Ecuador: Mikuna Tinkunakuy

In Kichwa, “mikuna” means food, and “típica” or “tinkunakuy” is about coming together. But this isn’t just a phrase—it’s a battle cry for cultural pride. It reminds us that food isn’t merely fuel; it’s a meeting ground, a declaration of defiance, and a link across generations of struggle.

Ecuador isn’t only a land of rugged volcanic highlands, busy coastal docks, and the wild reaches of the Amazon—it’s a land that’s learned to fight. Its people have squirmed against colonizers and caudillos, taken on greedy oligarchs and ruthless oil barons, and stared down IMF technocrats and U.S.-backed puppets. Amid every uprising, every blockade, every revolution, one truth remains: the fire under the stove never goes out.

Every dish here shouts its own story of resistance. There’s a stir-fried rice born in Guayaquil’s gritty Chinese quarters that stands for migrant solidarity against a system built on discrimination. And Mashed plantain balls—tucked into the hands of Andean peasants—carry the echoes of Montoneros, their machetes raised high against oppressive landowners. Over on the docks, fish stew simmers in the memory of laborers who rose in defiance. In the humble kitchens of Indigenous communities, potato patties crackle in oil as they fed blockades and built hope, while pork sandwiches from bustling markets powered protests against neoliberal austerity.

Ecuador’s past is steeped in exploitation, sure—but it’s also defined by a fierce collective memory. It’s in the resolute calm of a woman ladling encebollado to dockworkers on strike, in the steady beat of a market stall’s grill amid chanting crowds, in a Bolón devoured just before dawn on a march through banana fields. Mikuna tinkunakuy típica isn’t just food—it’s the very way Ecuador remembers its pain, its fight, and its resilience.

Today, we break bread with that legacy. We’re going to tear into these stories—stories of food that sparked revolts, ignited revolutions, and fed a nation’s defiance. So grab your hunger and stoke that fire. Let’s dig in.

Chaulafán de Pollo: Wok This Way

Chaulafán de Pollo isn’t just a stir-fried rice dish—it’s a story in a bowl. A sizzling fusion of Cantonese technique and Ecuadorian improvisation, it throws together tender chicken, scrambled eggs, crisp bell peppers, onions, and soy sauce into a wok and makes no apologies for the chaos. It’s fast, filling, and built from whatever was on hand—exactly what you’d expect from a dish forged by workers trying to stay alive and stay human.

This story starts in the mid-19th century with the so-called “coolie trade”—a nice euphemism for shipping Chinese laborers across the ocean and working them to death in someone else’s empire. They were promised an opportunity. What they got was exploitation. As we discussed in the Peru post, thousands of Chinese men were crammed into ships and dumped into brutal conditions on plantations, mines, and railroads across Latin America. As I mentioned in the Peru post, Peru’s guano islands were basically open-air labor camps—“Islands of Hell” where over two-thirds of workers died before their contracts were up. Some of the luckiest among them escaped rather than stay in hell.

A few of these men fled north into Ecuador—crossing borders, evading bounty hunters, and carrying little more than what they could hold. One thing they did bring? The wok. Not any kind of heirloom. Just a practical, portable way to cook over high heat—perfect for frying food fast. They weren’t dreaming of Michelin stars. They were just trying to survive. But even in survival, there was creativity. Stir-frying local rice with scraps of meat, soy sauce, and garlic became a way to reclaim control—of meals, of labor, and of their dignity.

Once in Ecuador, these escapees found refuge in Guayaquil’s cramped Chinese neighborhoods, the early beginnings of Ecuador’s Chinatown neighborhoods. Their arrival wasn’t simply about fleeing a brutal past; it was the beginning of a new narrative of resistance. They came clutching recipes and a stubborn refusal to be erased. They carried the weight of their painful past into every sizzling wok, and thus, Chaulafán de Pollo was conceived—a dish born from desperation, later refined by the communal spirit of survival.

