(PJ Rountree / For The Times)
The best tacos, cantinas, pulque and classic restaurants in Mexico City
The first day I visited Mexico City, my host picked me up at the airport with a paper sign and took me directly to the enormous wholesale market Central de Abastos, which is about the size of 600 football fields. There, I tried my first barbacoa taco, tender and aromatic, and a bowl of barbacoa broth, from a tarped stall in the middle of everything. The goat was cooked in banana leaves right there in a ditch in the ground before us. That initial experience was utter sensory overload and a complete refutation to everything I thought I knew about Mexican food, and the art of eating itself. I knew there would be no turning back.
Everyone has a city they consider a second home, and “D.F.,” as I still call it, is that city for me. I wrote a book about the experience called “Down & Delirious in Mexico City” and hosted food videos from Mexico for Vice Media that I still get messages about nearly a decade later. These incursions in the culture gradually led to more and more friends and perfect strangers asking me for tips on what to eat and do when they decide to visit.
My answer is always the same: The secret to having a healthy and satisfying relationship to a place as infinite as Mexico City is to find your own favorite things and hold onto them dearly.
Readers share their favorite places to eat, drink and visit in Mexico City.
That said, everyone has a “list.” That’s your running, messy sheet of restaurants and sightseeing options for your favorite city that you only share with relatives or friends. After years of casually sharing my doc or snippets from it with close friends and family, I’m giving it sunshine and sharing an updated version with all of you — first, with my favorite dining options, and later, with a list of things I love to see and do.
This list is not comprehensive and eschews many of the “hot spots” that might appear in guides elsewhere. Its strength is not its breadth but its specificity: I concentrated most of my life in the Mexican capital in the orbit of its historic core, specifically in Colonia Centro and the barrio around Calle López, where I lived for many years. For eating, I’m not above a lavish white-tablecloth moment or an “elevated” cocktail, yet the truth is I still tend to focus on hardy mainstays, the classics that are beloved by the hard-working locals.
Everyone should have their own favorite taquero, coffee shop, fonda, neighborhood cantina and one or two globally ranked restaurants for that special occasion. The city, again, is unknowable. No two lists of favorites will ever be the same. Here is mine.
Share your favorite things to do and eat in CDMX at this form. We may share your responses later with our readers.
Showing Places
(Daniel Hernandez / Los Angeles Times)
Piccolina
Coffeehouse $
Start your downtown adventures here, with a confident dose of coffee from a place that rarely appears on any glossy itineraries. This is a narrow, old-school coffee shop that specializes in somewhat loaded coffee drinks (cinnamons and caramels abound) and a line of quick, hearty breakfasts, drawing early-morning workers before their shifts at the Metro system headquarters nearby. Over time, I fell in love with its latte and torta de milanesa. There is a single long table about the width of a sheet of paper inside. You’ll inevitably sit shoulder-to-shoulder or right across from someone who is on the go. Pleasantries among strangers are efficient and sophisticated.
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(Daniel Hernandez / Los Angeles Times)
El Cardenal
Mexican $$$
A favorite of downtown bureaucrats and white-collar office workers, El Cardenal is a white-tablecloth affair with multiple locations, specializing in lavish Mexican-with-a-capital-M breakfast guisados. I prefer the one at the Hilton Mexico City Reforma: The dining room is a large hall that clanks with the energy of spirited gossip. Start with the hand-whipped chocolate (pronounce that in Spanish in your head) instead of coffee — servers treat you with the extravagant yet modest ritual of an arcing pour — and natas (sweet milk curds) with warm pan dulce. Watch the rotating carta for seasonal flourishes, and come hungry. On a recent visit I had the omelet de huitlacoche, which came with a small mound-shaped corn tamal for extra flair.
