little, sitting at the kitchen table watching Abuela work her magic. Her hands moved so fast, patting and shaping the masa, filling each bocol with care. It was a whole process, a labor of love. And it always smelled amazing. That warm corn aroma mixed with the savory scent of the filling? Heaven.

Tía Mildred showed up mid-bocol production yesterday, wearing a sequined jumpsuit and offering advice on feng shui. She insisted that rearranging the spice rack would improve the flavor. Ay Dios mío, the woman. She told me she’d been taking a pottery class and wanted to try making bocoles shaped like dolphins. Dolphins!

Abuelita just rolled her eyes and kept cooking. She’s seen it all, that woman. She’s survived Tía Mildred’s fashion choices, my cousins' questionable life decisions, and countless attempts to modernize her recipes. She's a saint, I tell you. A saint. And honestly, no matter how many times things go wrong, making bocoles always brings us together. Even if it's just to argue about the best way to do it. Or avoid Tía Mildred’s latest obsession.

Recipe

Ingredients 🌽🥘

• 3 cups masa harina (corn flour for making masa)
• 2 cups warm water
• 1/2 cup lard, softened (don't skip this!)
• 1 teaspoon salt
• For the Picadillo Filling:
• 1 pound ground beef or pork
• 1 onion, chopped
• 2 cloves garlic, minced
• 1 red bell pepper, chopped
• 1 tomato, chopped
• 1/2 cup raisins
• 1/4 cup slivered almonds
• 1 tablespoon chili powder
• 1 teaspoon cumin
• 1/2 teaspoon cinnamon
• Salt and pepper to taste
• Alternatively, for Bean Filling:
• 2 cans (15 ounces each) black beans, drained and rinsed
• 1/2 onion, chopped
• 1 clove garlic, minced
• 1 teaspoon cumin
• Salt and pepper to taste

Tools 🔪🥄

• Large mixing bowl
• Comal or large skillet
• Spatula
• Small saucepan (for filling)
• Measuring cups and spoons

Steps

1. First, make your filling! If you’re going with the picadillo, brown the meat in a saucepan. Drain off any excess fat. Add the onion, garlic, and bell pepper and cook until softened—don't burn it, mija!
2. Stir in the tomato, raisins, almonds, chili powder, cumin, and cinnamon. Season with salt and pepper. Simmer for about 15 minutes, allowing the flavors to meld. If you’re using beans, sauté the onion and garlic, then add the beans, cumin, salt, and pepper. Mash slightly with a fork.
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3. Now for the masa. In the large mixing bowl, combine the masa harina, warm water, lard, and salt. Knead until a smooth, pliable dough forms. It should feel like Play-Doh, but less sticky. If it's too dry, add a little more water.
4. Take a golf ball-sized amount of masa and flatten it in your palm into a thick disc (about 4 inches in diameter). Make a small indentation in the center and fill with a generous spoonful of either the picadillo or bean mixture.
5. Carefully fold the masa over the filling, pinching the edges together to seal. You want a good seal so the filling doesn’t escape—trust me on this one.
6. Heat a comal or large skillet over medium heat. Lightly grease it with lard or oil. Cook the bocoles for about 5-7 minutes per side, or until golden brown and heated through. They should be crispy on the outside and soft on the inside. Be careful not to overcrowd the pan.
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7. Repeat with the remaining masa and filling. Serve immediately while hot. ¡Buen provecho!

Make-Ahead / Storage

• The picadillo or bean filling can be made up to 3 days ahead of time and stored in the refrigerator.
• Uncooked bocoles can be assembled and refrigerated for up to 24 hours. Cover them tightly to prevent the masa from drying out.
• Leftover cooked bocoles can be refrigerated for up to 3 days and reheated in a skillet or microwave.
• Freezing is not recommended, as the texture of the masa changes significantly.

Side Dish Pairing

• A simple salad of jicama, orange segments, and chili-lime dressing offers a refreshing contrast to the richness of the bocoles.
• Pick

led onions provide a tangy counterpoint. - For a more substantial meal, serve with black beans and rice.

If you are looking for another traditional recipe, check out my abuela's enchiladas rojas!

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