By 1908, the second wave of Chinese migrants arrived—some voluntary, others less so—but all walking into a society that treated them as outsiders. Chinese migrants faced discrimination, a tougher time finding jobs, and loans. That year, they formed the Sociedad de Beneficencia China del Ecuador. It was a mutual aid society, immigrants looking out for immigrants. The society would help immigrants by finding them work, schooling, helping pay rent, etc. From cramped tenement kitchens to street carts in Guayaquil’s markets, chaulafán became a meal you could count on. It was something warm after a 12-hour shift. It was food that said, “You made it through today.”

And it didn’t stop there. As Chinese-Ecuadorians established themselves, chaulafán evolved too. What started as desperation food became beloved street food—fried with pride, served in Styrofoam boxes, scarfed down by workers across class and culture. It’s still got the grease, still got the heat, and still tells the story of people who refused to be erased.

For me, this dish is one of the most flavorful, tantalizing fried rice dishes I’ve ever eaten.

Chaulafán de Pollo (Ecuadorian Chicken Fried Rice) Recipe

Serves: 4

Prep Time: 20 minutes

Cook Time: 25 minutes

Total Time: 45 minutes

Ingredients:

2 cups cooked white rice (preferably day-old)
1 lb boneless chicken thighs, diced
1 red bell pepper, diced
1 green bell pepper, diced
1 small onion, finely chopped
2 garlic cloves, minced
1 carrot, diced
1/2 cup frozen peas
3 tbsp soy sauce
2 tbsp vegetable oil
2 eggs, beaten
2 green onions, sliced
1 tsp ground cumin
Salt and pepper to taste
1 tbsp fresh cilantro, chopped (for garnish)

Instructions:

Heat 1 tbsp oil in a large skillet or wok over medium-high heat. Add chicken, season with cumin, salt, and pepper, and cook until browned, about 5–7 minutes. Remove and set aside.
In the same skillet, add remaining oil. Sauté onion, garlic, bell peppers, and carrot until softened, about 4 minutes.
Push vegetables to one side, add beaten eggs to the empty side, and scramble until just set, about 1 minute. Mix with vegetables.
Add rice, soy sauce, peas, and chicken. Stir-fry for 5 minutes until heated through and well combined.
Stir in green onions, adjust seasoning, and garnish with cilantro before serving.

Notes:

Sourcing: Day-old rice prevents mushiness; use long-grain rice for best texture.
Cultural Note: Chaulafán de Pollo reflects Ecuador’s Chinese immigrant influence, a working-class staple for urban laborers balancing cost and nutrition during economic struggles.
Storage: Refrigerate for up to 3 days; reheat with a splash of water to restore moisture.

Bolón de Verde: Smash the System

Bolón de Verde literally translates to “Big Green Ball,” talking about its main ingredient and shape. It’s been made for centuries and likely comes from the Indigenous population of the Ecuadorian coast. However, over time, different ingredients such as cheese and chicharrones were added to the middle. Of course, this ball of smashed plantains has been mostly known as a working-class peasant food, something that came into stark relief in the early 1900s.

Its story takes on sharper flavor when paired with the Montonero Revolt of 1912—a violent, short-lived, yet deeply symbolic uprising by rural militias, disenfranchised peasants, and Indigenous farmers against a deeply entrenched, corrupt oligarchy. Ecuador’s early 20th-century political climate was a powder keg. The dramatic assassination of liberal leader Eloy Alfaro—a radical reformer who had championed secularism, education, and land redistribution—lit the fuse of discontent. Alfaro’s brutal death, his body dragged through the streets of Quito before being desecrated by a conservative mob, sent shockwaves through the nation. His martyrdom transformed him into a symbol of hope and defiance for countless Ecuadorians.

In the aftermath, supporters of Alfaro, especially across the coastal and highland regions, let their grief and rage coalesce into action. These were not the disciplined ranks of a modern military; they were montoneros—wild, fierce bands of cowherds, laborers, subsistence farmers, and Indigenous villagers who found themselves living on the knife’s edge of survival. Burdened by debt peonage, harsh military conscription, and systemic racial repression, these people—long ignored and exploited by a powerful landowning elite—used their anger as fuel. Their uprising was not orchestrated by generals but was the spontaneous, raw reaction of the rural masses who simply refused decades of exploitation. It was an explosion from below, a revolt born in the sweat-soaked furrows of neglected fields.