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(Daniel Hernandez / Los Angeles Times)
Ricos Tacos Toluca
Mexican $
Ricos Tacos Toluca is an anomaly in the sense that the more you add to the taco, the better it gets. An open-air storefront that is constantly sizzling and jammed, this is a neighborhood institution: The Rossano family treks in daily from the metro area of Toluca, about an hour west of Mexico City, with their delicious varieties of Toluca-style artisanal embutidos, including green chorizo, spicy red chorizo and longaniza, as well as strips of salt-cured cecina steak and more elaborate sausages like obispo and head cheese. Any Argentine or Italian sausage snob would be won over here. The green chorizo is especially enticing, with its mix of green chiles and herbs for color, as well as cinnamon, golden raisins and almonds for a depth of flavor that’s hard to replicate in anything else. Try a taco of obispo if you’re adventurous: pork offal blended with a bounty of nuts and vegetables; the taste is somehow Christmasy. Ricos Tacos Toluca has a brisk guacamole and a chunky, unforgiving red salsa. Whichever of the meats you order, your taco will get even better once you pile it with still-bubbling fries, made on the spot, and grilled onions. This is a Toluca-style taco, perfected. Back when I lived on this street, I often took a half-pound or so of the green chorizo home, to mimic the tacos at my leisure, or to toss together with cactus and eggs.
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(PJ Rountree / For The Times)
El Bósforo/Sin Nombre
Bar/Nightclub $$$
When the mezcalería Bósforo first opened around 2009 , it was already well known to some of us in the neighborhood. The bar for about a year prior lacked all its permits, so you had to knock on a heavy unmarked metal door, wait a while and someone might let you in. I spent many nights here, with friends and live music, and the most excellent varieties of mezcal found nowhere else.
Founder Arturo Dozal would explain to me how he sourced each mezcal meticulously, person-to-person, with maestros from Oaxaca, Guerrero, Durango and other states. I fell in love with many of his offerings of madrecuishe, tepextate, mexicano and especially puntas varieties. Fourteen years later, Bósforo is still going strong, remarkably resilient to its core. Dozal also happens to be an excellent DJ of vintage, pan-Latin vinyl. He spins whenever he’s there or invites neighborhood luminaries during the week, like the vinyl-only master Tropicaza, a die-hard Centro resident for years.
For a while, there was only one item on the menu: a fantastic blue-corn quesadilla of crispy chapulines, queso Oaxaca, fava beans and one full, fragrant hoja santa leaf unifying the whole thing. The Bósforo quesadilla lives on, leading the charge at the “nameless” restaurant that eventually cropped up next door, with a menu that seems to echo the mezcalería’s vibe. Bósforo has no social media, no website. It doesn’t need any. This is where I learned to love mezcal — and my downtown community.
Founder Arturo Dozal would explain to me how he sourced each mezcal meticulously, person-to-person, with maestros from Oaxaca, Guerrero, Durango and other states. I fell in love with many of his offerings of madrecuishe, tepextate, mexicano and especially puntas varieties. Fourteen years later, Bósforo is still going strong, remarkably resilient to its core. Dozal also happens to be an excellent DJ of vintage, pan-Latin vinyl. He spins whenever he’s there or invites neighborhood luminaries during the week, like the vinyl-only master Tropicaza, a die-hard Centro resident for years.
For a while, there was only one item on the menu: a fantastic blue-corn quesadilla of crispy chapulines, queso Oaxaca, fava beans and one full, fragrant hoja santa leaf unifying the whole thing. The Bósforo quesadilla lives on, leading the charge at the “nameless” restaurant that eventually cropped up next door, with a menu that seems to echo the mezcalería’s vibe. Bósforo has no social media, no website. It doesn’t need any. This is where I learned to love mezcal — and my downtown community.
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(PJ Rountree / For The Times)
El Caguamo
Mexican Seafood $$
Spanish chroniclers claimed to observe that Emperor Moctezuma II enjoyed the delicacy of fresh fish brought to him from the coast of Veracruz by a network of highly trained runners — some 400 kilometers away, without horses or carriages, and long before refrigeration. I think about this lore often when I sit down at the narrow metal stand of El Caguamo (sometimes spelled cheekily as K-Guamo). Mexico City, though far from any ocean, is obsessed with seafood and seemingly always has been. Modest in appearance and wedged against a coffee shop, this stand offers the best seafood in the central core. In nearly five decades of service, the proprietors have tried to open storefronts — currently there is one a half-block away. But these never really catch on with the barrio: We all still huddle around the original stand, with pedestrians elbowing past your shoulder. The quick tostadas of fish, shrimp, pulpo or jaiba are a steady draw. I often indulge in a full plate of breaded shrimp or tilapia, with plenty of sides, cooked at an upstairs kitchen out of view by a staircase in the building that the stand faces. On mornings after a big party night, I’d find solace in an off-menu oyster cocktail — hold the ketchup — brimming with chopped onion, cilantro and olive oil. Add a lava-colored Mexican soft drink, and reviving might feel possible again.
