The Mija Chronicles

Mexican food and culture, on both sides of the border

Mexico City

The growing popularity of Mexican wine

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Last Saturday our friends Carlos and Daniela had us over for dinner. After we’d finished Carlos’s sublime lime-cucumber-mint-tequila cocktail, and a bottle of muy suave Mexican Sauvignon Blanc, I started hollering about how difficult it is to find great Mexican wine in the stores here.

“You go to a restaurant and have an amazing bottle, and then you leave and you can never find it again. You can’t find it anywhere!” I said. “You can’t find it anywhere!” (Did I mention that you can’t find it anywhere? God. This is when I should probably have stopped drinking wine, and I did, but then we switched to mescal. And then tequila. Eeek.)

Don’t get me wrong: You can find Mexican wine in Mexico City. It’s just very hard to find the smaller, less-commercialized varieties. Near Reforma where I live, the supermarket sells a handful of big-label brands for around $15 to $35 USD each. La Naval, a high-end liquor store and gourmet deli in Condesa, has a larger selection, but they still tend to concentrate on the Big Mexican Heavies: L.A. Cetto, Domecq, Monte Xanic, Santo Tomás.

This is why I like Grado Único, a small, boutique-style wine store that opened last October in the Zona Rosa. They specialize in Mexican wine, and specifically the harder-to-find stuff. The first time I stopped by in January, I found a bottle of Mariatinto — an intense red blend that Crayton and I had ordered once at Pujol. We’d asked the restaurant sommelier where to buy it and she said we’d have to get in touch with the distributor. But now, here the bottle was, just a few blocks from my house. I bought it immediately.

Since then I’ve gone to Grado Único three or four more times and the owners, Elsa Perez and Mario Ortega, have been pretty spot-on about recommending something I might like. I just about died over the 2007 Adobe Guadalupe Jardín Secreto, a seductive tempranillo blend that we served at a barbecue, with grilled chicken tacos. (Oh man. Fabulous.)

I had a short chat with Perez last weekend, and she said she’s been really grateful for loyal customers. Mexican wine tends to cost more than imported brands, because Mexican winemakers are taxed horrendously by the government — in some cases up to 43 percent, according to this 2008 report in M Semanal, Milenio’s weekly magazine. The taxes are a mix of both IVA and IEPS, and depend on where the wine is produced and how much alcohol it has.

Interestingly, despite all the taxes, the culture of wine-drinking is definitely growing in Mexico. There’s a Mexican magazine, Vinísfera, devoted to national wine culture, and at least one Mexico City organization — Nación de Vinos — dedicated to promoting Mexican wine.

Statistically speaking, consumption of national wine rose in Mexico in 2008 while consumption of imported wine fell, according to numbers from the Asociación Nacional de Vitivinicultores. But Mexicans still aren’t drinking wine on the levels of say, France, or even the United States. One distributor I met at a recent Freixenet de México tasting said the average per capita consumption among Mexicans has jumped over the years from a half-glass to a liter. In 2008, Americans drank nine liters per capita.

Still, Mexican wine, in my experience, can be just as interesting and complex as any imported varietal. And it has a fascinating history — wine-drinking in Mexico can be traced back to the Spanish conquest.
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Xochimilco’s Isla de la Muñecas

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Xochimilco’s Isla de la Muñecas is pretty famous — it’s been featured on Anthony Bourdain’s show, and it’s in all the Mexico guidebooks and magazines. I hadn’t been until last Saturday, because the tour guides always told me it was at least a six-hour boat ride. (Six hours? Eh. No thanks.)

Now I know that when traveling to Xochimilco, especially on a sunny day, an eight-hour boat ride is really the way to go. You can laze on the deck of the boat and stare at the sky. You can order at least two rounds of esquites (lunch and dinner) instead of one. And you get to see the tranquil part of the canals, free of all the partying chilangos and their aviator sunglasses and blaring boomboxes.

The isla, which translates to “doll island,” is about three hours from the Nativitas dock. The story goes that around 50 years ago, a young girl drowned just off the island’s edge. After her death, the island’s sole resident, a farmer, began hanging dolls in the trees to ward off evil spirits. The number of dolls grew over the years and now the island is filled with them — heads hanging from trees, arms suspended from wires.

