Lesley Tellez

Charming, rustic Patzcuaro

May 21, 2009 by Lesley Tellez

I didn’t know much about Patzcuaro, Michoacán until a few months ago, when I decided to pitch a story based here. So here I am this weekend, working on said story. Arrived at noon today and I’m already in love with this town.

It’s hilly, and walkable, and all the buildings are rustic and topped with red-tiled roofs. Cars bump along on cobblestone streets. Just a few minutes ago, I saw a group of girls, probably 10 years old, walking down the street clutching colorful poofs of foklorico dresses. They were gabbing and all of them wore lipstick and eyeshadow.

I’m staying at a rustic, quiet inn. All the rooms face this courtyard.

For lunch, I ate my weight in mercado food, including a 15-peso cocktel de pulpo and camarón, sprinkled with diced habanero. (And a tostada. And a corunda. And a corn-on-the-cob with lime and chile. And queso ice cream streaked with boysenberry marmelade.)

Stopped by the basilica, and saw this chapel….

I forgot how blue the sky could be. Which is kind of sad. Just went through my pictures and almost all of my pictures them are of plants, or the sky.

Exhausted from waking up at 5:45 this morning. Gonna have a glass of wine and go to bed. Tomorrow I’m off to a yoga class… in my pajama pants, since I didn’t bring any yoga clothes. Who knew they had yoga in Patzcuaro?

Homemade mamey frozen yogurt

May 20, 2009 by Lesley Tellez

A lot of my culinary adventures lately have started with a rotting mamey. This one I’d been suckered into buying on Sunday at the tianguis. (Where, it must be remembered, I was hungry.)

I accepted a particularly juicy chunk from a vendor and thought, Well… maybe I can slice this up and have it for dessert. But when I got home, and over the next few days, I noshed instead on some dark chocolate Hershey kisses, a bag of American candy from Alice’s house and leftover banana pudding.

The mamey sat on the bottom shelf of my fridge, in the very back. It began turning brown at the edges.

Not wanting my poor mamey to die, and wanting my jeans to continue to fit me, I tried to think of something light I could whip up with it. Obviously not ice cream. But maybe… fro-yo?

A quick google search turned up a David Lebovitz recipe on 101 Cookbooks. It called for straining yogurt with a cheesecloth. (Ugh. Too lazy.) But that led me to David’s even simpler recipe on his own site, which called for basically dumping yogurt and sugar together, and then churning it in your ice cream maker.

I could do that. I could do that in, like, an hour.

So I cut up my mamey and mashed it with a fork, and added a few healthy squirts of agave nectar. (Did I forget to mention that I didn’t add any processed sugar to this?) I added some Activia yogurt I had in the fridge. I chilled it for an hour, and clumsily poured it into my ice cream maker, getting mamey-agave-yogurt stuff all over the front and sides of my mixer.

Twenty-five minutes later, it was done. And it was good.

Not out-of-this world spectacular — the texture isn’t as smooth and creamy as what you’d get at the store, and next time I think I’d add more yogurt (or lime juice?) to boost the yogurt-y tang. But it’s a fine first start. Definitely something I could snack on after dinner, or outside on our porch on a sunny day.

Plus, this opens up a whole new world of fro-yo. I’ve seen lychees at the market lately…. hmmm…..

Recipe after the jump, if you want it.
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Why I ended up giving 70 pesos to two strangers who knocked on my door

May 19, 2009 by Lesley Tellez

So, this morning, my doorbell buzzed. I looked through the peephole and saw two guys, maybe in their mid-twenties. Normally I wouldn’t answer, but I thought: Maybe they’re doing work on the building and they need to ask me something. Our cistern wasn’t working last week, and the elevators were out once. I’ve directed maintenance men before.

So I answered. They immediately started talking in rapid Spanish.
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The sounds of a typical Mexico City street

May 19, 2009 by Lesley Tellez

For a long time, I’ve been wanting to record some of the crazy sounds you hear on the street here. Finally, finally, I got my little Olympus tape recorder and captured a few.

At 7 a.m. outside our window, there’s a guy who calls “Aguaaaaaa!” Or at least I think that’s what it is. Thoughts?

The way everyone always talks so wistfully about the camote man’s whistle, I thought it’d be a charming, toot-toot kind of thing. But no. I heard it at 10 p.m. on a weeknight and it scared me.

Also, kinda late for sweet potatoes.

My favorite is the disembodied Oaxacan tamale-seller voice. You hear this throughout the city, blaring from the speakers on different tamale carts.