The montoneros fought with everything they had—armed with machetes, outdated rifles, and fueled by the desperation of having nothing left to lose. They staged daring ambushes, seized control of small towns, and tried to carve out autonomous zones in the dry forests and sugar fields of Manabí and Guayas. Among their scarce provisions, bolones—the mashed green plantains mixed with scraps of pork fat, cheese, or leftover meat—became indispensable. Hastily prepared the night before, these calorie-dense rations were wrapped in cloth and distributed around communal fires, sustaining fighters as much as they symbolized the solidarity and ingenuity of a people who refused to perish. In every bolón, there was a taste of resistance—a defiant reminder that even the humblest ingredients could be weaponized against oppression.

Although the revolt was eventually crushed—its leaders captured, executed, or simply disappearing into the shadows—the legacy of the montoneros left deep fractures in Ecuador’s political landscape. Their uprising underscored one vital truth: that the rural poor were not passive victims but could organize, resist, and push back against systemic injustice. Even in defeat, their struggle helped maintain the debate on land reform, labor rights, and the dismantling of oligarchic control. Their battle cry, echoed in the simple act of sharing bolones, lived on as a fiery testament to every future act of defiance.

Bolón de Verde, in this context, isn’t just a breakfast. It’s a symbol of survival. A reminder that even the humblest ingredients—green plantains, pork scraps, frying oil—can carry the weight of rebellion. From the open fires of guerrilla camps to the kitchens of Guayaquil and Esmeraldas, the bolón tells a story of those who dared to fight back, one mashed ball at a time.

Bolón de Verde (Green Plantain Dumpling) Recipe

Serves: 4 (makes 4 bolones)

Prep Time: 15 minutes

Cook Time: 30 minutes

Total Time: 45 minutes

Ingredients:

4 green plantains, peeled and cut into chunks
1 cup queso fresco or mozzarella, cubed
1/4 cup pork cracklings (chicharrones), crumbled (optional)
2 tbsp vegetable oil (plus more for frying)
Salt to taste

Instructions:

Boil plantain chunks in salted water until tender, about 15 minutes. Drain and mash into a smooth dough while still hot.
Mix in pork cracklings (if using) and season with salt. Divide the mash into 4 portions.
Flatten each portion, place a cube of cheese in the center, and form into a ball, sealing the cheese inside.
Heat oil in a skillet over medium heat. Fry each bolón for 3–4 minutes per side until golden and crispy.
Serve hot, optionally with a fried egg or hot sauce.

Notes:

Sourcing: Green plantains are unripe and firm; ripe plantains won’t hold shape. Queso fresco is traditional, but mozzarella melts well.
Cultural Note: Bolón de Verde, a coastal dish, sustained rural workers with its hearty, portable nature, a symbol of resilience during economic hardship.
Storage: Best fresh; refrigerate for 1 day and reheat in a skillet.

Encebollado: Revolution in a Bowl

Warm, briny, and sharp with pickled onions and citrus, encebollado is coastal Ecuador’s gift to the world—and a bowl of living history. This hearty tuna and yuca stew, laced with red onions, cilantro, and lime, has roots as deep as Ecuador’s coast. What began as a simple boiled fish soup in 3500 BC grew richer with each wave of migration. The Spanish brought onions and citrus, others added tomatoes and yuca, until it became what it is today: Ecuador’s national dish. But long before it was plated in upscale restaurants, encebollado was eaten hunched over plastic bowls on docks and street corners—fuel for the coastal working class who helped ignite the Glorious May Revolution of 1944.

By the early 1940s, Ecuador was suffocating under President Carlos Arroyo del Río—a man propped up by a conservative elite, kept in power through rigged elections and state violence. While war profiteering ballooned and inequality surged, resentment simmered across the country. The coast, in particular, was done waiting.

