Ancho chile salsa
Sweet, dark and barely hot. The ancho is a dried poblano, and this is the mildest dried chile salsa there is — the one everyone at the table can eat.
Every recipe here lists its heat on the same 0–5 scale, so you can actually compare them, and the timing includes charring, soaking and resting rather than pretending they take no time. If you would rather start from the chiles you already own, use the chile search.
Sweet, dark and barely hot. The ancho is a dried poblano, and this is the mildest dried chile salsa there is — the one everyone at the table can eat.
The dark red sauce on Mexican fruit and micheladas. Made from dried apricot and prune, it is sweet, sour, salty and hot in the same spoonful.
Tomatillos and chiles blackened on a dry pan, not boiled. Smokier, deeper and thicker than any other green salsa.
The smooth green sauce taquerias squeeze over tacos. No cream and no dairy in it at all — the texture comes from avocado and boiled tomatillo.
Five minutes, one blender, one can of chipotles in adobo. The smoky pink sauce on every taco shop's counter, made properly.
Pasilla chiles, orange and pulque, topped with cotija. The classic barbacoa salsa — and an honest answer about what to use when you cannot get pulque.
Four ingredients crushed by hand, with chunks and not purée. No sour cream, no mayonnaise, no cumin, and no, the pit does not stop it browning.
The mild red salsa that goes with everything. Deep red, barely hot, and it keeps ten days — the one to make if you are cooking for people who do not want heat.
Sweet, sharp and genuinely hot. Built around the habanero's floral aroma rather than just its burn, with cucumber for crunch.
Dried morita chiles with roasted tomato and a little piloncillo. Real smoke from the chile itself, not from a can and not from liquid smoke.
Salsa macha with peanuts and sesame, confited in oil. Keeps two months on the shelf and is the version most people prefer.
The jar on every taqueria table, with carrots and onion. Frying the vegetables first is what separates these from the canned kind.
Bright pink, sharp and ready in an hour. The onions on cochinita pibil, cured in sour orange rather than vinegar.
Tomatillos, serrano and cilantro, blended raw. Five minutes, no cooking, and sharper and fresher than any cooked version.
Dried chiles and seeds confited in oil, no water at all. That is why it keeps for months on the shelf and why you end up putting it on everything.
Chiles fried nearly black in oil with garlic. Intensely hot, deeply savory, keeps a month, and a few drops go a long way.
Tomatillos simmered with serrano and garlic, blended with cilantro. Rounder and sweeter than the raw version, and it keeps a week.
A pre-Hispanic dip of toasted pumpkin seeds, roasted tomato and habanero. No dairy, no oil, and probably the oldest recipe on this site.
The thick, dark red salsa in the squeeze bottle at a good taqueria. Three steps most home versions skip: fry the chiles, strain, then cook it in oil.
Guacamole with raw tomatillo instead of tomato. Sharper, it browns more slowly, and it is the version that surprises people.
Four ingredients, no cooking, and genuinely brutal heat. The name means dog's nose, for what it does to you. Built on sour orange, not lime.
Not by color and not by region, but by technique — because that is what you actually do in the kitchen. Boiling tomatillos and confiting dried chiles in oil are different processes with different results, even if both end up in a molcajete.
Every recipe carries a number from 0 to 5. It is our own scale and it measures the finished salsa, not the raw chile: a very diluted habanero salsa can burn less than a concentrated serrano one. That is exactly what a Scoville figure cannot tell you when you are deciding what to make for dinner.