Just Another Sunday (Premium)

This past Sunday provided an interesting reminder of why we love Mexico City so much, thanks to a set of similar but different experiences, each emblematic of the magic of this place and its people.

That morning, my wife Stephanie and I got up, went for a walk, got some work done, and then headed down to Coyoacán, a favorite Mexico City neighborhood south of our place in Roma Norte. It takes 25 to 30 minutes to get there by car, and each drive there is an incredible reminder of the vastness of this city, as you can see pockets of skyscrapers and neighborhoods everywhere from the elevated highway, each big enough to be a city in its own right.

That Uber ride was inexpensive, as most things here are, and when we stepped out of the car into the warm sun in front of the Mercado de Coyoacán, the central market in the area, I did what you do when you exit an Uber: I rated and tipped the driver. In the spirit of tipping correctly, I found the default tip choices, which maxed out at 15 percent, inadequate, so I did some quick math and gave him 20 percent instead. Which in U.S. dollars worked out to about $1.40, a ludicrously small amount of money for the service.

With that out of the way, we started into the building to find a place to eat lunch. But then my phone buzzed, and so I paused, looked down at it, and saw an Uber notification: Our driver had thanked us for this tip. And had left a personal note. Which to me was completely unnecessary, but also nice, and exactly what the people here are like, almost universally.

In we went, threading our way through the busy market, with its tight aisles and curious mix of food stalls of all kinds, restaurants, and every type of thing imaginable, from clothes to durable goods, hardware and flower kiosk, a sort of proto-mall that still persists in this country, defying modernization. Thanks to a handful of high-profile museums and other destinations, Coyoacán is popular with tourists, and we could see there was a mix of locals and expats in there as we worked our way to the back. Where we found what we were looking for: A family-run cocina eatery with home-cooked meals that’s just unfamiliar and intimidating enough to scare off the tourists. And it was there that we had several more wonderfully Mexican interactions.

Perhaps expecting a confused English-speaking disaster from the two very white people in front of him, our waiter was delighted when we instead ordered exactly what we wanted, in Spanish, and without needing to look at the menu. And when a woman behind the counter opened up a vat of steaming salsa verde with chicken and enchiladas soaking inside, I exclaimed out loud positively; she happily explained what it was to us, having clearly enjoyed my reaction. Later, two older gentlemen sat beside us at the counter, and I could feel their curiosity about us, these two outsiders, and how it only grew as we got food, ate it, and interacted with each other and the staff.

This type of restaurant—called a cocina economica—is a favorite of ours because they’re legit local and always fantastic. And yes, they’re always inexpensive: In our neighborhood, we can eat a full lunch at such a place for about $3.50 U.S., each, though in Coyoacán it was a bit more expensive, maybe $4 or $4.50 U.S. These meals are multi-course, and on Sunday we got a chicken consume full of vegetables, a salad, and a main course of mole poblano con pollo, meaning a Pueblan brown sauce with a huge chicken thigh. A quick note about mole: It’s the focus of the meal, and that’s why it’s called mole con pollo and not pollo con mole; salsa, another form of sauce I’m sure most have heard of, is never the focus, it’s something you add to the food you’re eating. We love moles, and mole poblano is one of the more common types here because it’s so good.

Anyway, we were getting ready to leave when the waiter carried over our dessert, the fourth course, which we had both had forgotten about somehow. This is often as simple as a lollipop or small candy bar, depending on the cocina, and it’s the only part of the meal that isn’t homemade. But here, it was a lime Jello in a small plastic cup with a small plastic spoon, the type of thing a child would eat. I laughed as he handed it to me, and asked, “con vodka?” and then the waiter and the gentlemen next to us all burst out laughing too. They understood my joke: I was hoping it was a Jello shot.

After paying, we got up to leave, and we engaged in a wonderful Mexican tradition in which a departing diner says “Provecho” to the other diners as they leave. There’s a literal meaning to the word, of course, but what it really means is, “enjoy your meals,” the Latin American equivalent of Bon Appetite. I directed this largely at the nice gentlemen next to me, of course, and we shared smiles and waves as we parted. It was nice.

And then the waitress who had taken our credit card payment rushed after us with some Mexican pesos, paper money and change, in her hands. Apologizing profusely, in Spanish, she explained that she had mistakenly overcharged us. Looking down at the money and doing the math, I could see it was not an amount either of us would have ever caught. We assured her that all was well, and I stuffed most of the money into a paper cup marked “propinas”—tips—on the counter as a thank you for her honesty.

After returning home later that afternoon—another embarrassingly inexpensive ride, another unnecessary thank you and personal note—we headed up the street a few blocks to our favorite bar where we had previously arranged to watch the Super Bowl. We’re friends with one of the owners, someone we first met in January 2022 when we stayed in Roma Norte and fell in love with this neighborhood. He’s a big part of why we love it here, and a great example of the people in the area, in that he’s friendly, outgoing, and funny.

Of course, it helps that his English is flawless, which I define as speaking the language well enough to understand subtleties, especially humor. I joke with him, and now others, about introducing a sort of “Espanglish” into the neighborhood because my wife and I are trying to learn Spanish and have had varying degrees of success interacting with locals in their own language. The best example being him asking how we’re doing and me responding with, “pretty bueno.” (I can’t tell you how delighted I was when I walked into a different restaurant recently, asked a friend there how she was doing, and she responded with, “pretty bueno!” Classic.)

Knowing we’d be there for several hours, we settled into a comfortable love seat for the game and waited for the place to fill up with an expected 40 or 50 people, most of them spilling out onto the sidewalk. And then someone yelled out, in English, “Oh my God, it’s you!” and we were surprised to see a woman from Seattle we had met on a previous trip, a year ago March. We had met her sitting at the sushi bar in another favorite local restaurant, and in speaking with her then, recommended that she visit the bar we were now in because the people there were so great, and they make a terrific sourdough pizza. We later learned on that trip from our owner friend that this person had gone on to visit several times, and had fallen in love with the place. (And we were curious how he knew she meant us when she described the people who had recommended his establishment so enthusiastically.)

Yesterday, we learned that she was visiting Roma Norte again for several weeks, and was now friends with the owner and others there, and a regular during her visits. How wonderful. We caught up and met her other friends, and we all watched the game together, people from anywhere and wherever, but together in this place. This place where the people are so friendly you can’t help but return the favor.

If only every interaction was this positive, this nice, this friendly. But here in Roma Norte, it’s the norm, and that was just one day. It’s no wonder we love it here so much.