In the overworked, overpoliced port cities—Guayaquil, Esmeraldas, Manta—resistance wasn’t just theoretical. In shipyards, tuna canneries, textile mills, and banana plantations, workers didn’t just break their backs. They organized. Between shifts and during stolen minutes on street corners, they plotted. Over cups of coffee and bowls of stew, they asked the hard questions: How long would they toil while the elites dined? When would it be their turn to be heard?

This wasn’t some abstract intellectual revolt. This was longshoremen with rope-burned hands, teenage factory girls fighting for a living wage, Afro-Ecuadorian laborers whose resistance was intergenerational, and Indigenous migrants bringing with them the weight of centuries. And through it all, there was encebollado—hot, fast, cheap, and communal. Ladled out of roadside stalls at dawn, carried in dented pots, eaten standing, it was the people’s sustenance. Not fancy. Not clean. But constant.

When Arroyo del Río tried to extend his grip on power with a sham election in May 1944, Ecuador snapped. In Guayaquil, dockworkers and machinists stormed the streets. They didn’t just protest—they seized government buildings. In Quito, Indigenous farmers and unionists flooded the capital. Days of chaos followed, and when the dust settled, Arroyo was gone. Overthrown not by generals or diplomats—but by workers. By students. By the people. They called it La Gloriosa—the Glorious May.

And the revolution had a flavor. It tasted like encebollado—hot broth in the rain, pickled onions that stung your tongue, the soft bite of yuca under cheap spoons. It was shared between shifts, passed around barricades, eaten before dawn protests. It became more than a dish. It became a reminder.

Encebollado soup has a very distinct, tangy flavor, and is quite delicious. I found that it can be enjoyed at just about any time of day.

Encebollado (Tuna Soup with Pickled Onions) Recipe

Serves: 4

Prep Time: 20 minutes

Cook Time: 40 minutes

Total Time: 1 hour

Ingredients:

1 lb fresh tuna, cut into chunks
2 yuca roots (about 1 lb), peeled and cubed
1 large onion, thinly sliced
1 tomato, diced
2 garlic cloves, minced
1/2 cup cilantro, chopped
1 tsp ground cumin
1 tsp smoked paprika
2 tbsp vegetable oil
6 cups fish stock or water
Juice of 2 limes
Salt and pepper to taste
Pickled onions (for serving): 1 red onion, thinly sliced, marinated in lime juice and salt for 30 minutes
Sliced avocado and popcorn (for serving)

Instructions:

Heat oil in a large pot over medium heat. Sauté onion, garlic, and tomato until soft, about 5 minutes. Add cumin and paprika; cook for 1 minute.
Add yuca and fish stock, bring to a boil, then simmer for 20 minutes until yuca is tender.
Add tuna chunks and cook for 5–7 minutes until just cooked through. Stir in lime juice, half the cilantro, and season with salt and pepper.
Serve hot, topped with pickled onions, remaining cilantro, avocado slices, and a side of popcorn.

Notes:

Sourcing: Fresh tuna is ideal, but canned tuna works for affordability. Yuca should be firm and peeled carefully.
Cultural Note: Encebollado, a coastal staple, fueled dockworkers during labor protests, reflecting resilience and communal spirit.
Storage: Refrigerate for up to 2 days; reheat gently to avoid overcooking tuna.

Llapingachos: Land on a Plate

Golden and crispy on the outside, molten with cheese on the inside, llapingachos are more than just potato patties. They’re a dish that tastes like earth and memory—like the volcanic soil of the Andean highlands and the ancestral hands that worked it for generations. Paired with peanut sauce, fried eggs, avocado, and chorizo, they’re a Kichwa-rooted expression of comfort—but also of territory. Because in Ecuador, land has never just been land. It’s been identity, livelihood, and the battleground of centuries. And in 1990, the people who make llapingachos took to the streets to demand it back.

