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Los Angeles Times
18-05-2025
- Entertainment
- Los Angeles Times
When it comes to mole, it's personal and political
For me, mole has always been personal. It's a bridge to my family, my memories and to Mexico itself. But lately, it's become political too. In these past months, as Trump's administration has run roughshod over any pretense of humanity in the way America treats immigrants, I've been thinking about how culture itself can be criminalized, policed, restricted and erased. So when I heard that Pujol, Enrique Olvera's Michelin-starred Mexico City restaurant, was bringing a pop-up, and his famous mole, to Los Angeles, I knew I had to go. I wasn't hungry just for mole but for my people, our culture, to be seen, even celebrated. Ten kitchen and wait staff traveled to Olvera's L.A. restaurant Damian for the event. That detail hit me hard because of the risks in crossing borders at a time when every Latino entering the U.S., no matter how or why or with what legal status, is suspect. Even inside the U.S. the border follows you. The message is clear: Perceived outsiders are untrustworthy by default. Still the Pujol chefs and servers came, and brought with them Olvera's mole madre — a constantly aged, evolving mole that has been developing (almost like a sourdough starter) for a full 10 years. Some call it iconic. But as Olvera says, 'We're not trying to make the best mole — just our own.' That's the heart of it. Mole is memory, place, family, self. At the pop-up, I expected to be served one mole, the mole, the mole madre. Instead, we were served three. The first was a mole de olla — meaning, cooked in a clay pot. (I'm used to the term 'de la olla' referring to beans — frijoles de la olla, soupy and whole, not mashed or refried.) I was surprised to find that this mole wasn't traditional, that is, it wasn't a sauce poured over meat. Instead, it coated a tender short rib, more like a basting than a pour. And the flavor went deep: dark, smoky, with a chocolatey-coffee undertone — not sweet, but rich and complex. If I hadn't known it was mole, I might've mistaken it for a sophisticated barbecue glaze. The short rib itself was fatty, fork-tender and indulgent. The next mole arrived like a tribute to artist Josef Albers' 'Homage to the Square' — except this was a composition of nested circles on a round, white ceramic plate. At the center was an adobe-red mole nuevo, alive with brightness and vibrancy. The mole madre encircled it, just as its name suggested, like a mother cradling her child, a culinary pietà. Hand-written in pen, the menu noted the mole madre had now been aged for 3,676 days. The color was a deep, dark brown — like the bark of an ancient oak tree after a rainstorm, earthy and noble. The colors reflected not only the dish's depth but also the palette of Los Angeles, its temporary home. And it was served sans protein. Suddenly, the richness of the short rib in the previous course made sense — it had fulfilled the need for heartiness, allowing this dish to stand on its own. I scooped a tortilla outward toward the plate's edge — from the younger mole to the madre mole. The first bite was lively, spiced and bright — already better than almost any mole I'd ever had. Then the mole madre : thicker, more like pudding than sauce, reminiscent of the dense Spanish hot chocolate served with churros. It had the presence and gravitas of the San Gabriel Mountains — rising sharply from sea level to 10,000 feet. Just like those mountains catch the light — pink, orange, purple — this mole revealed layers of spice and complexity. It didn't just have depth; it had archaeological, geological depth. And yet, I had to laugh. It was a good thing I hadn't brought my mom or my tias to the pop-up. As transcendent as the dish was, they would've said: ¿Y la carne? When we asked how the mole evolves, our waiter explained that the ingredients change with the seasons. Before coming to Los Angeles, the chefs had added guava, apples and pears. Excited, I asked, 'What will you add while you're in L.A.?' The waiter smiled. 'We don't have plans to add anything.' But I wanted them to. I wanted Los Angeles to give the mole something in return — a gesture of reciprocity. When my family visits from Mexico, they bring raw cheeses, dried shrimp, artesenal pan dulces, beaded art made by the Huichol. We reciprocate with See's candies boxes, Dodger gear, knock-off designer purses from Los Callejones. Couldn't the chefs take something back? A flavor? A symbol? Something to mark that they weren't just visitors, but familia returning to ancestral soil here in Los Angeles, a city that was once itself part of Mexico? I thought of the loquats in season, sweet and floral, growing in backyards across L.A., so delicate they cannot be sold in markets. They'd make the perfect local accent. I thought of the sour cherry juice from a Georgian dumpling house in Glendale, its tartness would add a contrast to the mole's depth. I thought of David Mas Masumoto, the Japanese American farmer in the Central Valley whose family was imprisoned during World War II but whose peaches still flourish. Then I remembered the orange blossoms, blooming at the Huntington in San Marino. I'm writing a book about the Huntington gardens, and I know those trees once bore fruit picked and packed by Mexican laborers, 100 years ago. The Pujol mole, I realized, could hold a memory, just as those trees do. L.A. oranges and mole madre — they'd form a kind of culinary Latinidad, a genealogical and territorial fusion through food. I turned to the waiter and said, 'Please, take our oranges back with you. They're a link — across miles, generations. They belong with your mole.' He promised to pass the message on to the chefs. I had come to taste a legendary dish, to be sure. But in the savoring, I was struck by how precarious everything feels in this moment. I found myself yearning to convey how deeply what's Mexican and what's American are still connected, people to people, gente to gente, no matter what the government in Washington says. Every mole carries a story, even if it doesn't earn Michelin stars. The story tastes of a living, evolving history. And I want that story to shine. Natalia Molina is a professor of American studies and ethnicity at USC. Her latest book is 'A Place at the Nayarit: How a Mexican Restaurant Nourished a Community.'
