MEXICO: SIN MAIZ NO HAY PAIS

Guadalajara really is a lovely city



When I awoke early the next morning to the sounds of a couple having wild monkey sex in the room next door, I decided to get straight out of bed and head out to explore as I had not planned to meet up with Cristina and Judy until midday.

I spent a very happy few hours walking around the city with its alleyways and squares before the pangs of hunger began to bite and I needed to find some food and find it fast.

I found myself by a small central market where a range of stalls selling everything from seafood to local honey surrounded more stalls selling crowds of hungry locals an early breakfast.



There was almost too much choice with tamale looking an odds on favourite for brekkie until I came on a small stand that had a large sign saying “Tacos De Tripa” The decision was made for me.



I love tripe in just about every form I have ever had it served. From my old hometown in Rotherham where there was a shop which sold only two items, tripe and roast udder, to Spain where Callos is served in a spicy tomato stew. Let’s face it, tripe is always good.



It is even better when it is deep fried, as it was here and slivers of crunchy tripe were served on top of more warm tortilla for me to douse with lime and salsa before crunching down. I had eight of them, they were that good and they set me up for more of a walk before I headed back to meet Cristina and judy at the hotel.

Cristina had particularly suggested that I head to meet them at this time of year because it coincided with Day of The Dead an incredibly important date in certain states in Mexico. As soon as they collected me, we headed off to visit one of the temporary Tanguis, markets which are set up to sell a bewildering variety of things all associated with the festival.



Sugar snack in the shape of skulls, paraphernalia to decorate the Offrenda or shrines to the dead which appear all over the town, some of which are extraordinarily elaborate, models of skeletons known as Katrina and Katrines which are both macabre and strangely joyful and plenty of food.



I was particularly taken with a man cooking small cakes on a griddle. Cristina explained that these were Gordita De Nata, which as the name suggests are made with cream. We waited until the man began to make a new batch, as Cristina explained that they were at their best fresh out of the pan, and then bought three or four. They were every bit as good as Cristina told me and, despite the fact I was full from breakfast, I managed to snaffle far more than my fare share.



By all the laws of physics, I should not have been able to eat again, well ever, but after a pleasant couple of hours in the market, Cristina suggested that we all head to another of her favourite taco stands, this time to one specialising in tacos of battered fish. It was as packed as the day before and cars were queuing up to get next to it. I assumed that we would have to park up a little way away and walk back before joining the queue.

Cristina, however, is one of those people who, if you were kind, you would say has St Reversa Parallelo, the patron saint of parking looking over her shoulder. It does not matter how crowded a place is, how many cars are around or how unlikely it looks that you will get a space, Cristina never and I mean NEVER fails to find a space and so it proved as we glided with nonchalant ease into a space that just seemed to appear right in front of the crowded stand.

The tacos were just as good as the night before and this time, the taste of fresh battered fish was the result of chomping through a soft tortilla.




As you may have gathered, I was beginning to think that tacos were a very good thing indeed and, even after a decent supper at a high end local place later than that night, it was still the discs of flour tortilla topped with deeply flavoured chunks of meat or fish that made me break out into a smile every time I thought of them. It still does as I write this.

I have to admit to also breaking out into a big smile when I think of The Abasatos, the colossal market on the outskirts of the city which seems to cover innumerable city blocks and sells just about everything imaginable.

Cristina was very keen to show me all that it had to offer and, after more of my crunchy breakfast treats,we headed off to explore.

I have rapidly discovered something on this trip. I hate farmer’s markets or rather I hate the precious, up their own backside versions we have in the UK and USA where the concept of people growing and selling their own food to the consumer is treated like a ride at Disneyland and the price of the food is swelled up to he same point as the egos of many of the people who sell it.

But, real markets, not that is another matter and, on this trip, I am seeing some beauties. From those in South China where you can find everything from crispy skinned dog to the gasping heads of recently decapitated fish, to those in Finland where elk meat sits alongside achingly fresh seafood.



The Abastos is no different and, as Cristina and Judy showed me around and the hospitable stall holders offered tastes and allowed me to take pictures, I was simply knocked out by the range of what was on offer. Fabulous looking beef, more fish and seafood than I think I have ever seen, machines churning out fresh tortilla at a rate of knots that still struggled to keep up with demand. Slabs of pork rind, Jars of frescos sitting in ice, fruits & vegetables that I scarcely recognised, spices and herbs. You name it, The Abastos has it.




