Delicious Expeditions

In 1993, in the hottest month of the year, I donned a white paper maché mask, and a long black dress and headed to Pozos, an abandoned silver mining town high in the Sierra Madre Mountains. Among the ruins of long forgotten homes, a dark, handsome stranger took me in his arms and we started to dance.

I know this sounds intriguing, even magical, however we were not alone. The camera was rolling and recording our every move. Illusions of intimacy were further diminished by the four identically dressed couples weaving between us as Leonard Cohen sang, “Take this Waltz”. We moved with care, surrounded by cactus of every size and shape, as well as open, unmarked mine shafts, which plummeted 200 feet into a dark abyss of icy water.

Francisco Towers at Santa Brigita

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Mexico, a land known for its celebrations, put on the event of the century last week when the country’s bicentennial of the War of Independence coincided with the centennial of the Mexican Revolution. Extensive programs took place all over the country, including many based in San Miguel, acknowledged for its starring role 200 years ago, when resident Ignacio Allende joined forces with Father Miguel Hidalgo to raise an army against Spanish colonialism. Father Hidalgo’s cry on Sept. 16, 1810: “Down with bad government and death to the gachupines!” — a pejorative term for colonial-era Spaniards, ignited the independence movement. His call to arms, known as “El Grito”, is reenacted every year at midnight on the 15^th with historic fanfare and cheer, and of course, lots of beer and tequila.

In addition to traditional festivities, Mexico unveiled la “Ruta 2010”, which is a series of routes that commemorates various historic movements and encourages people to drive, or bus, through Mexican history. San Miguel is part of the Freedom Route that tracks the footsteps of Miguel Hidalgo from Guanajuato to Chichuahua. The Democracy and Zapatista routes cover other areas of the country, where a series of museum and cultural exhibitions strive to educate people on the sacrifices made in the name of freedom.

Neighbor getting ready for parade

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The last Friday of Lent is when the Virgin of Sorrows (Viernes de Dolores) is honored with decorative altars all over town, some in neighborhood doorways, others, in front of historic churches. They range from small and humble to elaborate creations that fill an entire room, usually surrounded by white candles (for purity) and draped in purple (the color of grief).

The focal point of the altars is a statue of Maria, with her hands clasped and tears in her eyes. Flowers and fruit (usually oranges) surround her, as well as colorful hand-carved religious figures, sometimes mixed with pagan gods.

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In Mexico and most of Latin America, Candelaria, or the “Feast of Purification” takes places every year on February 2nd. It is celebrated with much enthusiasm, festivity and even an occasional bullfight. In San Miguel, though, there’s a unique and special tradition–a large, outdoor plant sale. For an entire week brightly colored buds of every flower imaginable, interspersed with hand-painted pots and large clay plant holders, cover the ground of Parque Juarez near the center of town.

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For most Americans, Day of the Dead is an unknown holiday; however, in Mexico it is celebrated with much festivity. This pre-Hispanic tradition, blended with Catholicism, takes place on November 2nd. Families join together to honor and remember the dead by building elaborate altars in their homes. Pictures, as well as the personal items and favorite foods of their dearly departed, are placed on the altars. This is done to entice them into returning for the day.

Day of the Dead Alter

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Sunlight fills the patio; filtered through bougainvillea, palm trees, banana leaves and jasmine vines. Everywhere you look the light is different, softer near the muted, paint-peeled apricot walls, harsher on the ancient grey stones. A soft breeze dances around a guava tree, full of sweet yellow fruit, swaying its long, green limbs ever so gently from side to side. Key limes weigh down the branches of a short, stout tree at the entrance of the old, colonial house. A house, which dates back to 1600 and is the new residence of El Buen Café (Jesús 36), just down the street from its original location.

Entrance to El Buen Cafe

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Dia de los Locos or Day of the Crazies celebrates the beginning of summer. It’s one of San Miguel’s most festive occasions, which takes place every year on the first Sunday of June after San Antonio de Padua. It’s basically a large costume party in which the entire town participates.
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Rarely do I come upon a place that stops me in my tracks with its simple beauty, however, the courtyard of the Camino Real Hotel in Puebla does just that. If it weren’t for the man speaking on his cell phone next to me, I could easily play time traveler. This spectacular 16th century structure, originally a prominent colonial convent, encompasses a whole city block. In the first centuries of the Spanish empire, it housed the daughters of Puebla’s élite, noblewoman who chose the church and an education over marriage.

As I enter the building from the bustling, traffic jammed street, the patio’s vast, space and serenity surround me. It seems impossible that something so tranquil could be just steps away from chaos, but that may well be the secret of Mexico–contrast. Crossing the threshold of the ancient, 15-foot high wooden doors, I’m transported back in time. A few steps past the lobby beckons the largest colonial patio I’ve ever seen. In the center stands an immense fountain, the base covered with centuries-old talavera. It bubbles cool water as the intense mountain sun beats down upon it. The patio is surrounded with arches, supported by massive stone pillars. Yellow paint brightens the walls, bringing warmth to the cold, grey stones that cover the floor.

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El Buen Café, Jesús 23

After 17 years and 3 months I’m closing the doors at Jesús 23, the original and only location of El Buen Café, my restaurant in San Miguel. It’s not a sad occasion, as I thought it would be, but a wonderful opportunity to clean house. I’ll be reopening in a few months, just down the street, or at least I hope so. There have been some last-minute problems obtaining my new space, but I’m so sure that it’s my destiny that I’m headed out-of-town to track down the owner and secure the deal (story to follow in the memoir).

When I moved into Jesús 23 in 1991 I never would have imagined that I would spend such a large part of my life there. The small room on the corner with its lovely, wide arch separating the dining room had been my landlady’s father’s dry goods store in the 40s and 50s. He sold sacks of corn, flour, rice, and beans to his neighbors, as well as useful household items, such as soap, brooms and bottle openers. Supposedly, during the decades between his store and my restaurant, not a single business was able to keep its doors opened very long. A week after I sat up shop an unknown woman came in to tell me about the house and street, both inundated with spirits. San Miguel is well-known for its ghost stories and I always loved hearing about their escapades. She said I would have to make friends with them if I wanted to stay and that they especially loved fresh flowers. Easy enough, I thought, I would follow her instructions. Obviously, it worked and 17 years later I urged my family of spirits not to worry, I was only going down the street and we would still see each other often.

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A perfect meal has just as much to do with the company as it does with the food.

Recently I had guests from Slovenia, a quintet of classical musicians, to be exact. All well-traveled gourmands, this sophisticated group of charming men were well acquainted with fine food. They came to San Miguel with an open mind and empty stomachs (and also fear of Montezuma’s revenge…it seems it’s in all the guidebooks).

After playing a small, intimate concert at the Casa de Sierra Nevada, we—the five musicians, four girlfriends, and myself, sat down to an incredible gastronomic experience. On a cold fall night we were ushered into a cozy private terra-cotta hued dining room with a large, wooden round table in the center backed against a blazing fire. The group allowed me to order for them, so I did something I’ve always dreamt of—ordering one of everything on the menu. I surprised the waiter, and even myself, with my request. There was a new chef at the Sierra Nevada that evening, a young man by the name of Gonzolo Martinez, who had just come back to his native town by way of Dallas and New Orleans. I was anxious to see what he could do. We were not disappointed. The multi-course meal kept coming: Grilled Vegetable Terraine, Huitlacoche Risotto, Grilled Mezcal marinated Oaxacan Quail, Chicken with Shrimp Mousse and Caramelized Apple Pudding, all accompanied by endless bottles of wine.

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