That June, Ecuador awoke not to the quiet hum of routine, but to a roar of indignation and solidarity. Across the highlands, roads were blocked with tree trunks and stones; crowds surged like a living barrier through mountain passes. Indigenous communities from Otavalo to Chimborazo marched toward Quito in the tens of thousands, not with weapons, but with woven hats, vivid flags, and the quiet rage of a people long denied their land.

This uprising was more than a protest—it was the largest Indigenous mobilization in Ecuador’s modern history. Unlike earlier, more localized rural protests, the movement of 1990 was pan-Indigenous: transcending province, language, and tribe, it forged an alliance of people united by shared marginalization and hope. At its core was the newly formed Confederation of Indigenous Nationalities of Ecuador, or CONAIE, which had emerged only a few years earlier. For the first time, Indigenous voices demanded that the state acknowledge their rights—and their very existence. Their demands were concrete and urgent: land reform that returned ancestral territories, bilingual education that respected their languages and traditions, official recognition of Indigenous nationalities, and an end to centuries of exclusion and broken promises.

In the midst of this sweeping change, everyday resistance found expression in the simplest of forms. Llapingachos, traditionally made from Andean potatoes and cheese, became far more than a beloved snack. In blockades, roadside encampments, and bustling community kitchens, these crispy, nourishing patties were prepared and shared with a purpose. They were portable symbols of the struggle—a reminder forged on the very tubers grown on lands that had long been contested. Every bite of a perfectly crisped llapingacho whispered a defiant message: “This is our land. This is our food. We are still here.”

The state’s response was a mix of bureaucratic negotiations and stark repression. Yet, the pressure exerted by a united Indigenous movement proved inescapable. For the first time in decades, the voices of those who had been silenced forced the government to come to the negotiating table. The uprising led to tangible gains: Ecuador was eventually recognized as a plurinational state, access to land titling improved, and the national conversation around indigeneity and identity shifted dramatically. What began as a grassroots outcry evolved into a historic turning point—a moment when the long-simmering desire for dignity, justice, and recognition could no longer be ignored.

Today, llapingachos are sold everywhere—from city restaurants to roadside stalls—but their roots remain deeply Andean. And every time you flip one on a hot griddle, you’re reenacting a quiet piece of history: a people’s refusal to be erased from their own soil. A dish that once fueled marches now feeds a legacy of cultural survival.

Llapingachos (Potato Patties) Recipe

Serves: 4 (makes 8 patties)

Prep Time: 20 minutes

Cook Time: 25 minutes

Total Time: 45 minutes

Ingredients:

4 medium potatoes, peeled and boiled
1/2 cup queso fresco or mozzarella, crumbled
1 small onion, finely chopped
2 tbsp vegetable oil (plus more for frying)
1 tsp achiote powder (or paprika)
Salt to taste
Peanut sauce (for serving): 1/4 cup peanut butter, 1 cup milk, 1 garlic clove, blended and simmered until thickened
Fried eggs and sliced tomatoes (for serving)

Instructions:

Mash boiled potatoes until smooth. Mix in cheese, salt, and achiote powder.
Heat 1 tbsp oil in a skillet over medium heat. Sauté onion until soft, about 3 minutes, then mix into the potato mixture.
Form the mixture into 8 patties, about 1/2-inch thick.
Heat oil in the skillet over medium heat. Fry patties for 3–4 minutes per side until golden and crispy.
Serve hot with peanut sauce, a fried egg, and sliced tomatoes.

Notes:

Sourcing: Achiote powder adds color and flavor; paprika is a substitute. Queso fresco is traditional, but mozzarella works.
Cultural Note: Llapingachos, an Andean staple, fueled rural workers during labor protests, a simple yet filling dish for the working class.
Storage: Refrigerate for up to 2 days; reheat in a skillet to retain crispiness.

Sánduche de Chancho Hornado: Roast, Rage, and Resistance

There’s something almost sacred about chancho hornado—slow-roasted pork, marinated in garlic, cumin, achiote, and citrus until it’s tender enough to shred with a glance, then tucked into thick bread and crowned with tangy pickled onions and a spoonful of aji. In markets across the Ecuadorian highlands, this sandwich is the centerpiece: hot, bold, messy, and deeply communal. But in 1999, it wasn’t just a comfort food—it became protest fuel.

