Hormigas Culonas 【Full Version】

The method of consumption is specific: pinch the ant gently behind the head. Bite off the abdomen. Chew slowly, letting the creamy paste coat your tongue. Discard the head and legs (though some aficionados eat the whole thing). It is a meditative act. The flavor evolves on the palate—first a crackle of salt, then a wave of roasted maize, and finally a deep, funky, almost cheesy finish that lingers like a fine single-malt scotch.

The ants arrived at the time of year when stored grains from the previous harvest were running low. The vuelo nupcial provided a sudden, abundant, and protein-rich resource exactly when it was most needed. The Guane believed that eating a queen ant would transfer her vitality and fecundity to the eater. To this day, some rural Colombians ascribe aphrodisiac qualities to the ants—a belief reinforced by their rich zinc and protein content, which are indeed beneficial for reproductive health.

The method is deceptively simple. Culanderos (ant harvesters) lay large, clean white plastic sheets or tarps on the forest floor, often near the entrance of mature ant colonies. Sometimes, they simply sweep the bare earth. Then, they wait. When the atmospheric conditions trigger the nuptial flight, the queens emerge from the nest. They are clumsy, reluctant fliers—their massive abdomens making aerodynamics a challenge. They run and flutter, attempting to launch themselves. hormigas culonas

When the Spanish arrived, they were initially horrified by entomophagy (insect-eating). However, hunger and curiosity eventually overcame disgust. Colonial chronicles note that Spanish settlers quickly came to appreciate the “little toasted grains” that the natives offered. Over centuries, the hormiga culona transcended the indigenous sphere to become a regional symbol of santandereanidad —the identity of the people of Santander. In the 21st century, the hormiga culona has leaped from the rustic budare to the white tablecloths of some of the world’s most avant-garde restaurants. This is due in no small part to the work of Colombian chef Leonor Espinosa, whose restaurant Leo in Bogotá has been repeatedly named one of the best in Latin America. Espinosa, an economist turned chef, has made it her mission to document, preserve, and elevate the biodiversity of Colombian cuisine.

This is the story of Atta laevigata —the queen of the leaf-cutter ants—and her brief, spectacular journey from the depths of an underground metropolis to the sizzling budare (clay griddle) of a rural campesino . Let us address the elephant—or rather, the ant—in the room. The name culona derives from culo , a Spanish word for buttocks or rear end. It is a direct reference to the ant’s most striking anatomical feature: an abdomen so disproportionately large, swollen, and gleaming that it constitutes nearly two-thirds of the insect’s total body mass. This is no accident of nature. The ants consumed are not the sterile, wiry workers that one sees marching in perfect file across a forest floor. They are future queens . The method of consumption is specific: pinch the

She treats hormigas culonas not as a gimmick, but as a serious ingredient. In her tasting menus, they might appear as a powder dusted over Amazonian fish, as an infusion in a butter sauce for native potatoes, or simply toasted and served with a foam of cocuy (a agave spirit). She has argued passionately that the ant is a victim of “food colonialism”—the idea that only European ingredients (wheat, beef, cheese) are “real food,” while indigenous ingredients are “primitive.” By serving hormigas culonas to international diners, she reclaims their dignity.

In the high-altitude kitchens of Boyacá and Santander, Colombia, there exists a delicacy so prized, so deeply embedded in the pre-Columbian soul of the nation, that it commands prices per kilo rivaling prime beef and imported seafood. Its name is at once humorous and descriptive: hormigas culonas —a colloquial term that translates to “large-bottomed ants.” To the uninitiated, the concept of eating ants might evoke a survivalist’s last resort. But to the people of the Colombian altiplano, these insects are not a curiosity; they are a seasonal ritual, an ancestral legacy, and a crunchy, savory explosion of umami and toasted maize that marks the arrival of the rainy season. Discard the head and legs (though some aficionados

Next comes the toasting. Traditionally, this is done on a budare —a large, flat, unglazed clay or cast-iron griddle set over a wood fire. No oil is used. The damp, clean ants are poured onto the hot surface. At first, they hiss and steam. A strange, earthy aroma fills the kitchen—damp forest floor, roasted nuts, and a sharp, vinegary note. This vinegar smell is formic acid, the ant’s natural defense, which is being driven off by the heat. (If the ants are not properly toasted, this acid can be irritating to the mouth.)