Hormigas Culonas |verified| -
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.)
To eat one is to understand that the line between “food” and “not food” is not drawn by nature, but by culture. It challenges the squeamishness of a globalized palate and invites a deeper respect for the planet’s smallest, most industrious creatures. In a world obsessed with factory farming and monoculture, the hormiga culona remains a defiantly wild, sustainable, and delicious act of resistance. It is the taste of a place that refuses to be flattened, one crunchy, creamy, big-bottomed bite at a time.
When done perfectly, a hormiga culona is not crunchy like a potato chip. It has a delicate, multi-textured architecture. The head and thorax are brittle, like fried shrimp shell. But the abdomen—the culona itself—is the prize. It bursts with a creamy, granular interior that has been compared to everything from toasted corn and peanut butter to smoky Parmesan cheese and crispy bacon. The flavor is savory (umami), nutty, slightly sweet, with a lingering, pleasant bitterness of toasted grain. It is a taste that defies easy categorization. You do not simply snack on hormigas culonas from a bag while walking down the street. To eat them is to participate in a ceremony of terroir. They are traditionally served in a small, woven estora (palm leaf basket) or a hollowed-out totumo (calabash gourd), accompanied by a cold masato (fermented maize drink) or a crisp, high-altitude chicha . In modern gastronomy, they are paired with artisanal beers or dry white wines. 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.
There is also a darker side: the illegal harvest. Some unscrupulous harvesters have learned to dig up entire nests to extract the queens before their nuptial flight. This kills the colony entirely. It is the equivalent of cutting down an apple tree to pick its fruit. This practice is widely condemned by traditional culanderos , who have developed a sustainable ethic over generations. They know that leaving enough queens to fly and found new colonies ensures a harvest next year and the year after. Next comes the toasting
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.
The harvesters do not swat or chase. Instead, they gently gather . Using soft brooms or even their hands, they sweep the teeming queens into buckets, sacks, or calabash bowls. The sound is distinctive: a soft, persistent pattering like rain on leaves, as hundreds of queens drop from the low vegetation or stumble across the tarps. A good morning’s harvest might yield five, ten, even twenty kilograms of live, squirming queens. The damp, clean ants are poured onto the hot surface
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.