It was a minute past midnight in Mexico City. With his right hand gripping the wheel and his left quivering against the balmy November wind, my driver raced past shuttered street stalls, battered billboards and the glow of slowly-rotating al pastor spits. Wide-eyed, I stared out the window; my mind racing, my pulse pounding. Four hours earlier I sat in O’Hare’s international terminal skimming sentences that described where ancient Olmec heads still peer through impenetrable Veracruz vegetation and how afternoon-long Zapotec cenas are served under the scorching Oaxacan sun. I arrived in Mexico with my head full of dreams and thanks to distracted Chicago airline employee,  precious little else.

You needn’t worry. My belongings found me long before I found my way to Puebla’s avocado smeared cemitas and beautifully blue-tiled buildings. Nevertheless, my first moments in Mexico sprawling capital left an indelible impression. Subsequent experiences justified my immediate infatuation with country, culture, and cuisine.

Tonight, as the hands of my Chicago clock edge toward their eleventh hour, I find myself on the eve of another south of the border sojourn. Simply put, Mexico seems to suit me, but due to external pressures and obsolete concerns, I’ve never allowed myself the time to see what could come of a life focused on the exploration of its riches. Come May 18th, all of that will change. Once again, I will arrive D.F. with a hopeful heart and grand ambitions. I’ve chosen to devote two months of my life to exploring possibilities that rarely survive the sunrise that forcibly follows dream-stuffed sleep.

My journey will begin beneath the crimson glow of a Condesa shade tree. From there, I’ll weave my way to Neveria Roxy for stacked scoops of Mamey and Zapote ice cream. Shortly after sunrise I’ll devour chocolate clams and Baja bred octopus high above CondesaDF’s red windup car. By my second sunset, I suspect I’ll have had my fill of Contramar’s lime-bright aguachile. In the days that follow I’ll lend an open ear to all that is said and seen at Enrique Olvera’s Mesamérica conference. After those curtains close, I’ll wind my way to Michoacán for Morelia en Boca. I will sample Purépechan delicacies in hilly villages before celebrating wedding vows in the city’s grand cathedral.   Continue Reading…

“I do not believe in either Mexican or Latin American painting. I can only conceive of painting in its most universal sense. My main concern, really, is to resolve the picture with its own elements: to define its balance, with that mysterious sort of mathematics which, even when it is applied intuitively, makes it possible to turn a picture upside down without any loss of significance, quite independently of the subject — for the subject doesn’t really matter. But what interests me most of all is man and the way he faces the problems that surround him. Art must belong to its time: it should not be concerned with memories but with what is happening now. And the artist is the antenna. He cannot be passive or content merely to dream. Art is fundamentally a message, a means of communication.”- Rufino Tomayo

With a pair of crispy soft shell crabs as their summer centerpiece, the Topolobampo kitchen crafted a Taste of Art, a five course celebration of the works that adorn their dining room walls. Though it arrives at the mid-point of the meal, the course is the best entry point to one of the restaurant’s most daringly conceptual menus. In terms of color palate and plating, it is the only dish that directly mirrors the piece that inspired it. Dos Cabezas, Tomayo’s striking study in tart cherry reds and impenetrable midnight black exemplifies the qualities that the Oaxacan born painter stressed when interviewed. Built on earthy barley, sea-fresh crab, and summer stone fruit, the dish’s creator understands that with such purposeful restraint, its focal points are amplified and enhanced. Continue Reading…

On my last Mexican morning I chased a week’s worth of memories up a spiral stair. The incense that swirled around a charlatan shaman’s leather lips. The operatic echo of a tenor training just above a San Ángel ice cream shop. A sweaty, sardine-packed Metro train speeding through the city’s bowels toward Barranca del Murto’s balding buzzards. A Guerreran paper tiger’s mirrored gaze. The cleaver’s thud. The comal’s sizzle. The gentle patter of masa between time-worn hands.

I sought a vessel that could contain all of this and more. I found a hollowed gourd.

My journey came full circle at chef Enrique Olvera’s table. Sleep deprived and altitude sick, I stumbled out of a screeching cab, walked through Pujol’s wooden doors and found my footing with his Menu de Tierra. I returned a week later, well rested and ready for a refreshing dive into the Menu de Mar. Whether you opt for land or sea, your journey begins and ends with a smokey puff. First comes a gourd packed with the chef’s iconic grilled elote. Last comes a mezcal teased marshmallow. In between, you’ll encounter an array of dishes that, while firmly rooted in Mexican culinary tradition, tease and circumvent expectations in best possible way.

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