There’s also a museum and a small bar there, too, where you can learn about the history and sip a tequila shooter.

It’s eerie stuff. More pictures and a few helpful Xochimilco boat-ride tips below…
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The colors and flavors of Mexico’s Xochimilco market

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My friend Ruth leads culinary tours in Mexico City. Last week, after months of hearing her fabulous stories about the Xochimilco market — where one woman peddles frog-leg tamales, and ladies sell fresh blue-corn tortillas, and green, spicy chile atole sits in a big olla, just waiting to be tasted (this kinda blew my mind… there are savory atole flavors, too?) — I finally booked one of Ruth’s Xochimilco tours, since my mom was in town. And my mom loves food as much as I do, especially if said food is a Mexican gelatina.

A group of us went down in Ruth’s car. Xochimilco lies about 17 miles south of the city center; driving is definitely the easiest way to get there. Public transportation does exist, but there isn’t a direct route. You have to take the metro and then transfer to the Tren Ligero, and then get a cab.

It was a beautiful day, so we parked just a few blocks from Xochimilco’s main church and the market. In front of the car, a man sold embroidered Mexican blouses. (This is when my mom’s eyes started to sparkle. She loves shopping as much as gelatinas.) We bought a few things and then wandered inside the San Bernardino de Siena church, which dates to 1535. It was lovely. Here and there you could see patches of 16th-century murals, which had recently been uncovered in a restoration project.

We bought little cards with the face of the Niñopan, Xochimilco’s patron saint. The Niñopan is another story in himself — he’s a wooden figure of the baby Jesus who’s treated as a living God throughout the city. Different families care for him each year, and they dress him in different outfits. He has parades in his honor. You can even go down to Xochimilco and visit him, just by knocking on the caretakers’ doors. It’s fascinating.

Anyway. The best was yet to come, because then we hit the market.

Now, I’ve seen some markets in my day. But this one. THIS ONE. I think it might be my favorite yet. Yes, even beating out the Central de Abastos.

There were mounds of quelites, stacked on tables. Corn cobs speckled with black kernels. Rows of women selling tortillas and tlacoyos. (At my tianguis, there is just one tortilla stand.) A group of vendors sat outside the market building, displaying the most beautiful produce I’ve ever seen in Mexico City, all of it extremely cheap. And then inside the building: antojitos sizzled on hot comals, and you had to squeeze past them on this narrow aisle, so close to the grill you could feel the warmth of it on your hips. So close to the lady spooning oil onto a gordita, you could have reached out and swiped some with your finger.

In the barbacoa aisle, goat meat with glistening, crispy skin sat inside glass display cases, and goat-head skulls rested on countertops. Vendors yelled, “Take this!” and offered me chunks of soft, greasy goat meat on squares of gray paper. A tortilla maquina churned out corn tortillas, one after the other after the other, so you could have something to eat with your barbacoa sample. An old woman with gray braids sold the tamales de rana, and when I expressed interested, she opened up the husk to show me a meaty, froggy thigh…

All of it was kind of unbelievable. Made me again realize how lucky I am to live in Mexico.

Pictures — a lot of them — below.
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A taste of TJ

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Hi everybody! Lesley’s husband Crayton here again. I’ll be your substitute blogger today.

Last weekend I went with friends to Salon Corona II, a nice downtown cantina with two levels. It’s become a good standby because it stays open pretty late and has decent tacos and tortas. (The original Salon Corona is a couple blocks away, and apparently has a long and storied past.) Let’s just say that the beer flowed like wine and afternoon quickly turned to evening, so I’m not sure who ordered the Tijuana beer first. But I’m glad he or she did.

What is this strange beer?

Tijuana Beer is a microbrewer in the border city, and its Web site lists a ton of places you can buy it in the U.S. In an exciting development, somehow the little brewer managed to break through Mexico’s beer duopoly and get served at a popular cantina. There is hope yet.

