Hero image
🕒Prep 30 min🔥Cook PT0HTotal 30 min🍽️6 servings🔢250 kcal / serving🌎Mexican

Tostadas De Ceviche De Camarón – Crispy Tortillas Topped With Shrimp Ceviche And Avocado.

The Perfect Bite Requires Drama, Apparently

Seriously, trying to get a family photo when making ceviche is like herding cats during a thunderstorm. ¡Ay Dios mío! Everyone’s got an opinion, everyone's splashing lime juice…it's a whole thing.

Ceviche isn’t just food, it's history. It goes back way before refrigeration, you know? Indigenous cultures along the coast of Peru were pickling fish in citrus juices – mostly limes and oranges – for centuries. They used things like tumbo fruit too, which I still can’t find anywhere (Abuelita swears she sees it at the mercado but I think she’s dreaming). It was a way to preserve the catch of the day, make it safe to eat, and, honestly, make it delicious.

Then the Spanish came along, bringing their own flavors (and, well, everything else), and the dish evolved. Over time, different regions developed their own variations, using different types of seafood, peppers, and spices. In Mexico, we usually focus on shrimp, fish, sometimes octopus. And it’s ALWAYS gotta have lime, chile, cilantro, and a little onion. Don’t even think about forgetting the cilantro. My abuela would haunt me.

I learned to make ceviche at my abuela’s side. She wouldn’t let me near the knife until I was, like, ten, because “a good ceviche needs perfectly diced ingredients, mija.” She was very precise. Very. Everything had to be uniform. Which, naturally, my cousins and I found hilarious and deliberately messed up. We'd swap the diced tomato for mango, or pretend the jalapeño was a carrot, just to see her face.

And then Tía Mildred got involved. Oh, Tía Mildred. She thinks she’s a culinary genius, even though her signature dish is…boiled chicken. Seriously. Boiled. Chicken. But she decided, one summer, that she knew better than Abuelita about ceviche. She started adding pineapple, and…mango chutney. Mango chutney! Abuelita almost fainted.

“¡Mildred! ¿Qué estás haciendo?” she shrieked, waving a wooden spoon threateningly. Tía Mildred just smiled sweetly and said, "Adding a tropical flair, hermana!" That’s Tía Mildred in a nutshell. Completely oblivious to the chaos she creates.

The whole family took sides. Some were Team Abuelita (the traditionalists, obviously). Others, mostly my younger cousins, were intrigued by the novelty of Tía Mildred’s fruity concoction. I stayed neutral, secretly enjoying the drama while sneaking bites of both versions. Honestly, it wasn't bad, Tía Mildred's stuff, just...not ceviche.

One year, there was a full-blown ceviche competition. Each side prepared their version, and we all voted. Abuelita won, of course. The vote was rigged, let’s be real. But Tía Mildred insisted on making her “tropical ceviche” every summer after that, just to prove a point. And Abuelita would glare at her across the table, muttering under her breath about “respecting tradition.”

I remember one particularly hot afternoon, trying to make ceviche with Abuelita when the power went out. No blender, no electric mixer, nothing. She didn't even bat an eye. “This is how we did it before,” she said, grabbing a molcajete (a stone mortar and pestle) and starting to grind the chiles. It took forever, and my arms ached, but the ceviche tasted incredible. It felt…more authentic somehow. Like we were connected to generations of cooks who had done the same thing, the same way.

Carlos (my husband, he mostly just nods and smiles during these stories) once asked me why we don't just order ceviche from a restaurant. He doesn’t understand the whole ritual, the family history, the sheer amount of emotional energy that goes into making it. “It’s not just about the food, cariño," I told him. "It’s about the memories."

Making tostadas de ceviche adds another layer of crunch and fun. Instead of serving the ceviche in bowls, you pile it high onto crispy tortillas with slices of creamy avocado. It's perfect for parties, picnics, or just a casual weeknight dinner. Just be prepared for a little chaos. My cousins still try to sneak mango into the mix, and Tía Mildred is always lurking, ready to offer her "expertise."

Last year, I tried to recreate Abuelita's ceviche exactly as she made it. I meticulously diced every ingredient, used the freshest shrimp, and squeezed the limes until my hands hurt. When I presented it to her, she took one bite, closed her eyes, and said, "Mm-hmm. Not bad, mija. But you forgot a pinch of oregano." Of course she did.

Recipe

Ingredients 🌽🥘

  • 1 pound large shrimp, peeled, deveined, and chopped (about ½ inch pieces)
  • ¾ cup fresh lime juice (about 8-10 limes)
  • ½ red onion, finely diced
  • 1 jalapeño, seeded and minced (more if you like it spicy!)
  • 1 cup chopped cilantro
  • 2 Roma tomatoes, seeded and diced
  • 1 avocado, sliced
  • 12 corn tortillas
  • Vegetable oil, for frying
  • Salt & pepper to taste

Tools 🔪🥄

  • Large glass or stainless steel bowl
  • Cutting board
  • Knife
  • Large skillet or deep fryer
  • Slotted spoon
  • Paper towels

Steps

  1. Place the chopped shrimp in a glass or stainless steel bowl and cover with the lime juice. Make sure all the shrimp is submerged! This “cooks” the shrimp through the acid in the lime juice (it's not really cooking, but let's pretend). Let it marinate in the refrigerator for at least 20 minutes, or up to 30—the shrimp should turn opaque and pink.
  2. While the shrimp marinates, prepare the other ingredients: dice the onion, jalapeño, tomatoes, and chop the cilantro. Seriously, don’t skimp on the cilantro.
  3. Heat about ½ inch of vegetable oil in a large skillet over medium-high heat. Carefully fry the tortillas one at a time until golden brown and crispy (about 30-60 seconds per side). Don’t overcrowd the pan! ¡Ay Dios mío! Hot oil and family gatherings…a dangerous combo.
  4. Remove the fried tortillas and place them on a paper towel-lined plate to drain excess oil. Sprinkle with salt immediately while they’re still hot.
  5. Drain the lime juice from the marinated shrimp. Add the diced onion, jalapeño, tomatoes, and cilantro to the shrimp. Season with salt and pepper to taste. Give it a good stir—taste test and adjust seasoning as needed, because Abuelita will be judging you.
  6. To assemble the tostadas, spread a layer of ceviche on each crispy tortilla. Top with slices of avocado. Serve immediately—because no one wants a soggy tostada.

Body image

Make-Ahead / Storage

  • The shrimp can be marinated in lime juice for up to 2 hours, but any longer and it might get too tough.
  • Assemble the tostadas right before serving to prevent them from getting soggy.
  • Leftover ceviche can be stored in an airtight container in the refrigerator for up to 24 hours, but the texture will change slightly.

Side Dish Pairing

  • Jicama salad with orange segments and a chili-lime dressing (it's cool and refreshing!).
  • A light Mexican beer or a sparkling agua fresca (mango is acceptable...but don't tell Abuelita).

Tía Mildred always decía, “A little bit of sweetness never hurt anyone,”

so go ahead and add a dash of agave nectar to your salsa if you’re feeling brave.

But remember, Abuelita is always watching.


Keywords

cevicheshrimp cevichetostadasmexican foodappetizersummer recipeslime juicecilantroavocado

Comments

No comments yet. Why don’t you start the discussion?

Leave a Reply