That year, Ecuador was in crisis. Neoliberal policies of the 1990s—ruthless privatization, brutal austerity, and foreign debt restructuring—had hollowed out public services and battered the rural poor to their core. When the banking collapse hit in early 1999, it wasn’t just another financial hiccup; it wiped out the savings of everyday citizens overnight. The sucre, once a symbol of national pride, plummeted as inflation soared and food prices exploded, leaving families reeling and starving. For Indigenous farmers, already edged to the limit by decades of land inequality and systematic underinvestment, this collapse was the final, crushing blow.

In the midst of this economic maelstrom, a spark was lit. Led by CONAIE—the Confederation of Indigenous Nationalities of Ecuador—tens of thousands of Indigenous people rose as one. Across the country, from the wind-swept Andean highlands to the lush fringes of the Amazon basin, highways were slammed shut with impromptu barricades made of tree trunks and stones. In the crowded streets of Quito and Guayaquil, workers, students, and rural migrants marched shoulder-to-shoulder on government buildings. Their slogans rang out in raw, uncompromising voices: “No to dollarization,” “No to privatization,” “El pueblo no paga la crisis.” In that moment, the crisis transformed into a full-blown uprising—a testament that the marginalized were no longer content to be forgotten.

On the front lines of these protests, the air was alive with defiant energy—and the unmistakable aroma of pork. Amid banners and chants, protesters carried not only demands for justice but also sustenance: massive pots of hornado, loaves of freshly baked bread, and jars of fiery aji were handed out from makeshift kitchens set up in occupied plazas and on the sides of barricaded roads. These communal meals were more than a way to keep hunger at bay; they became potent symbols of resistance. Sharing a sánduche de chancho hornado wasn’t just about satisfying an appetite—it was an act of reclaiming dignity, a culinary manifesto of defiance against a regime that sought to erase their culture and community.

Behind the clamor of the protests, the impact of this organized resistance reverberated through Ecuador’s political landscape. Even as the government pressed forward with a forced transition to dollarization in 2000, the protests of 1999 had already shaken the foundations of the country’s ruling class. They demonstrated without a doubt that Indigenous people and the working poor were not mere bystanders in history—they were a national force, capable of bringing even a mighty state to its knees. These massive street protests laid the groundwork for the eventual overthrow of President Jamil Mahuad the following year and sparked broader debates on economic sovereignty, extractivist policies, and whose interests the modern state truly served.

Today, you’ll still find sánduche de chancho hornado on nearly every Ecuadorian street corner. But for those who marched in that tumultuous 1999, that sandwich transcends flavor. It carries centuries of struggle, the taste of defiant unity, and a reminder that every time people came together over food, they were feeding the flame of resistance—tender, defiant, and utterly unforgettable.

Sánduche de Chancho Hornado (Roasted Pork Sandwich) Recipe

Serves: 6 sandwiches

Prep Time: 30 minutes (for pork marinating) + 15 minutes (for sandwich assembly)

Marinating Time: 4 hours (or overnight)

Cook Time: 2 hours

Total Time: 6 hours 45 minutes (or overnight)

Ingredients:

For the Hornado (Roasted Pork):

3 lbs pork shoulder, bone-in
6 garlic cloves, minced
1 tbsp ground cumin
1 tbsp smoked paprika
1 tsp ground coriander
1/2 cup bitter orange juice (or 1/4 cup orange juice + 1/4 cup lime juice)
2 tbsp vegetable oil
Salt and pepper to taste
1 cup water or beer (for roasting)

For the Sandwiches (per sandwich):

6 crusty rolls or sandwich bread (like bolillos, French rolls, or even ciabatta)
1/2 cup shredded Hornado pork (adjust to your preference)
Optional Toppings/Condiments (choose your favorites):