Tijuana makes a few different varieties and names them based on the extensive Mexican taxonomy of skin-color grades. I had a Morena (dark), and apparently they also sell a Dorada (golden) and a Güera (light). How was my Morena? Tasty! Definitely hoppier than the dark draft beer I’d been drinking earlier. (Oh! I should tell you about draft beer in Mexico. Typically, if you are in an establishment that serves draft beer (and I would say such establishments are rarer than in the U.S.), you will have a choice of dark (oscura) or light (clara) beer. They will often not be labeled by brand. They’re just dark and light.) Anyway, the Morena was very flavorful and lively. I’d definitely recommend it, and I salute Salon Corona for giving its clients an alternative.

One other note on Salon Corona II: It’s a Pumas bar. (Not that kind of puma.) The fútbol team was playing against Chivas, the beloved team of my friend Carlos, who couldn’t contain his excitement and had me worried for my safety. But the fans do really get into it, and if you’re looking for a place to watch a soccer game and experience the passion Mexican fans have for their teams, this is a good spot.

Represent your hood

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While Lesley’s studying at an ashram in India, her husband Crayton is guest-posting. Please be kind to him.

[youtube=http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=fHip6auoiew&hl=en_US&fs=1&]

I’m a firm believer in hometown pride, in recognizing how much where you live forms part of who you are. And there’s nothing like a good local anthem, a song that brings you home again even when you’re far away.

I grew up mostly in Alabama, and I get misty when I hear this:

[youtube=http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=k5LFYjtMnu4&hl=en_US&fs=1&]

Or this (caution, bad language):

[youtube=http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=DALzCMW5hdg&hl=en_US&fs=1&]

And when I want to look back at my years in Dallas, this one gets me nice and nostalgic (also has naughty words, careful):

[youtube=http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=BR9ZeNkFu3o&hl=en_US&fs=1&]

So that’s why I was so excited to discover “Sabado Distrito Federal” a few months ago. It’s basically about the people of Mexico City out on the town during the weekend, spending what little money they have. The song was written by Chavo Flores, the “Urban Folklorist of Mexico,” a Mexico City native who was famous for his colorful descriptions of the lives of common people, according to this excellent Spanish-language bio.

Spanish lyrics and my rough attempt to translate are below. (Native speakers and Mexico experts, feel free to correct me.) Any other Mexico DF jams I should hear? Let me know.

Sábado Distrito Federal,
Sábado Distrito Federal,
Sábado Distrito Federal,
¡Ay, ay, ay!

Federal District Saturday,
Federal District Saturday,
Federal District Saturday,
Ay, ay, ay!

Desde las diez ya no hay donde parar el coche,
ni un ruletero que lo quiera a uno llevar,
llegar al centro en el Metro es un desmoche,
un hormiguero no tiene tanto animal.

Since 10 there hasn’t been a parking spot,
nor a taxi driver that wants to pick anyone up
to get downtown on the Metro is a pain
even an anthill isn’t this inhumane

Los almacenes y las tiendas son alarde
de multitudes que allí llegan a comprar,
al puro fiado porque está la cosa que arde,
al banco llegan nada más para sacar.

The warehouses and stores are a sight
of crowds that show up to shop
on nothing but credit because they burn for just this thing
they show up at the bank just to withdraw

El que nada hizo en la semana está sin lana,
va a empeñar hasta su hermana en el Monte de Piedad
hay unas colas de tres cuadras las ingratas,
y no faltan papanatas que le ganen el lugar.

He who did nothing all week is without any cash
He’ll pawn off his own sister in the Monte de Piedad
the hopeless are in queues three blocks long,
and there’s no shortage of fools who cut in line

Desde las doce se llenó la pulquería,
los albañiles acabaron de rayar,
¡Que re’ picosas enchiladas hizo Otilia,
la fritangera que allí pone su comal!

Since 12 the pulqueria has been full
the bricklayers have finished scraping
How spicy are the enchiladas by Otilia,
the street-food seller with her grill over there!

Sábado Distrito Federal,
Sábado Distrito Federal,
Sábado Distrito Federal,
¡Ay, ay, ay!

La burocracia va a las dos a la cantina,
las borrecheras siempre empiezan a las dos,
los potentados al Enjoy en su limosina,
pa’ Cuernavaca, pa’ Acapulco, ¡qué sé yo!

The bureaucrats go to the cantina at 2
drunks always begin at 2
the powerful at the Enjoy with their limousine
off to Cuernavaca, to Acapulco, who knows!

