What Is a Hatch Chile? How to Buy and Use The New Mexico-Grown Pepper

Due to some unfortunate road trip planning last year, my husband and I arrived in Las Cruces, New Mexico the day after Labor Day, or — more importantly — the day after the annual Hatch Chile Festival ended. Each year, 30,000 visitors descend on the nearby farming town of Hatch to celebrate the harvest (and en masse roasting) of the long green chiles named for this fertile valley. Fortunately for us, the region’s chile harvest was just getting started, so we drove to the nearest grocery store in Las Cruces, where, sure enough, staff were roasting fresh chiles onsite. 

“Ten or 20 pounds?” the employee asked. Behind him, a great caged drum set over an open flame turned the chiles, which spit and crackled as they roasted, issuing smoky, sweet, popcorn-like aromas. We portioned, bagged, and froze our 10-pound haul. A few days later, we packed it into our biggest cooler full of ice, replenishing it at every gas station and hotel on the 1,500-mile drive home to the Midwest. 

This is just what one does for real-deal Hatch chiles. 

What are Hatch chiles?

Perhaps you’re wondering what all the fuss is about. They’re just peppers, right? The thing is, they aren’t. Hatch chiles (yes, that’s how New Mexicans spell “chile”) are a singular product of the high desert of the 47th U.S. state. Resembling Anaheim chiles in appearance, they are meaty-fleshed with a grassy, fruity, smoky flavor, and a sneaky heat.

Hatch chiles are a cultivar group of the centuries-old chile pepper plant, which was first grown in North America throughout Santa Fe de Nuevo México by Pueblo and Hispanic communities. In the early 20th century, horticulturist Fabián García and his students at what is now New Mexico State University in Las Cruces used the plants to develop modern New Mexico chiles, featuring a more consistent size and tamer heat. 

Today, descendents of this cultivar type span numerous varieties that range in flavor and heat level — from the beloved, meaty Big Jims and Chargers (which are great for stuffing) to the more fiery Sandia Select, G76, and Rattlesnake chiles. But all hail from the Hatch Valley in southern New Mexico, which stretches along the Rio Grande river from Arrey to Rincon. A former floodplain, the Hatch Valley’s nutrient-rich soil and fluctuating temperatures are considered ideal for growing perfect peppers.

The chiles are planted in April and harvested starting in August through the first frost, usually in November. If left on the vine, they’ll turn red. The red ones are often bound for salsa, which prompts the question that’s inevitably asked at every New Mexican restaurant: “Red or green?” 

Some peppers on the market claim to be grown in Hatch but are actually grown elsewhere. In 2016 an association of green chile growers in the Hatch Valley successfully petitioned for a certification mark for Hatch-grown chile to help consumers verify the source, which was backed by a federal appeals court. 

How to use Hatch chiles

Because Hatch chiles are especially sturdy, they take well to preservation methods like roasting and canning without losing flavor — a bonus during the crush of fruit that arrives come fall. Indeed, should you find yourself in a New Mexican grocery store or farmers market, especially late in the year, you’ll see roasted Hatch chiles flash-frozen in pre-portioned sacks, canned, dried, ground, or blitzed into salsa. (Note: Be sure to cook frozen roasted chiles to at least 165°F.) 

You can use Hatch chiles in any recipe that calls for chiles. Unsurprisingly, they’re especially well-suited to Tex-Mex applications, lending their distinct flavor and fiery heat to enchiladas, burritos, chiles rellenos, green chile smash burgers, and chile con queso.

That last one isn’t any old processed cheese, mind you. Fiery, thin chile con queso is a salsa that comprises roasted Hatch chiles simmered in their own tangy, spicy liquor; it’s topped with melted cheddar and served with fresh flour tortillas. The most famous bowl of chile con queso lives at a century-old roadside joint called Chope’s in La Mesa, which is tucked among pecan groves and shrubby desert about 30 miles south of Las Cruces. 

I thought of Chope’s as I prepared a batch of chile con queso using some of my haul from last autumn. I sautéed onion in butter, then added garlic, chopped tomatoes, and the chiles in their liquid before ladling the mixture into ramekins, topping them with cheese, and broiling until bubbly. Pinching my first stretchy, tangy bite with a bit of blistered flour tortilla, I was transported back to late summer in the borderlands with that azure desert sky and the scent of just-roasted Hatch chiles heavy in the air. There’s no chile like a New Mexican chile.