You have layers. Your dip should, too

There are certain markers of culinary maturity that emerge quietly, like rings on a tree: a favorite burner on the stove. A hard-won loyalty to a particular brand of Dijon or seltzer. An intuitive understanding of when a party is unsalvageable — and when it’s worth sticking around for the dip.

A truly great dip can’t fix the vibe, exactly. It won’t unhaunt a playlist seemingly built on bad memories or prevent your ex’s ex from holding court on the politics of regenerative farming. But it can offer ballast. It can provide purpose — something to do with your hands, your plate, your time. And in its best form, it functions as a kind of social mediation: creamy, crunchy, spicy, cooling, layered in a way that feels almost architectural.

You may find yourself loitering near the kitchen island, pretending to study a hanging pothos while calculating whether it’s worth another scoop. You may suddenly feel charitable toward the man who’s made seeing The National at Red Rocks a cornerstone of his post-divorce personality. You may stay a little longer than you meant to.

Which brings me to this dip.

Now, not every dip needs to be elaborate to be transcendent. There’s this swirled labneh with sizzled scallions and chile, Alison Roman’s quiet luxury take on ranch, a sauce with posture and snap. A magnificent hummus, silky from skinned chickpeas, can stand alone in its glory. Even Ro-Tel mixed with Velveeta — molten, orange, unapologetic — has its place.

But this dip? This dip takes its inspiration from a more baroque, arguably campy, ancestor: the seven-layer. The kind you might have first met at a 4th of July picnic in a glass Pyrex dish, where guacamole and sour cream mingled with salsa and shredded cheese in slightly slouchy strata. This version honors that spirit — the layers, the excess, the joy — while turning the volume up to eleven and adding a few tricks of its own.

Layer 1: Refried beans

This is your foundation — the creamy, savory base that gives the whole thing its integrity. Black or pinto both work beautifully. Black beans bring a deeper, earthier tone; pintos are soft and nutty, more traditional. Use what you like, but know that in this case, store-bought may not be your best bet.

As we talked about here a few weeks ago, local restaurants make excellent sous chefs. The best refried beans in town are probably being made a few blocks away from you, by someone who knows exactly how much lard, salt and time it takes to get the texture right. Head to your favorite neighborhood Mexican spot. Order chips and a margarita for there — linger a moment — and leave with a generous side of refried beans to-go. If housemade salsa is on offer, add that to your order. We’ll come back to it.

Layer 2: Crisped Mexican chorizo

There’s something primal about adding meat to a dip. It’s a move that says: you came here to eat.

As a child of the suburbs, one of my earliest queso memories involved a cast-iron skillet at Chili’s. Bubbling, velvety and faintly meaty from the addition of browned ground beef. It wasn’t elegant, exactly, but it scratched a very specific itch: salty, spicy and served with the kind of corn chips that shattered on contact.

This layer channels that same instinct — and then smokes it up a notch. Mexican chorizo brings deep seasoning, a little funk and the kind of paprika-forward heat that lingers. It should be cooked until darkened and crisp at the edges, then drained well. You want crunch and savor, not oil slick. Scattered over the bean base, it adds weight and richness, the carnivorous note that makes this dip feel like dinner, not just an appetizer.

Layer 3: Tortilla strips

Think of these like savory croutons tucked inside a salad — embedded crunch. Buy the pre-made strips in the salad section or, if you’re feeling just a little ambitious, cut corn tortillas into thin strips, toss with a little oil and salt, and bake or pan-fry until golden and crisp. Scatter generously over the chorizo for contrast, support and delightful crackle.

Layer 4: Fresh corn

Corn in a dip is always a flirtation — sweet, juicy, a little showy. Here, it acts as the bright, buttery counterpoint to the smoky chorizo and creamy beans.

At its simplest, freshly cut corn straight off the cob is perfectly delectable. No heat required. But if you’re looking for a reason to light up the grill, a quick kiss of flame would add some amazing depth. You’re not looking to fully blacken every kernel, just enough scorch to bring out that toasty, nutty edge. Scatter them over the tortilla strips and chorizo layer. This is where the dip starts to glisten.

Layer 5: Cilantro-lime crema

This is the silky, tangy layer that softens the edges and brings a little cool relief. Simply mix Mexican crema or sour cream with a handful of roughly chopped cilantro — don’t worry, you’ll be adding more fresh herbs soon — and a generous squeeze of lime juice.

If you love elote as much as I do, go ahead and swirl in a bit of mayo. It adds a silky body and a touch of indulgence. If you’re firmly in the “no mayo in my dips” camp, feel free to leave it out. Either way, this crema is the dip’s whisper of brightness and creaminess all at once.

Layer 6: Cotija or queso fresco

A crumbly, salty snowdrift. Cotija brings brine and edge; queso fresco is milder, more delicate, but still bright. If you’re feeling theatrical, hit the top with a torch for a kiss of char.

Layer 7: A really good salsa

Follow your heart. A spoonful of pico de gallo adds juicy freshness. A drizzle of salsa verde brings tang and, well, verdance. Want depth, heat and a little drama? I’m team salsa macha — toasty, oily and laced with peanuts and chiles. Just a little goes a long way. Pick it up at your local joint along with the refried beans (or even Trader Joe’s has a version now, too).

Layer 8: Fresh herbs, brine and pickled red onions

The edible confetti. Scatter fresh cilantro and scallions. If you love the soft brine of chopped black olives on OG 7-layer dip, then feel free to add some of those here. Then crown it all with a tangle of quick-pickled red onions or shallots — vinegar-kissed, crisp and unapologetically pink.

Layer 9: Avocado

This is the gilding. Fan out thin slices for elegance, dice and dust with Tajín for flair or blend into a crema if you’re going for full swoon. However you play it, avocado brings richness and calm — a buttery green exhale before the plunge.

To serve

Layer it all in a shallow casserole dish or, if you’re feeling theatrical, a glass trifle dish, so the strata show through like geological layers of flavors. Can you get it all in one scoop? Perhaps not. But that’s part of the charm. Spoon a bit onto your plate and let the tortilla chips wander — through the crunch, the cream, the heat, the brine, the smoke.

This isn’t just dip. It’s a choose-your-own-adventure.

This story originally appeared in The Bite, my weekly food newsletter for Salon. If you enjoyed it and would like more essays, recipes, technique explainers and interviews sent straight to your inbox, subscribe here.

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