The interesting thing is that no one knows exactly where the voice came from. You hear it in three different neighborhoods and think, “Is this the same vendor, biking everywhere?” (Forgot to mention, these tamale vendors are on bikes.) But it’s not the same guy. Just the same voice, saying over and over, “Hay tamales Oaxaqueños, tamales calientitos.” Maybe I’m a little obsessed with this voice.

But so is everyone else. It’s even on YouTube.

There are so many more sounds that I haven’t recorded yet, but I want to. The screechy bike horn that signifies tortillas. The ding-dong of the trash man’s handbell. The speedy tweet-tweet-tweet of the parking attendant, who whistles while he waves someone into their parking spot.

If you have a favorite sound and you live here, let me know what it is. I’m fascinated.

Why it’s a bad idea to shop at the tianguis while hungry…

May 18, 2009 by Lesley Tellez

…Because, after sampling everything the vendors hand you, including guanabana pulp and mamey and a big chunk of avocado, you STILL stop on the way out at the stand selling the world’s tiniest breakfast pastries, and you promptly purchase a whole bag of them, because they’re so little and cute.

You also ask the lady, “What’s that?” and point at what looks like a large chunk of bread. She says, “A borrachito — bread soaked in honey.” So you buy that too and gobble it on the way home, lack of antibacterial hand gel be damned.

And then, the morning after preparing a huge batch of chicken tinga, and eating four tacos stuffed with tinga and avocado and riquísimo panela cheese:

You eat said pastries with coffee, relishing in their butteriness, but really thinking, why did I purchase these again? I really bought a whole bag?

I’m spending like two hours at the gym today.

A trip to Tlalpan, “what Coyoacán used to be”

May 17, 2009 by Lesley Tellez

Lately it seems like I’ve been reading everywhere about the hipness of Tlalpan, a suburb south of here. The local city magazines, Chilango and Dónde Ir, always seem to include Tlalpan in their roundups of cool taco shops and cafes. And several of the cafes are mentioned in my very hip DF de Culto guidebook.

I corralled Alice into taking a trip there after reading that Lonely Planet called Tlalpan “what Coyoacan used to be.” Meaning, bohemian and colonial, but less crowded.

Sounds nice, no?

The Metrobus stops pretty close to the square, so we went last Friday. The place was serene and adorable: Narrow streets, cobblestones, bouganvillea blooming over fencetops. The occasional open door — old, weathered, oozing charm — revealed a patio overflowing with plants, or the occasional fonda restaurant.

We bought tacos de canasta from a lady in front of the mercado and drank agua frescas in the cute little square. We gushed over the cute restaurants, but didn’t visit any of them, because we were too full. Stupid extra-creamy horchata con fresa.

We wandered through a few parks, and walked over to the Antigua Hacienda de Tlalpan, a fancy restaurant and popular wedding site. We browsed in a Tlalpan bookstore, where I debated buying a 1970’s “Gelatins for all Seasons” cookbook because I’m fascinated by Mexican milk-with-Jell-O desserts. But then I decided against it because really, how many Jell-O molds am I going to make?

Before we left, we hit El Jalisciense, a cantina off the square. We slurped spicy caldo de camarón from plastic cups, and drank Palomas and Victorias. Mmmm.

I would definitely go back, hopefully next time with Crayton. It seems like the perfect Saturday day trip.

Although next time, I’m bringing an umbrella. Turns out Tlalpan does not have many gutters, so rain = huge puddles. (=soaked shoes on the Metrobus.)

UPDATE: My dear hubby has wondered why would bringing an umbrella would have any effect on me stepping in any puddles. What I meant was: We got SPRAYED by several CARS that drove through the puddles, because drivers in Tlalpan are not very cautious. In case anyone else out there was wondering too.

The jóven phenomenon

May 14, 2009 by Lesley Tellez

I noticed shortly after I moved here that Mexicans yell “jóven!” when they want a waiter’s attention. The word means “young person.” But people do it even if the waiter is 90 years old.

I watched a Mexican friend do it a few times and thought something was lost in translation. So I asked her to clarify: “Um — do you really call people jóven if they’re older than you are?” She nodded at me, like, DUH.

Since then I’ve noticed people use it in the grocery store — “Jóven, will you help me reach this carton of milk on the top shelf?” — and at department stores. “Jóven, where are the women’s shoes?”

I never used it because it just felt weird. Why would I call someone older than me “young person”? That seems derogatory.

Yesterday, we went to the cantina around the corner from our house, because it was thunderstorming and we didn’t want to walk too far. I wanted a beer. But I couldn’t catch any of the waiters’ eyes. One was watching the soccer game. Another stood behind the bar, staring off into the middle distance. This is normal, by the way. It’s always hard to catch a waiter’s eye here — they’re either walking too fast, or staring straight ahead, or… watching the soccer game.

