Mucbipollo is a tamal, not a pie, though it is the size of a cake and cut in squares like one. The name is usually explained through the Maya verb for burying, which is exactly what happens to it: the wrapped parcel goes into a píib, a pit dug in the yard, lined with stones heated by a wood fire, covered over with earth and left for hours. In Yucatán and across Quintana Roo, people also call the dish simply pib, after the oven.

It belongs to Hanal Pixán, the food of the souls, in the last days of October and the first days of November. Families make it in quantity because it is shared: a portion left on the altar for the dead, portions carried to neighbors and godparents, portions eaten standing up in the kitchen with a cup of hot chocolate or atole. In Tulum, you will smell the fires in the barrios from about the 29th, and bakeries and taquerías sell it by the square for the few days either side of that date. It is one of the clearest markers of the season here, more than any decoration.

What makes it itself is the kol, a sauce of broth thickened with masa and coloured with achiote, poured into the shell with the meat so that the inside stays loose and wet while the outside dries and browns against the leaf. The flavor is sour orange and achiote, warm rather than hot, with the toasted corn and pork fat of the crust underneath. The chile, usually a whole x'catic or a habanero, goes in for perfume and is not meant to burn.

Two things go wrong at home. The first is to treat it like a crust, making it thin and neat; the masa should be a good centimeter thick, soft, and heavily enriched with lard, and it will crack a little, which is normal. The second is being timid with the kol. A mucbipollo with too little sauce bakes dry and crumbles when cut, and no amount of salsa afterward fixes it. An oven will not give you the smoke of a píib, but with the banana leaf sealed tightly, the result is honest, and it is how most town kitchens do it now anyway.