The National
24-04-2025
- Entertainment
- The National
Inside fashion's obsession with art: The designers and artists blurring creative boundaries
For its autumn/winter 2025 presentation in Paris, Spanish house Loewe eschewed a traditional runway show for a static display – a tableau of ready-to-wear looks, accessories and bags, created in part with the Josef and Anni Albers Foundation in the US. Josef and Anni Albers, pioneers of 20th century art – he as a Bauhaus Movement figure, she as a textile artist – infused their bold colouring and geometric patterning into the collection. Josef's Homage to the Square series appeared as colour-blocked accents across Flamenco clutches, Puzzle bags, and Amazona totes, while Anni's textured weaves lent depth to overcoats and pom-pom-embroidered bags. The format was unexpected, but characteristic of creative director Jonathan Anderson, who departed Loewe shortly afterward. Anderson is known for threading high-art concepts through mainstream fashion and his avant-garde interpretations reliably generate social media buzz. Closer to home, a drive down Sheikh Zayed Road reveals billboards of Zendaya clutching Louis Vuitton's latest bags, co-created with Japanese artist Takashi Murakami. This is the second time the brand has partnered with the artist – the first was in 2002, when Murakami reimagined Vuitton's monogram in 32 vibrant hues – an instant hit that remains a cultural touchstone to this day. Fashion and art have long been intertwined. From the sculpted drapery of Ancient Greek statues, such as The Winged Victory of Samothrace (circa 190 BCE, now at the Louvre), to the regal portraits of European monarchs, attire has served as both artistic medium and political statement. A 1588 portrait of Queen Elizabeth I, for instance, showcases her opulent pearl-and gold-strewn gown while a window behind her depicts England's defeat of the Spanish Armada, an unmistakable symbol of dominance. In December 2018, Dolce & Gabbana channelled the Milanese Renaissance for its Alta Moda collection, incorporating Titian's Bacchus and Ariadne (circa 1520) and Giorgione's Judith (1504) into lavishly hand-stitched gowns. The intersection of fashion and art has often been strategic. In 2017, American artist Jeff Koons collaborated with Louis Vuitton, not incorporating his own works, but repurposing masterpieces, such as Leonardo da Vinci's Mona Lisa, plus works by Fragonard, Rubens and Gauguin onto Neverfull, Speedy and Keepall bags, transforming priceless art into luxury accessories. Similarly, in spring/summer 1991, Gianni Versace revived Andy Warhol's portraits of Marilyn Monroe and James Dean in a pop-art-meets-fashion moment. Decades later, London's Saatchi Gallery houses Versace Paintings, which reference Versace's famous Medusa head motif, illustrating how fashion can inspire fine art in return. Christian Dior's link to the art world dates back to its 1947 founding – Monsieur Dior was a gallerist before becoming a designer, championing the likes of Picasso, Dali, Miro, Man Ray and Max Ernst. This legacy has been a launchpad for Maria Grazia Chiuri, Dior's current creative director, who consistently shines a light on female artists, from Tomaso Binga (autumn/winter 2019) to Judy Chicago (What If Women Ruled the World, haute couture spring/summer 2020) and Surrealist painter Leonor Fini (spring 2018 haute couture). Chiuri also engages with feminist discourse, citing historian Linda Nochlin's Why Have There Been No Great Women Artists? (1971) and Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie's We Should All Be Feminists, the latter emblazoned on a T-shirt that opened her Dior show. Dior's ongoing Lady Dior Art project invites artists – Gilbert & George, Judy Chicago, Qatari artist Bouthayna Al Muftah, and Marc Quinn – to reinterpret the maison's iconic handbag. Meanwhile, Gucci has taken an artistic route by replacing traditional campaigns with digitally painted visuals by Spanish artist Ignasi Monreal and large-scale murals by Alex Merry in Tokyo and New York, where dreamlike compositions feature Gucci furniture and tea sets alongside monkeys and mythical creatures. Such collaborations have historical precedence. In the 1930s, Elsa Schiaparelli enlisted her friend Salvador Dali to paint a giant lobster on to a gown, which was donated to the Philadelphia Museum of Art in 1969. Prada has maintained a firm grip on the art world since opening Fondazione Prada in 1993, followed by its touring Prada Mode programme, which brought exhibitions by Damien Hirst to Dubai in 2022 and Theaster Gates to Abu Dhabi in 2025. Miu Miu, Prada's sister label, fosters artistic dialogue through short films by female directors worldwide. In the UAE, Sheikha Hoor Al Qasimi merges art and fashion through Qasimi, the brand founded by her late twin brother, Sheikh Khalid Al Qasimi. As president of Sharjah Art Foundation, she enlists artists to shape collections. For autumn/winter 2025, Maori artist Emily Karaka contributed bold, indigenous motifs, while previous seasons featured the painted-slash-sketched work of American artist Kambui Olujimi. At Louis Vuitton, the late Virgil Abloh blurred the lines between fashion, art and architecture, producing kite-shaped jackets and airplane-shaped bags that fuelled viral moments. While reducing such craftsmanship to social media currency may seem reductive, platforms such as Instagram and TikTok have changed how we engage with fashion and art – shifting from private appreciation to mass consumption. The craving for experiential, shareable culture may seem superficial, but if it broadens access to high art and design, it might just be the perfect antidote to our digital age.