Toda la tarde pa’l café se van los vagos
otros al pókar, al billar o al dominó,
ahí el desfalco va iniciando sus estragos,
¿y la familia? ¡Muy bien, gracias, no comió!

All afternoon the bums go out for coffee
others for poker, pool or dominos
the hustler starts inflicting his damage
“And your family?” “Great, thanks, they haven’t eaten!”

Los cabaretes en las noches tienen pistas
atascadas de turistas, y de la alta sociedad,
pagan sus cuentas con un cheque de rebote
o “ahí te dejo el relojote, luego lo vendré a sacar”

The cabarets at night have dancefloors
crammed with tourists and high-society types
they pay their tabs with bad checks
or “I’ll leave my watch here and sell it later to get it back”

A Garibaldi van todos a madrugada
los que por suerte se escaparon de la Vial
ahí terminan con mariachis y canciones
ricos y pobres del Distrito Federal,

Everybody goes to Garibaldi at dawn
those fortunate enough to escape the Vial
There with mariachis and songs
the poor and rich of the Federal District end up

así es un sábado Distrito Federal,
Sábado Distrito Federal,
Sábado Distrito Federal.

That’s a Federal District Saturday
Federal District Saturday
Federal District Saturday

Anyone need a mattress?

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Spotted this pair this morning. The back dude was the yeller, shouting about mattresses for sale.

At least, this is what I think he said — I couldn’t understand him very well. Next time, perhaps they should go for a recorded message, like the tamale vendors do.

A gourmet Mexico City food fair

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Slow Food Mexico is part of the larger, international organization Slow Food, which supports organic, sustainable eating around the world. Yesterday one of the Mexico chapters sponsored a gourmet food fair in Coyoacán.

Local restaurants and small-business owners from all over the country had set up dozens of items under a white tent: artisan mescal, Mexican wine, Querétaro and Jalisco cheeses, tamales with various fillings, fruit jams, dried and candied xoconostle, heirloom beans, seeds, fresh fish from Michoacán.

I wanted to eat it all, ALL ALL. But I settled for 60 pesos (about $4 USD) to taste three dishes. My friend Emily did the same, and we decided to share.

First up were the tamales, made by El Tajin Chef Adriana of Cafe El Popular in the Centro. The filling contained quelites, a dark, hearty leaf; nata and requesón, a type of mellow Mexican ricotta. It was served with a little olla of salsa. I took a picture before I got to the quelites, because I was too hungry to wait.

Then we tried a strawberry tamale, which had strawberries mixed directly into the masa, and a few bits of gooey strawberry pulp. Yum.

We tried trout from D.O., an upscale Mexico City restaurant. It came with a citrus syrup dotted with orange rind, a toss of pepitas, and a scoop of lentil-wild rice salad. Utterly divine.

Then there was the decadent gut-bomb, in a good way, of a turkey tamale wrapped in hoja santa leaves, doused in tomato sauce and topped with a dollop of nata. God. Can you imagine? It tasted as rich as it looked. I loved the idea of serving it in a cornhusk.

Update: Ruth of Alegria in Mexico says these were made by Gerardo Vazques Lugo of Nico’s restaurant. He’s also the Chapultepec Slow Food convivium leader, and one of the Sunday event’s main organizers, along with Alicia Gironella De’Angeli of El Tajin.

We also tried a wonderful selection of cotija cheeses, aged and crumbly, each sitting in its own little pool of marmalade. (The pineapple marmalade speckled with vanilla bean outshined them all, and I wanted to spoon it into my purse and take it home with me.)

In another aisle, a soon-to-open Condesa bakery called Acento had set up a basket brimming with concha rolls, muffins and chocolate croissants. I watched two people in a row walk by, gaze at the bread and murmur, “Qué bárbaro. Qué delicia!”

Bought a chocolate concha, and it was fine. A little dry. (I’m sticking to my belief that conchas must be tried within an hour or two of baking.)

At the end of the day, I came away with a package of fresh trout, a jar of tecojote marmalade from Michoacán, a bag of heirloom pinto beans, and my favorite, a lead-free clay bean pot, which I bought after being inspired by this refried beans post on Mexico Cooks.

