The Mija Chronicles

Mexican food and culture, on both sides of the border

Lesley Tellez

Is it safe?

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Since we’ve gotten to San Diego, a lot of friends and family have asked us whether we feel safe in Mexico.

I’m guessing part of that stems from all the recent media coverage about the country being under siege, spring break vacations ruined (or second-guessed), etc. Although, to be fair, we got that question before we moved there and the drug war blew up.

One woman asked me: “You’re not afraid you’re going to get kidnapped?”

My answer: No. (Can I throw in a “con calmita”?) I feel perfectly safe in Mexico. (The fatalist side of me has to throw in a toque madera here.) Seriously though: It’s fine. No one I know is scared they’re going to get kidnapped. I’ve joked about it with a few people, actually. (Eeee, is that bad?) I just try to stay aware of my surroundings, not wear my diamond ring. If speaking English on the street, I try to do so discreetly. And I make sure any taxi I climb into has license plates.

Speaking of taxis: I’ve hailed them off the street with success, but I may stick to authorized stands now. A friend told me a horror story about a friend of hers who hailed a cab in La Condesa in the middle of the day, and ended up raped and dumped on the side of the Periferico.

Hearing something like that still doesn’t make me scared to live in Mexico. Just makes me think: Be wary of hailing a cab in La Condesa. Being scared and shut away in the house all day, what kind of life is that? Then I’d never try all the fabulous licuados, which I miss already.

Like other socially aware Americans in Mexico, I do wish American media coverage wouldn’t generalize so much about the fear and violence that’s supposedly sweeping the country. Maybe that’s the copy editors’ faults.

Jack in the Box has a new logo? Why didn’t anyone tell me?

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jack-in-the-box-logo

Apparently they started testing this in San Diego late last year. When I saw it — not at the location above, but another one near my dad’s house in Scripps Ranch — I think I gasped. My dad said, “Oh yeah, you haven’t seen those commercials?”

Me: “I live in Mexico City now.”

Dad: “Yeah. Well, they operated on Jack.”

Me: “How could I see the commercial? They don’t show that in Mexico City. All the commercials there are in Spanish. They have commercials of, like, Amazon women swinging through the jungle and then men smelling their armpits.”

Crayton: “Wait… Jack had an operation?”

Photo via Food Beast

A few pics of the new place

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The sala/comedor

The sala/comedor


The new pantry area.

The new pantry area.


The newly adorned fridge.

The newly adorned fridge.

I’ll try to remember to take more later. We’re on vacation in California starting tomorrow, so hopefully I’ll post some when we come back.

Oscura o clara?

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Jarra de clara

Most cantinas in Mexico City only offer two types of beer on draft — “oscura,” or dark, or “clara,” meaning light. (The pic above is what we got a few weeks ago when we ordered a pitcher of clara.)

Last night we went to see Crayton’s co-worker’s band at a bar in Condesa. I had three claras, the last one only because the boss was buying. Oh, and I’d just gotten out of an exercise class and I hadn’t eaten in six hours.

Now my head hurts.

I’m going to take a nap. And to think, I was all excited to tell you about the Tae Bo class I took last night, where the instructor made up all these crazy routines and made us walk like ducks across the floor. Maybe another time.

Livin’ la vida fría

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The other day, while the apartment was still empty, I asked my landlady where the thermostat was. It was noon and my extremities felt like ice blocks — this even though I was wearing two sweatshirts, a T-shirt, jeans and socks.

I didn’t know how to say thermostat, so I asked, “Where is that thing on the wall that has the temperature?”

She said in Spanish, “Oh, the heater? There isn’t one.”

Whaa?

“Oh, yeah, it’s that way in any Mexican home. It’s because they make the houses out of cement, which makes things colder inside. I bought a space heater, which works pretty well… ”

Note to self: Buy a space heater and try not to burn the house down.

Guess I won’t be giving away my wool socks after all.

Post-move exhaustion, euphoria, no sé que

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The movers have come and gone. Nothing broke except a chip-n-dip plate I bought at the Crate & Barrel outlet like four years ago and didn’t use much. I miss Crate & Barrel outlet.

I got really stressed when they arrived yesterday morning, because I was positive nothing would fit, we’d have an ugly cluttered house, etc. But then I told myself to take three deep breaths and deal with it.

And it was fine. Luckily we have a storage space on the roof. Used it to put the extra stemware, my bags of extra fabric (will get around to sewing pillows someday), ugly post-modern CD racks from 1999, etc. I’ve already unpacked the kitchen — my pantry AND my half-eaten chocolate bar arrived intact! — and put the plates and bowls away. It’s all going to be fine. I’m not too worried anymore. (Well, kind of worried…. where in the hell am I going to put that rolling kitchen cart?) But we’ll figure it out. If I have a cluttered kitchen, so what. Everyone has a cluttered kitchen in Mexico. Kitchens are freaking tiny here.

It’s just nice to have our stuff again. I have a proper paring knife, people. A PARING KNIFE. It sliced my apples in such perfect, smooth slices, I almost cried out in ecstasy.

My refrigerator magnets were one of the first things I put up, along with what used to cover our fridge in Dallas: the program from our wedding, last year’s Christmas card from Crayton’s mom, photos of our friends. After drinking a beer and feeling kinda sentimental, I added a new photo — one of me and two of my best girlfriends, giggling at Cosmo’s, holding beers. (Or were they Blasters?)

I miss them, but it’s good. My twenties are over. Now the new journey starts.

Pics of the box-filled apartment to come!