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(PJ Rountree / For The Times)
El Huequito
Mexican $
Lebanese people began arriving in Mexico mostly over the last century, and have become esteemed in Mexico for giving us treasures like Salma Hayek and the spark of influence in Puebla for tacos al pastor: boneless pork shoulder strips deeply marinated in an adobo of multiple spices and chiles, slow-roasted on a vertical carousel, accompanied by diced onion and cilantro and a slice of flash-grilled pineapple. The dish has been integrated fully into the mind-frame of the city; it is considered the baseline taco.
Everyone seems to have strong opinions about who has the best al pastor. I can’t really argue about it. Thousands of trompo spits must be spinning at the same time in this sea of 22 million, around the clock. Who’s to know? Yet everyone can agree that one of the oldest and most nostalgic spots for al pastor is the original location of El Huequito, opened in 1959. A literal hole-in-the-wall, as its name suggests, El Huequito is a place where you’d walk up to a man in a paper butcher’s cap spinning a trompo directly off the sidewalk, and ask for a plate of three for “el huequito,” or the “little space” between meals, while standing. Now the tacos are served inside a former cantina that sits beside the hole-in-the-wall where the original stand once stood. The dark orange salsa de chile de arbol is what deserves all the praise here. El Huequito’s salsa is considered the Mexico City al pastor standard.
Everyone seems to have strong opinions about who has the best al pastor. I can’t really argue about it. Thousands of trompo spits must be spinning at the same time in this sea of 22 million, around the clock. Who’s to know? Yet everyone can agree that one of the oldest and most nostalgic spots for al pastor is the original location of El Huequito, opened in 1959. A literal hole-in-the-wall, as its name suggests, El Huequito is a place where you’d walk up to a man in a paper butcher’s cap spinning a trompo directly off the sidewalk, and ask for a plate of three for “el huequito,” or the “little space” between meals, while standing. Now the tacos are served inside a former cantina that sits beside the hole-in-the-wall where the original stand once stood. The dark orange salsa de chile de arbol is what deserves all the praise here. El Huequito’s salsa is considered the Mexico City al pastor standard.
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(PJ Rountree / For The Times)
Cantina Tío Pepe
Bar/Nightclub $$
Cantinas, with their old-school interiors and customs, have been fixtures of life in downtown for generations. They range from the opulent La Ópera, where Pancho Villa famously shot into the ceiling (nice for a visit but not always a meal), to the diviest little scenarios where it’s best not to go unless you know the current local slang really well. When the cantina El Nivel near the Zócalo closed in 2008, there was a palpable sense of loss among the cantina obsessives of downtown — it had been in operation since the 1850s. Years later I felt that same shock when I heard that a handful of my favorite cantinas in the Centro closed for good in the pandemic.
Downtown remains crowded with cantinas that offer wonderful meals as “botana,” the tradition of a course of house-made dishes served as a courtesy, unlimited, as long as you keep drinking and tip extravagantly at the end. I’m keeping my list of botana-serving cantinas to myself for now. However, I do recommend friends stop at least once at Tío Pepe’s to reflect on cantina culture in Mexico City.
Swinging doors that probably have been around since the Mexican Revolution are your portal to what is now considered the oldest cantina in operation, since 1869 or by this name since 1872. Burroughs wrote about it in “Junky,” and like many other cantinas and pulquerías once, women were not allowed inside Tío Pepe until 1982. The bar itself is one of the most spectacular in the city, a deep mahogany edifice with stained glass details and a central panel reading “Hennessy,” the surface slanting here and there with the decades. I duck in alone sometimes between appointments and pony up to the bar, standing, for a tequila and beer. Ask for peanuts.
Downtown remains crowded with cantinas that offer wonderful meals as “botana,” the tradition of a course of house-made dishes served as a courtesy, unlimited, as long as you keep drinking and tip extravagantly at the end. I’m keeping my list of botana-serving cantinas to myself for now. However, I do recommend friends stop at least once at Tío Pepe’s to reflect on cantina culture in Mexico City.