I’m in love with my new pot, which is now sitting on top of my kitchen cabinets. It’s round and chubby and so cute. I plan to make some beans on Saturday, so I’ll definitely have to take a few pictures and show you.

Update: Forgot to mention that the beans and bean pot came from Xoxoc, a husband-and-wife team based in Hidalgo state that make wonderful xoconostle products, and also seek out small-batch bean producers in Mexico. They’ve provided beans to Rancho Gordo, the well-known heirloom bean producer in Napa, California. (Check out the New York Times article on Rancho Gordo here.)

Shopping at Mexico’s largest pawn shop

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The Monte de Piedad, lying northwest of Mexico City’s zócalo, is not your typical pawn shop. It’s a huge, elegant place, housed in a 16th century building that once belonged to Hernan Cortez. They’ve got estate jewelry, antique furniture and even artesanías from Oaxaca. (The latter haven’t been pawned, but are instead offered for tourists like me who wander around gaping at the place.)

The institution opened its doors in 1775, with the goal of offering short-term loans to people who needed them. Today, as has been the case for two centuries, this is still what happens here. Pretty much anyone can get a loan as long as you offer a piece of collateral as deposit. According to Wikipedia, the recovery rate of pawned items is about 96 percent.

My friend Ruth showed me the place last week, and it’s an impressive building to visit. We wandered down the wide hallways and touched the porous, lava-rock walls. We stared at the ceiling, much of it covered with a stained-glass skylight. Various salons stemmed off the main hallway, filled with glass cases containing clusters of vintage-looking rings, bracelets, gold and silver hoop earrings.

We decided to buy a few artesanía items, because they were cheaper than what you’d find at La Ciudadela, another Mexican artesanía area near the Centro.

Unfortunately, because this was technically a pawn shop, and not just that but a pawn shop in Mexico, the purchasing process was almost assured to take up most of the afternoon. The seller first had to tear off the small, perforated price tags on our desired items. Then we took those to a separate cashier window, which abruptly closed before we’d even gotten to the front of the line. So we were transferred to another cashier window, where we waited with about 20 other people.

The line inched along, and just when I was starting to think, “Is my cute yellow bag from Oaxaca really worth it?” I noticed a sign taped to the cashier’s window: “Foreigners paying with credit or debit cards must provide a passport as identification.”

A passport?! Who takes a passport with them to the Centro Histórico?

We tried to protest our case, but the cashier rejected us.

Ruth, feisty woman that she is, didn’t take no for an answer. She complained to the management about the injustice of taping a tiny sign to the front of a cashier window, and how upsetting it was that our seller, while he spent about 15 minutes gently tearing off the perforated price tags, didn’t say anything about needing a passport, even though he worked in the pawn shop’s most touristy section. And he knew we were foreigners.

I didn’t think much would come of it, but surprisingly her entreaties worked. I left with a new yellow purse and a embroidered blouse.

Lesson to you: If you go to Mexico’s largest pawn shop and you’re not Mexican, bring cash. Or your credit card and passport.

*Photo via Vivir Mexico and La Jornada

Mamey ice cream

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After lunch on Saturday, Crayton and I went on a stroll through Plaza Rio de Janeiro in the Roma neighborhood. An ice cream vendor there caught my eye: she sat under a little tarp, with her metal ice cream cylinders wedged inside ice-packed buckets. Her flavors had been written in a whimsical font. One was fig with mezcal.

“Oooh, fig with mezcal!” I told Crayton.

“Do you want one?”

At this point we’d already walked by the place. “Well… no,” I said. “I shouldn’t.”

We’d just eat lunch. Which had included bacon.

“Are you sure?”

It’s truly astonishing how many times Crayton knows me better than I know me. I did want one, so we went back and I tasted the fig, which ended up being too sweet. But she also had mamey, a popular flavor in Mexico. Unbelievably, despite my mamey obsession, I hadn’t tried mamey ice cream yet. So I got one scoop.