Curtido (Ecuadorian Pickled Red Onion): Highly recommended and traditional! (Recipe below)
Aji criollo (Ecuadorian hot sauce) or your favorite hot sauce
Mayonnaise
Mustard
Lettuce leaves
Tomato slices
Avocado slices

Instructions:

Part 1: Preparing the Hornado (Roasted Pork)

Marinate the Pork: In a bowl, mix minced garlic, ground cumin, smoked paprika, ground coriander, bitter orange juice, vegetable oil, salt, and pepper. Rub this marinade generously all over the pork shoulder. Place the pork in a dish, cover, and refrigerate for at least 4 hours, preferably overnight, to allow the flavors to penetrate.
Preheat Oven: Preheat your oven to 350°F (175°C).
Roast the Pork: Place the marinated pork in a roasting pan. Add 1 cup of water or beer to the bottom of the pan. Cover the roasting pan tightly with aluminum foil. Roast for 1 hour.
Crisp the Skin (Optional for sandwiches, but adds flavor): Remove the foil and continue to roast the pork uncovered for another 45–60 minutes, or until the pork is very tender and the skin is crispy and golden brown. You may need to increase the oven temperature to 400°F (200°C) for the last 15–20 minutes to achieve a crispier skin. Baste occasionally with the pan juices.
Rest the Pork: Once roasted, remove the pork from the oven and let it rest for at least 10–15 minutes before handling. This allows the juices to redistribute, keeping the pork moist.
Shred or Slice the Pork: For sandwiches, you’ll want to shred the pork using two forks or thinly slice it against the grain. You can also chop it into smaller pieces. If the skin is crispy, you can chop it up and mix it in with the shredded pork for added texture and flavor.

Part 2: Preparing the Curtido (Ecuadorian Pickled Red Onion - Highly Recommended!)

This quick pickle adds a crucial tangy and slightly spicy element to the sandwich.

Ingredients for Curtido:

1 large red onion, thinly sliced into half-moons
1/2 cup white vinegar
1/4 cup warm water
1/2 tsp salt
1/4 tsp sugar
1/4 cup fresh cilantro, chopped (optional)
1/2 aji or serrano pepper, thinly sliced (optional, for a kick)

Instructions for Curtido:

In a bowl, combine the sliced red onion, white vinegar, warm water, salt, sugar, and optional cilantro and aji/serrano pepper.
Stir well to combine. Let it sit for at least 15–30 minutes for the flavors to meld and the onions to soften slightly. You can make this ahead of time and refrigerate it.

Part 3: Assembling the Sánduche de Chancho Hornado

Prepare the Rolls: Slice your crusty rolls or bread horizontally. You can lightly toast the rolls if desired.
Spread Condiments (Optional): Spread mayonnaise or mustard on the cut sides of the bread, if using.
Load with Pork: Generously pile the shredded or sliced Hornado pork onto the bottom half of each roll.
Add Toppings:

Top with a generous spoonful of Curtido (pickled red onions).
Add lettuce and tomato slices, if using.
Drizzle with aji criollo or your favorite hot sauce, if desired.
Add avocado slices, if using.

Close the Sandwich: Place the top half of the roll over the filling and gently press down.
Serve: Serve immediately and enjoy your delicious homemade Sánduche de Chancho Hornado!

Notes for Sánduche de Chancho Hornado:

Pork Shredding: The pork should be tender enough to shred easily. If it’s not, continue roasting until it reaches that consistency.
Crispy Skin (Cueritos): In Ecuador, the crispy pork skin (cueritos) is a prized component of hornado. Don’t discard it! Chop it into small pieces and mix it in with the shredded pork for amazing texture and flavor in your sandwich.
Balance of Flavors: The key to a great Sánduche de Chancho Hornado is the balance between the rich, savory pork, the tangy curtido, and the kick of hot sauce if you choose to add it.
Make Ahead: You can roast the pork a day in advance and store it in the refrigerator. Reheat gently before assembling the sandwiches. The curtido can also be made ahead.

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