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.
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. hormigas culonas
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 . When done perfectly, a hormiga culona is not
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. But the abdomen—the culona itself—is the prize
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.
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.