As we left, Cristina ushered me towards a man serving drinks from a small cart. He doled out a couple of cups of Tejuino a delicious drink made, almost inevitably, from corn. I had never tasted anything quite like it. It took me a while to decide if I actually enjoyed it or not. In the end, I came down on the positive side and slurped down more than my fare share as is often the case.



It is also often the case that wandering around markets makes me hungry. In this case, it made me ravenous and I was first to the car when Cristina suggested we head off to try her favourite restaurants, El Chololo which served what she considered one of the best versions of Birria in the city.



I had tried Birria before, well at least I thought I had. What I was served at El Chololo proved to me, if I needed more proof, that what we get in the UK is a pathetically ersatz version of the real thing.

What I got in London was a slab of lamb swimming in a thin broth. What I got at El Chololo was a mound of goat meat which had been cooked and then separated from its cooking liquor and grilled so it was crispy on top.





The cooking juices were then served as a soup to be flavoured with lime and chilli while the meat was topped with salsa and wrapped in tortilla.


Incredible stuff and, as Cristina, Judy, myself and tow friends of theirs enjoyed our meal we were serenaded by a local band of Mariachi. Cristina palmed the leader a few notes and requested a song.

Of course, it involved the words “Mi Corazon” It is illegal, I believe to have a song in Mexico that does not make a reference to a heart that is filled to bursting with love or, more likely, broken and battered from misuse at the hands of an uncaring lover.

This song, however also had another strand and, as the band cried out “Volver, Volver” which means, I think “come back, come back” I was already thinking of just when I could do that. Mexico has that effect on you. When you are there, you are already thinking about when you are next going to come back.

I have a friend of whom this is more true than anyone. So true in fact that she is now living there and working at a dream job making tequila. That night, Cristina, Judy and I had a quick drink at a famous local Cantina, La Fuente. We drank tequila, ate fried fish and listened to the band and the constant hubbub of the crowded bar.


After I returned to my hotel, I saw that the light on my old fashioned Bakelite telephone was flashing. The message was from my friend, Sophie, a stunning French woman who I had met in London earlier that year. She had been promoting her own Tequilla Calle 23 and, as she lived in Guadalajara, we agreed to meet up when I was in town.

Unfortunately, my arrival coincided with a business trip of hers and I resigned myself to the fact that we would not meet. The flashing light signalled a message saying she was back in town for one night and did I want to meet her for a drink

Where did she suggest? Cantina La Fuente. So, I found myself wandering back there in time to have a quick drink with her before they closed.

So, that was just about it for Guadalajara, the next day we were heading to Cristina and Judy’s hometown of Morelia. Before that, they would also introduce me to a dish that will rank in the top ten of everything I have eaten on the trip so far. But, more on that later

MEXICO: SIN MAIZ NO HAY PAIS
When I mentioned to the people I met in New York that my next stop would be Mexico, no one seemed that excited. Oh, they all thought it would be a great part of the journey and told me to expect incredible food, it was just that, for many Americans, journeying to Mexico barely seems like leaving the US these days. A bit like a Brit hopping over to Paris or Spain. It is so easy it becomes mundane

Not for me however, it was a realisation of one of my dreams.

When I wrote the very first list of things to do on EAT MY GLOBE, in the top five was “attend a cookery school in Mexico” I had put down the name of the town, Oaxaca, not least because it is home to a famous cookery course but also because, after years of not being quite sure, I was finally confident enough to pronounce the bloody name correctly and felt rather proud of myself.

I posted about it on a food website and soon received a message from one Cristina Potters saying “I am sure we can organise something better than that” along side an offer to guide me around for the period of my stay. She gave me the link to her website, Mexico Cooks and one glance was enough to convince me that I was highly unlikely to find too many other people who would

a) Know more about Mexican food than she did
b) Be prepared to spend so much time in my company.

Over the next six months, as I began to travel around the rest of the globe, my thoughts frequently returned to Mexico and what awaited me there. I had been in regular contact with Cristina and she had suggested that I come into the country after New York and in time to be in the country for Dia De Los Muertos on of the most important dates in the Mexican calendar, or certainly for the region where she lives.