Swinging doors that probably have been around since the Mexican Revolution are your portal to what is now considered the oldest cantina in operation, since 1869 or by this name since 1872. Burroughs wrote about it in “Junky,” and like many other cantinas and pulquerías once, women were not allowed inside Tío Pepe until 1982. The bar itself is one of the most spectacular in the city, a deep mahogany edifice with stained glass details and a central panel reading “Hennessy,” the surface slanting here and there with the decades. I duck in alone sometimes between appointments and pony up to the bar, standing, for a tequila and beer. Ask for peanuts.
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(PJ Rountree / For The Times)
El Pozole de Moctezuma
Mexican $$
Some years ago, I had a friend who worked for the Secretariat of Foreign Relations near Tlatelolco. He told me about a secret pozolería in the surrounding neighborhood that was hidden inside a ground-floor apartment block, in a pocket of Colonia Guerrero that didn’t have a lot going for it otherwise. That’s where a lot of office workers, he said, went for lunch. The first time I visited, I faced a blank door with a standard buzzer board for each apartment number, but one of them was the word “pozole” instead of a digit. Buzzed inside, I discovered a wonderland: a warmly decorated, almost soothing interior space, serving delicious Guerrero-style, green or white pozole with all the fixings in large ceramic bowls. Fresh sides of crema, avocados and crispy chicharrón adorn the dish. One custom of eating this pozole is dousing your bowl with a few spoonfuls of mezcal, practiced liberally here, even by the folks in office attire who still have an afternoon of work ahead of them.
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(PJ Rountree / For The Times)
La Corte
Mexican $$
If you want to get a sense of what a hard-core downtown denizen feels in their DNA when the clock strikes lunchtime — that is, 2 p.m. — a fonda like La Corte, tucked away on a street south of the Supreme Court building, might just be the apogee of the experience. This specific cafe, founded by a Gallegan family (from the Gallegos region of Spain) a century ago, is easily the most elegant yet unpretentious execution of “comida corrida” that I know anywhere in the city. There are latent Spanish touches in the daily-changing menu, but the fare is largely classic diner Mexican dishes, such as meatballs in chipotle sauce or croquetas de jamón. It’s only lunch, but at La Corte it feels like a gala affair. Desserts rotate, but one that is always present is the flaky house-made ice cream served with a hefty slice of La Corte’s bright yellow pound cake.
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(Daniel Hernandez / Los Angeles Times)
Las Flautas de Mercería Hermi
Mexican $
I would hear about these street-famous chicken flautas in what I call the “deep part” of Centro, then stumbled upon them during a period when I was using a full-service supermarket nearby. That day, I noticed a flock of people standing and munching uncontrollably on long, richly brown flautas drenched in a green sauce. Every person eating them seemed almost possessed by the intensity of the experience (apparently the sauce was really hot).
I got an order, crunched and knew why. Found at a simple frying cart in front of a notions store in a dense, covered alleyway called Pasaje Yucatán, these flautas are tossed on foam plates while still sizzling from the fryer, then drenched in a salsa verde that shows no mercy. The eater wants to keep biting through the flauta, to sort of run through and escape its heat, while the coolness of fresh cream and queso fresco help push one to the finish. You’ll join other diners, largely throngs of no-nonsense discount shoppers with bags draped over their arms, with expressions of contentment and chile-induced heaves, agreeing: This is the perfect flauta.
I got an order, crunched and knew why. Found at a simple frying cart in front of a notions store in a dense, covered alleyway called Pasaje Yucatán, these flautas are tossed on foam plates while still sizzling from the fryer, then drenched in a salsa verde that shows no mercy. The eater wants to keep biting through the flauta, to sort of run through and escape its heat, while the coolness of fresh cream and queso fresco help push one to the finish. You’ll join other diners, largely throngs of no-nonsense discount shoppers with bags draped over their arms, with expressions of contentment and chile-induced heaves, agreeing: This is the perfect flauta.
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(PJ Rountree / For The Times)
El Moro
Desserts $
Another unmissable downtown classic, El Moro is heaven for churro and chocolate lovers. It has operated proudly on one of the busiest blocks of Eje Central, just south of the Torre Latinoamericana, since 1935. Go to this original location to savor the atmosphere of its azulejo tiled interior and the warm, enveloping aroma of sugar and cinnamon. For years it was open 24 hours a day, and was beloved for late-night stops after a successful date, or as the first place to hit from the airport for a sunrise pick-me-up after a red-eye flight. A secret treasure is El Moro’s street-facing savory food stall. It sells delicious tortas de pierna en mole, one of the city’s best.