I fidgeted a bit. Should I or shouldn’t I? Well, I have to do it with authority, if I did do it. None of this meek “jóven…?” business. It must be a strong, clear “jóven.” A jóven that says, “I am the boss.”

I took a deep breath.

“Jóven!” I yelled.

The waiter staring into the middle distance quickly looked over.

“Sí señorita?”

“Otra cerveza, por favor.”

“Sí, cómo no.”

I smiled, a big smile. Couldn’t help myself.

The oh-my-god greatness of flor de jamaica quesadillas

May 13, 2009 by Lesley Tellez

My friend Jesica and I started a recipe exchange a few weeks ago. The idea was to share a little bit of our cooking knowledge — mine: baked desserts; hers, Mexican vegetarian food — and then eat our fabulous creations at each others’ houses. Last week, for the first installation, we made apple brown betty and homemade cinnamon ice cream; this week, it was Jesica’s flor de jamaica quesadillas and pasta al ajillo.

I don’t know if I can accurately convey my love for these quesadillas. They’re crispy. Savory. Tangy. The flowers, boiled in water and tossed in butter and olive oil, have a slightly crunchy, toothsome texture that almost reminds me of calamari. And they’re just so pretty: A deep purpley-pink color, like you’d see splashed on a quinceañera dress in a window here.

I seriously think I could eat them every day for the rest of my life.

And because they are so easy, you must make them. And the pasta too: It’s garlicky and spicy, and not too heavy. The mushrooms are tender and soft. Mmmm.

We made our own pasta because Jesica rolls like that, but store-bought would be just fine. And if you really want to make the most out of this, you could invite a few girlfriends over and share a few bottles of wine. Then, giggly and light-headed, you can take a cab home and fall asleep for two hours, happy to be alive to eat such amazing food and to know such great people.

Recipes after the jump.
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Saying goodbye like a true Chilango

May 13, 2009 by Lesley Tellez

Last night, a friend invited me for beers at Covadonga, a cool little cantina in Roma. She was with a big group of friends, all of whom were Mexican.

We all chatted and had fun, and at about 1 a.m., I stood up to leave. “Well, I guess I’m headed out,” I announced.

A few people looked over and smiled, but then returned to their conversations. I thought it was weird: Aren’t they going to say goodbye? Am I really that lame of an American?

Then I remembered — announcing one’s departure is, in itself, not a proper Mexican goodbye. A friend explained to me a few months ago that Mexicans walk up to everyone in the room upon leaving, kissing each person on the cheek, giving each person a small hug. They even say goodbye to strangers they didn’t speak to all night.

I remember thinking that was charming. Mexicans are so nice. And so — Ron Burgundy’s voice echoing in my head: “When in Rome…” — I did exactly as I remembered, walking up to each person, giving them a small kiss on the cheek. My brain froze on what to say (mucho gusto? Nos vemos?), and so I just smiled and said bye and that was it.

Felt proud of myself, though, walking out to the taxi. Maybe I will get this Mexico-living thing down yet.

My new favorite bar, at Sanborns department store

May 12, 2009 by Lesley Tellez

Crayton and I stopped by our local Sanborns a few weeks ago in search of a dish rack. Sanborns is a Mexican chain kind of like Target, but way smaller and not as cheap. They’ve got electronics, perfume, purses, drugstore items.

They don’t sell dish racks. But this Sanborns, a stone’s throw from El Angel, had a bar — a small doorway sandwiched between the digital cameras and boxes of chocolates.

It was odd. I’d never seen a stand-alone bar inside a Sanborns before. (Or any other department store, for that matter.) This one looked like no one had touched it since the 70’s. A sign above the door said simply, “Bar” and a wooden-easel menu advertised mixed, frothy drinks. Inside, cushioned, C-shaped brown chairs sat next to round tables. The entire place screamed “Ramada Inn, 1972.” Of course we had to stop by for a drink.

We made it there last Friday, after the bars finally reopened. We’d lucked into live music: An older gentleman onstage tap-tap-tapped on a tinkly Casio keyboard. “Bienvenidos, damas y caballeros…” he called, and launched into a flowery, synthesized ballad.

A waiter in a jacket and bow tie promptly took our order, and mentioned they had two-for-one drinks. (Dude!) Then he brought us fruit sprinkled with chile powder, peanuts and chicharrones.

Sipping my Paloma, eating free snacks and listening to an old guy espouse the beauty of love — how could you not adore this place? (Full disclosure: Half the crowd had gray hair.)

I kinda wanted to take one of these balloons home with me. They say, “I was at Sanborns.”

We’ll definitely be back.

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