The plan was set and, on the 28th October, I headed off to JFK at an ungodly hour filled with thoughts of my first real experience of a cuisine that, up until that point, had only been represented by London’s pathetic attempts to recreate which usually result in brown sludge of no particular provenance.

My flight gave me some idea what to expect. Huge amounts of money flood into Mexico from ex-pat’s living and working in the USA and, when the same return home for holidays or festivals, they seem hell bent on taking presents for just about everyone they know.

After I boarded the plane, I fought my way over to my seat only to find that it was already occupied. Not by a person but by about four large bags of what I took to be clothes. The couple in the window and middle seat made no attempt to move them and just gave me a beatific smile. A smile that lasted until I started to move them myself at which point all hell broke loose and they began jabbering at me in Spanish something, which, even to my untrained ear sounded most unsavoury.

The stewardess was with us quickly and, from the look on her face, I could tell that such things were not an uncommon part of her daily schedule. She rattled off a sharp admonishment to them in Spanish and moved the bags to an overhead compartment a few seats back to allow me to sit down.

The whole of my flight, the Mexican couple glowered at me as if I had placed their first born in the locker not some tat they had bought at a market in Queens. I am pleased to say, that in the whole of my two weeks in this remarkable country it was the single incidence of anyone being anything other than extraordinarily friendly.

By the time I had changed planes in Mexico City and touched down in Guadalajara, I was exhausted and in need to a friendly face, so I was delighted to see Cristina waving to me with a huge grin on her face as I lugged Big Red through customs.

Within half an hour, Cristina and her partner, Judy had dropped me at my hotel and left me to freshen up for a short while before collecting me again to give me my first introduction to Mexico. We hit it off immediately, I was sure we would, but reassured by Cristina’s patient responses to some very stupid questions and Judy’s equal level of patience to someone who was about to insert himself into their lives for nearly two weeks.

First stop, before supper, the central square where, on a Sunday evening, locals had gathered to listen to a live band and to dance. This was no ordinary dancing though.



Both men and women were dressed up to the nines and strutted their stuff in a manner that evidenced a huge amount of practice. As the sun began to sink behind the local church, the streetlights began to twinkle and it all, quite frankly took on a slightly surreal tint for a man someone who, a few hours before, had been in New York City. If I was not such a hard hearted soul making such things impossible, I would suggest it almost brought a tear to my eye.


If my eyes were watery, my belly was empty and when Cristina suggested that we decamp a short drive away for a supper of tacos, I was running for the car quicker than you can say "saluth, deenayro, ee ahmor, ee tyempo pahra deesfrutahrlos"

Our destination was Los Altos,


a bustling taco stand about fifteen minutes drive from the centre of town. Here, Cristina and Judy instructed me on the etiquette of taco construction as I gleefully added salsas, lime and chilies to the meat the guys behind the counter had placed on a double layer of fresh corn tortilla.



We found a spot to sit down on the pavement and I took my first bite of Mexico.


There had been plenty of “fuck me that’s good” moments on the trip to date and this was the latest. I think I lost the power of speech as the combination of savoury flesh, sharp lime juice and fiery salsa hit my taste buds. Cristina smiled like someone watching a small child take their first steps

“ I thought you might like these”

“Like?” I stammered between mouthfuls “this is one of the best things I have eaten on the trip”

I was not lying. The two I had ordered disappeared in about two minutes and I was already up in the face of the servers again demanding more. This time, instead of the goat meat of my first round, I went offal piste and wrapped the tortilla around some brains.




They were just as good and I would have gone back for even more if Cristina’s declaration of exhaustion had not prompted my own body to suddenly go into “down” mode and begin to shut down

Mind you, not before I had managed to stuff myself further with some excellent helado from the small store next to the taco stand where a handful of men were churning tubs of the iced delights in containers of salt and ice.

I slept little that night. In part, it may have been the excitement of being in a new country. In part, it may have been the four tacos and their spicy accompaniments gurgling along pleasingly in my stomach, but for the most part it was because of a couple in the next room who had wild, unbridled monkey sex for what seemed like the best part of the night. I was cheesed off and jealous in equal measures.

By the time they were finally sated, it was almost morning and I realized that sleep and me were going to be strangers for at least one more night.

Welcome to Mexico