cantinas

When a random Mexican dude offers to pick up the tab

December 10, 2009 by Lesley Tellez

A few weeks ago, I had lunch with my new friend Mary Claire at La Moscota, a cool cantina in the Centro where the food is free if you order a few beers. We ordered sopa de médula and tostadas de picadillo and had a good time. When it came time to pay the check, the waiter removed the 100-peso bill I’d placed inside and said: “Te invitó.”

Me: “Huh?”

“Te invitó.”

I looked at Mary Claire. She looked as bewildered as me.

“I’m sorry,” I told the waiter in Spanish. “I’m a foreigner, and I don’t know what that means.”

“The man behind you wants to pay for you ladies.”

Whaa? This had never happened to me in Mexico. I didn’t want to turn around and see whom the waiter was referring to — that would be rude — so instead I looked helplessly at Mary Claire, and then back at the waiter.

“I’m sorry,” I told him again, in Spanish. “But this is the first time this has happened to me. If we accept, do we have to do something?”

“Nah.”

“But we should thank the guy, right?”

“If you want.”

His nonchalant attitude struck me as strange. I asked Mary Claire if she was cool with some random guy paying, and she said yes. I didn’t mind either. I could use that 100 pesos for a cab ride home.

So we said okay, and the waiter disappeared, and then it was time to leave. I turned around and saw two tables directly behind ours — one with two older men and a woman, and the other with three late 30s-ish men. I guessed it was the latter table. But what was I supposed to say? I eyed each of the men and they eyed me back. One in particular stared longer than the others. My brain scrambled for words, but all I could think of was: “Era…. tú?”

God, was that even grammatically correct?

The man slowly shook his head.

I had no idea what was going on, so I mumbled “gracias” and we left.

“I have no idea what just happened,” I told MC as we were leaving. She didn’t either.

Anyone out there know the proper response? I told Crayton about it later, and he said I should have just turned around and said, “Gracias, muy amable” to no one in particular. But was the waiter correct? If a random guy offers to pay your tab here, will he not be offended if you don’t pull up a chair and sit down? In the U.S., if a man offers to pay for a woman’s drink, 98 percent of the time it’s rude to not chit-chat with him a little bit. (Unless the guy is a complete jerk, or you’re already drunk and have no idea what you’re doing.)

Thoughts?

The night I made Crayton eat brains and grasshoppers

June 16, 2009 by Lesley Tellez

My yahoo email account got hacked into last night. I got everything sorted out in a few hours, but by that time I was dying for a beer, and something comforting and horrible for me.

First we tried Chili’s for American brews and queso. (For all the non-Texans out there: Queso is a processed cheese sauce made with Velveeta and Rotel. It’s several notches above Cheese Whiz on the taste hierarchy, but below queso fundido.) Unfortunately, as soon as we sat down, we were informed that Chili’s no longer carries queso. So instead I suggested we go Cantina Belmont, a place I’ve read about in my guidebook.

It’s supposed to be popular with local politicians, and I was expecting a dive-ish place with cheap beer and tacos. Oh no — this place had white tablecloths, and waiters who draped linen napkins on our laps. And… cue the drums… an item called salsa en molcajete, which involved the chef making salsa tableside. Like they do with guacamole in the States. Except, it’s freaking salsa.

So of course we had to order it, and the chef showed up at our table with about a dozen chilies and condiments in separate earthenware bowls.

Among them were charales, tiny fish often served in Patzcuaro; pine-nut sized chilies called pico de pajaro, and dried, fried grasshoppers, among other things. The chef described everything and then asked what I wanted.

I turned to Crayton. “Do you want grasshoppers?” I used the Spanish word, chapulines.

“Sure,” he said.

Surprised at his adventurousness, I nodded at the chef, and he ground up some grasshoppers in the molcajete. Then he added cascabel chilies, chiles de arbol, the pico de pajaros, a good helping of chopped garlic and onion, a few stewed tomatoes, a toss of sea salt and a glug of bottled water. It looked soo good.

He drizzled a bit onto two tortilla chips, and offered them to us. We tasted.

Ooooh. Smoky. Garlicky. Picoso, but not too much. And just a little sweet. I think it was the best salsa I’ve ever had. I told the chef it was perfect, and he nodded and walked back into the kitchen.

“So, can you believe there are grasshoppers in here?” I asked Crayton.

“What?”

“Grasshoppers. I asked and you said you didn’t mind.”

“Ohhh… I thought you said champiñones,” he said. Champiñones means mushrooms.

However, since he’d already tried the grasshoppers, which you really couldn’t taste anyway since they were ground into bits, he let me order a round of quesadillas — one with squash flowers, one with huitlacoche, or corn fungus; one with brains, and one plain. I thought he’d love the brains, since they were meaty and kind of gamey tasting. He pronounced them “an acquired taste.”

For his main dish, he was much more his meat-and-potatoes self. He ordered prime rib tacos. I had a shrimp and octopus cocktail.

A lonely, leftover flor de calabaza quesadilla:

We left happy and stuffed, and got our leftover salsa to go. I might go have some right now. 10 a.m. isn’t too early, right?

Falling in love with birria at La Polar

June 14, 2009 by Lesley Tellez

Birria is a spicy meat stew from Jalisco. It’s usually made with goat, but sometimes with lamb or mutton.

I’d always roped it into my “I’ll pass” category, along with pozole and menudo, which have never lit my fire for some reason. But then two days ago friends invited us to La Polar, a cantina near our house. It’s probably among the best-known places to get birria in the city, and it’s always recommended in guidebooks and local magazines.

So we went, and ordered tacos and avocado, and a few orders of birria. The menu had no description, so I was expecting meat wrapped in wax paper, like when you order carnitas in Quiroga. Instead it was a gigantic bowl of stew.

When I tasted it: LORD. The meat fell apart in my mouth, and the broth was spicy and chipotle-tinged. I wanted to slurp gulps of it. Instead I held back and picked at my tacos, since I wasn’t technically hungry, as I’d already had dinner like an hour before. (Did I forget to mention that? But sometimes you have to just eat when the opportunity presents itself, and worry about everything later. This is why my pants are getting tighter.)

La Polar also had live mariachis, and a table full of Mexicans singing at the top of their lungs. I loved it. Wish I would have brought my tape recorder, but alas, it was in my other purse. This gives you a good idea of what it was like, though:

[youtube=http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=GPsMIkGYxFk&hl=es&fs=1&rel=0&border=1]

On the way out, we saw mariachis playing foosball in the parking garage.

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.