Visions of shrimp and octopus dancing in her head

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Shrimp ceviche

Shrimp ceviche

I’m a huge seafood lover, and lately I’ve been in heaven.

Last Friday, my friend Alice and I went to the market in Coyoacán, which supposedly specializes in seafood. (And they have interesting stalls that sell honeyed lime peel.) We found a cute cafe and sat out on the patio, and gorged ourselves on ceviche, seafood cocktails and smoked marlin tacos. After lunch I bought some of that honeyed lime peel. It tasted pretty much like… lime peel. Oh well.

On Saturday, hubby and I went to Contramar, one of the best seafood restaurants in the city. Half the menu is appetizers, which is great because you can try a bunch of stuff at the same time. We had the tuna tostadas, with a smidge of creamy chipotle sauce and crispy onions; the pulpo a la gallega, drizzled in spicy oil that cried out to be sopped up with a hunk of country bread; and the crab tacos, huasteca style, garnished with large slices of avocado. Plus we had wine. And bread. And a slice of fig tart for dessert.

During the entire meal, I felt like I was emitting rays of sunshine. I already told Crayton we’re going back for my birthday.

For the food porn lovers, there are more pics after the jump.
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We moved. Time to adjust my American consumption habits.

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We officially moved into our new apartment on Saturday, yippee! Our furniture arrives from the States tomorrow.

Our new place so far has been… interesting. For the following reasons:

1. The day before we moved, our landlady called to tell us they’d shut off water and electricity in the whole building. The neighbors alternate paying the bill each month, and someone paid in the wrong place. (Long story.) Luckily, everything appears to be fine now. Although the faucets sputter a bit if you try to wash laundry at the same time.

2. The very-cute-but-tiny washer/dryer combination sometimes moans and gurgles like it’s alive. It also takes 55 minutes to wash maybe 13 articles of clothing. I’m considering a laundry service. Or dragging out the period of time that I wear a blouse or T-shirt. Oh god, I didn’t even think of towels. I think you can fit maybe two towels in there. (Ok, I’ll stop.)

3. We tried to cook a frozen pizza last night (oh how I miss Amy’s), only to discover that when we turned the oven knob, nothing happened. Only a strong odor of gas. I frantically called my dad, who has spent his life working for the Southern California Gas Company, and asked him what to do. Because, you know, he could fix the problem sight unseen. He promised to look up the stove’s model on the Internet.

Then I called my landlady, who said– DUH — you have to light the pilot manually. (And then she probably hung up the phone muttering, “What have I got myself into?”) But I didn’t know where the pilot was and I didn’t want to burn the house down. Crayton finally just leaned into the oven with a match, and the pilot ignited, and everything was fine. The pizza, unfortunately, was kind of mediocre.

I think things should feel normal sometime around April.

On the upside, we went to the tianguis on Sunday and bought fresh spinach and fruit. Also, there appears to be a cantina around the corner from our house. And a shop that makes “artisanal sweets.” Mmm.

An overdose of Vitamina T

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The cab driver I tipped two pesos yesterday told me “Vitamina T” is what chilangos call that especially yummy group of street foods — tacos, tostadas, tamales, tortas. (Not sure if tlayudas are in there or not.)

Funnily enough, a Mexico City guidebook I bought had a whole section on Vitamina T. And while I usually don’t eat much of that stuff, last night we were hanging out in the Centro, and after two beers we were kinda hungry. So we stopped at Cantina La Mascota. My guidebook had said the food was wonderful, and I think Anthony Bourdain filmed part of his Mexico City show there.

They were only a half-hour from closing, but the waiter said they still had some food left. He ended up bringing out a tray of carnitas, plates of pork in a spicy tomato sauce and a stack of hot corn tortillas. OH GOD. It was so good. As I dug into my fourth taco, I thought, “I may not like myself in the morning.” Then I continued sopping up the sauce.

They had a great jukebox there, too. This song got all the waiters smiling and bobbing their heads. (Gracias to Joy for being a great DJ.)

[youtube=http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=c8o02aHRQbg&hl=es&fs=1]

Enjoying the wealth of taxis, with a teensy bit of American guilt

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I’ve tried really hard to be the laid-back foreigner who takes the Metro all the time. Usually on my Metro ride back from wherever I am, though, my American princess side takes over. The Metro is freaking HOT. Like, clothes-sticking-to-your-back hot. Yesterday droplets of sweat literally fell off my face. And although the subway performers are interesting in a cultural kind of way, it’s annoying when the dude with the speaker strapped to his stomach can’t move amid the crush of people, and so you spend the entire ride with cumbia blasting in your ear.

So I’ve started taking taxis. Like, once a day. They’re cheap enough to where I can afford it, but since I’ve taken so many, I now find myself wincing if the ride is more than 60 pesos (about $4USD) and it’s not rush hour. So… I’ve started hailing them off the street. But only the safe taxis (gold and red colored sedans), and only when they have license plates, and a meter.

The issue is that I don’t know how much to tip. A Mexican friend swears that she never tips, unless the guy has gone above and beyond the call of duty. I used to tip 10 pesos all the time. Now, maybe two.

Today the driver who took me to the Centro got a two-peso tip, and we were chatting the whole time about me being a foreigner in a new city. He sent me off with a curt “Buen dia.”

My question: Am I going to get karmic payback for not tipping taxistas?

Interestingly, Crayton’s Spanish conversation partner, who is Mexican, says the Metro is mostly used by the lower-class and the mid-lower class. People with money have cars.