When I moved from Atlanta to Coastal Virginia in 1991, I thought I had a pretty good grasp of what Mexican food was.
Large platters of food, with entrees including burritos, chimichangas, and enchiladas, covered in cheese and a snappy red sauce. Along side were creamy refried beans, and savory orange-hued rice.
And of course endless crisp tortilla chips, piled high in a wax paper-lined basket with bottomless bowls of tomato-based salsa .
Then, one day, within a couple of weeks of settling in to my new hometown, my late husband, an area native, took me to a favorite Mexican restaurant of his.
At El Rodeo in Virginia Beach, as visions of margaritas danced in my head, the chips arrived. The familiar red salsa was placed on the table, then something different, a white sauce, bespeckled with tiny bits of black and red pepper, and other seasonings and spices.
I asked my husband what it was. He looked at me as if I was uncultured. White sauce, he said.
Note: traveled folks call this salsa blanca. Most simply call it white sauce.
Although not a fan of mayonnaise (please don’t take away my Southern card) I tepidly dipped one of the corners of a chip, lightly coating it in the mixture.
It was sassy, with heady notes of garlic and some underlying heat from the peppers. There was tang, which I later found came from not mayonnaise, but Miracle Whip.
Let’s be honest: most of the Mexican food Americans enjoy are highly altered to accommodate our tastes. In our corner of Virginia, it’s only been in the past decade or so you’ll see more authentic dishes and ingredients make their way onto menus.
But dang, the Americanized version of this ancient and amazing cuisine is so good.
While we’re being honest, the white sauce is perhaps one of the least authentic offerings on bills of fare in Mexican restaurants in our corner of Virginia.
And that’s what makes it so special.
It’s uniquely ours.
It barely even meets the definition of Americanized Mexican cuisine, earning its pedigree from the simple spices that give that unctuous, kinda South of the Border feel to it.
White sauce coats chips perfectly, clinging to the fried tortilla wedges better than its red dip cousin. It’s lip smacking, with seasoning playing nicely from the salted surface of the chips. White sauce offers a jezebelly alternative to crema. Ole.
When I moved to Coastal Virginia some 35 years ago, white sauce was well established, and it was also well known that the original was concocted at El Toro, also in Virginia Beach.
El Toro has long since closed, but the white sauce lives on.
People discussed it in reverence then, and they do now. It’s like a favorite child, and in some circles has been elevated to the same level as other culinary calling cards of the region, like country ham and oysters on the half shell. Who am I to argue?
If you tried to take away white sauce from the tables on Virginia Beach and surrounding cities, I think locals would start a revolution a la Pancho Villa. Give us our white sauce, or give us death.
The story of the white sauce has become much clearer over the years, but is still the stuff of legends. We now know the origin story of El Toro, and we’ve seen originator Willie Jenkin’s recipe on Pinterest groups and other online forums, and brought out from time to time in the pages of our local newspaper, the Virginian-Pilot.
With the closing of El Toro, other restaurants in the area are now tasked to carry on this tradition, and many do.
Today, El Rodeo operates out of Norfolk, but Plaza Azteca, another Mexican restaurant stalwart in the region, is in the former location in Virginia Beach’s Kempsville neighborhood where I first tasted white sauce, serving up their own, tasty variation with the ubiquitous chips and salsa, setting the tone for a South of the Border meal, Coastal Virginia style.
At home, I make a variation that has all the sass and twang, but substituting healthier Greek yogurt for the Miracle Whip or mayonnaise.
I don’t just use it for a dip with chips; it’s great as a dip for fried local oysters, or a topping on taco (or taco salad) resplendent with fish caught right off the coast. It’s also good as a cold sauce in a Chesapeake Bay blue crab cocktail. I also like it as the dressing for a creamy, unique coleslaw.
Here’s how I make my Coastal Virginia White Sauce.
In a large bowl, combine 2 cups of full-fat Greek yogurt with 1/2 cup of milk and 3 tablespoons of cold water.
Whisk until the mixture becomes smooth. Add 2 tablespoons of white vinegar and 1 tablespoon of fresh lime juice, whisking again to loosen up the sauce.
Prepare a garlic paste by finely mincing 3 cloves, sprinkling them with a pinch of kosher salt, and using the flat side of a kitchen knife to smash, drag, and smear repeatedly until smooth.
Stir the paste into the yogurt mixture along with 1-1/2 teaspoons of kosher salt, 2 teaspoons of freshly ground black pepper, 2 teaspoons of crushed red pepper flakes, 1 teaspoons sugar, and 3/4 teaspoon of dried oregano that has been crushed between your fingers.
Once combined, refrigerate the sauce for two to 24 hours so the flavors meld and the texture tightens slightly. Before serving, whisk again. If using as a dressing, optionally add a splash of water to make sauce more pourable.
The recipe yields about 2 cups, perfect for eight people.
Note, you can use Miracle Whip instead of the yogurt.
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Patrick Evans-Hylton is a Johnson & Wales-trained chef, food historian, and an award winning food journalist, covering tasty trends since 1995 in print, broadcast and electronic media. Read him at VirginiaEatsAndDrinks.com
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Some of this information appeared in Southern Living magazine, https://www.southernliving.com/white-sauce-virginia-mexican-restaurants-1190596
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