I can’t even describe to you how good it was. It was kind of pumpkiny, and melon-y, and I think I detected some cinnamon. This morning I woke up thinking about it. And then I thought: I need to have an ice cream tasting party. I will gather all my ice-cream loving friends, make an ice-cream themed music mix, and then churn up three Mexican-inspired ice creams that I’ve been dreaming of lately: mamey, crema and piloncillo. We will have mamey splits, like a banana split, but better. We’ll cover our scoops with pumpkin seeds instead of walnuts. We’ll drink Kahlua-spiked coffee. (Which isn’t ice cream-ish, but fun nonetheless.)

This is going to happen. Stay tuned.

A peek at Colonia Cuauhtemoc, my Mexico City neighborhood

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The view from the roof of our Colonia Cuauhtemoc apartment building in Mexico City

Back when we started our apartment hunt, I had my mind set on living in trendy Roma or Condesa. They’re pretty much where all the American expats live. (Unless they’re trailblazers living in the Centro.)

After looking at a few Condesa apartments, we realized what our budget would buy there — a bathroom with mold splotches, or a spotless, but small, one-bedroom. In Roma, which I adored for its colonial buildings and leafy plazas, we didn’t see anything we liked in the short time frame we had.

And so we moved to Cuauhtemoc, because it was the closest to Crayton’s job. It’s a quiet, middle-class colonia bordering the Zona Rosa. Most of the cafes and restaurants cater to the business crowd, and comida corrida is abundant. After 9 p.m., the streets are pretty empty.

For the first month we lived here, I felt a pang whenever my Condesa and Roma friends talked about the cool cantinas they went to, or the cool salad spot they visited for lunch. We lived in residential, middle-classville. We did not live in the hottest neighborhood. Basically I needed to get over it.

Now, seven months after moving in, I actually really like it here. I love living a half-block from Reforma, and being able to walk to the Zona Rosa. (Which is gritty, and loud, and has cheapity-cheap beer.) We can walk to Roma Norte if we want a glass of wine. And we have a tianguis a 10-minute walk away, in Parque James Sullivan. I love my cheese dude there. We bought a jalapeño asadero from him a few weeks ago.

Me, buying cheese at my Col. Cuauhtemoc tianguis, next to Parque James Sullivan

Last week, after walking to San Rafael to see a free concert, we wandered by a neighborhood jazz joint I’d been wanting to check out, Papa Beto’s. We peeked in the windows and the place was packed — maybe here was where all the Cuauhtemoqueños were secretly hanging out.

The doors were locked, so we ended up at Las Máximas, a beer joint about a stone’s throw from the Telmex building on Parque Via. We played some futbolito and Crayton won. (By pure luck.) Then we walked home.

Have I mentioned how much I love not driving?

Here are a few more places I like visiting in my neighborhood, in case you ever find yourself passing through. (Or in case a friend of yours ever raves about Condesa, and you can say, “Umm… I heard Cuauhtemoc was kind of cool too.”)

Tacos El Caminero. Seriously, best salsas EVER. It’s at Rio Lerma 138, a block from the American Embassy.

Berretín. This is an Argentinean restaurant with great pizza and a good wine list. It’s at the corner of Rio Lerma and Rio Guadalquivir, just a few doors down from Papa Bill’s.

Comida Libenesa. Great falafel, but unfortch the guy takes foreeeever to make one sandwich. Worth it if you’re not in a hurry. At the corner of Rio Nazas and Rio Tigris.

Mezzo Mezzo. A warm little pizza joint with hip clientele, a vegetarian-skewed menu and thin-crust pizza, baked in a brick oven. Try the poblano and corn pie. Downside: They don’t serve alcohol. (Sometimes a girl wants a glass of wine with her pizza!) Rio Neva 30A, between Rio Lerma and Reforma.

Bar Gold. A cantina at the corner of Antonio Caso and Serapio Rendon in San Rafael. Great place to grab a beer, eat free popcorn, and listen to a salsa band churn out the hits.

Tandem. Sometimes open and sometimes not, but great for a pint and ambient house music. Rio Nazas 73, at the corner of Rio Tiber.

Juega el Gallo. Attentive staff, great salads and tacos, and loud and crazy on fútbol nights. My only gripe is that they close around 8 or 9 during the week. How can a place call itself a cantina, and close at 8 p.m.? Rio Rhin 75, at the corner of Rio Papaloápan.