![]() “People in cantinas always seem to be having a good time,” observes David after we relocate to one of his all-time favourites, El Paraíso, in Santa María la Ribera. As we swill Mezcal Unión Joven, a woman dressed like a nurse comes to take our blood pressure. “Most cantinas were remodelled in the ’90s and noughties to look like airport bars.” Tío Pepe, by contrast, looks like a place where William Burroughs, one of its many famous patrons, might still be loitering at a back table, testing some dubious fungi. ![]() “Look at the moulding on the ceilings,” he rhapsodises. Cantina Tío Pepe, in the Chinatown neighbourhood of Centro, is one of the oldest in Mexico City. The contemporary cantina is more democratic than ever (especially as prices escalate at local bars and restaurants), although as recently as 30 years ago women could still be denied entrance. Both David and the novelist Francisco Goldman, another dear friend and longtime Mexico City resident, have waxed poetic over the Mexican cantina: part bar, sometime diner and always a place to trumpet your joys and submerge your sorrows with friends. Mural at La Ciudadela market Maya Visnyei The restaurant was ground-breaking in its day (it opened in 1969), a worthy antecedent to Pujol, lavishing care on traditional recipes. I’m fascinated by the El Cardenal crowd, which includes both visitors from tour buses and ancient locals reading newspapers, wishing they could spark up a cigar. Then I enjoy a ritually poured cup of hot chocolate with pastries and natas. The dish looks and tastes far better than it sounds, even to an entomophobe like me. At the Zócalo-adjacent fixture El Cardenal, housed in an old Parisian-style mansion, I have my first dish of escamoles: fried ant larvae that here are mixed, omelette-style, with crunchy cactus leaves. The traditional café de olla may be too sweet for some tastes, but it is as authentic as it comes. A tubular serving of black beans is the ultimate lard-delivery vehicle. The chicharrón en salsa verde is as soft as a newborn’s ear. In the coming days I will indulge at the famous Fonda Margarita, a family-friendly dive beneath a corrugated roof in a quiet southern neighbourhood, which stops serving at noon or whenever the food runs out. Nowhere else invests more in a proper first meal. Let me be clear: Mexico City is the breakfast capital of the world. It’s appropriately spicy, bringing tears to my eyes. La Docena’s version mingles chunks of crab and pink wedges of radish with a thin peppery broth poured tableside. In between redistributing his pesos to children selling schlock on the busy street out front, David introduces me to chilpachole. As the sun sets and the humidity falls, we feast on oysters paired with the unexpectedly impressive house rosé. Now a decade old, it was an important addition to Roma Norte, distinguished by chef Tomás Bermúdez’s emphasis on fish freshly caught from the Pacific, cured and grilled meats and under-appreciated Mexican wine. After discussing the merits of a dozen restaurants, we continue my seafood theme at La Docena, an import from Guadalajara. As we walk and kibitz around Roma Norte, he points out the palimpsest of old and new places that have grafted themselves upon the 19th-century French-inspired architecture. He has loved and lost here, been battered and captivated, but most of all he has drunk and eaten well. ![]() David has spent the better part of his adult life in CDMX. ![]() I take an important nap, then meet my friend David Lida, author of First Stop in the New World, widely considered to be the definitive guide to Mexico City.
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