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(Daniel Hernandez / Los Angeles Times )
El Salón Casino
Bar/Nightclub $
If you’re a pulque fan or budding connoisseur, or are simply curious about this ancient viscous artisanal beverage of fermented aguamiel, El Salón Casino in working-class Colonia Obrera is an excellent place to start a late morning-to-lunchtime pulque crawl. Open since 1947, this pulquería is traditional in the best ways, with old photographs, mural art and decorative sayings hinting at the sly, double-meaning humor of pulquerías of old. Be prepared to make friends. Tables are close together and everyone is here for one thing: possibly the most reliable pulque available in the city. If I start drinking pulque early in the day — it’s a great breakfast itself — I go for the curados of oatmeal, amaranth, coconut or any berry flavor. If I start a little closer to lunch, my favorites, when available, would be the more “savory” pulques of celery, tomato or peanut.
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(Daniel Hernandez / Los Angeles Times)
Las Duelistas
Bar/Nightclub $
Las Duelistas is the pulquería that most downtown denizens regularly frequent. When it reopened under new ownership after decades of dormancy in the early 2000s, this rough-and-tumble pulquería immediately was embraced by a new generation of local punk rockers and college students. I moved into my apartment a block away right when its resurgence began. Since it reopened, I can tell you that I would be found drinking here in my day … a lot. I made new friends and brushed shoulders with both the future of the country and the person cradling their last pesos. It was glorious, riotous pulque drinking, with an all-hands-on-deck mentality.
Now, you will definitely find fresher pulque out in Texcoco or Xochimilco. And let me reiterate that Las Duelistas is not a place for the over-mannered. The jukebox is scorchingly loud. Foul language (and occasionally foul smells) abound. Yet the rainbow-hued fresco murals draw you in. They were painted by a local punk artist who went by Xuve (who I once commissioned to do a mural in my former apartment). The art sets a vibe that’s ultimately celebratory and convivial. Las Duelistas and its clientele capture the essence of contemporary pulque culture in its rawest, rowdiest form.
Now, you will definitely find fresher pulque out in Texcoco or Xochimilco. And let me reiterate that Las Duelistas is not a place for the over-mannered. The jukebox is scorchingly loud. Foul language (and occasionally foul smells) abound. Yet the rainbow-hued fresco murals draw you in. They were painted by a local punk artist who went by Xuve (who I once commissioned to do a mural in my former apartment). The art sets a vibe that’s ultimately celebratory and convivial. Las Duelistas and its clientele capture the essence of contemporary pulque culture in its rawest, rowdiest form.
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(Daniel Hernandez / Los Angeles Times)
La Paella Valenciana
Spanish $$
Mi Fonda is its official name, but everyone in the neighborhood calls it La Paella Valenciana, a classic little diner that lures the eye with a huge vat of Mexican-style paella steaming before passersby on Calle López. The pile of orange-hued saffron rice adorned with large shrimp, mussels and chicken breast is coddled gently all day by serious but kind cooks, who preside over a throwback to when Calle López was the sort of culinary Ellis Island to exiles from the Spanish Civil War.
The paella is served with a mild red salsa, slightly cool, that roots the plate into the neighborhood and sort of transports you back to the 1940s and ’50s. Downtown must have been popping with waves of optimistic Spanish, Lebanese, Jewish, Armenian, Chinese and Anglo and African American expatriate immigrants after World War II. For Christmas and Lent, La Paella Valenciana is an especially busy place, as longtime customers put in orders of bacalao and romeritos for holiday feasts. The estofados and caldo gallego also are satisfying. Otherwise, it’s nice to pop in for a plate of quintessential Mexico City paella. Drench it in the salsa and, between bites, rip into a warm bolillo from the nearby Pilarica Karsapan panadería. Wash it all down with a glass bottle of Mexican Coca-Cola or a local soft drink.
The paella is served with a mild red salsa, slightly cool, that roots the plate into the neighborhood and sort of transports you back to the 1940s and ’50s. Downtown must have been popping with waves of optimistic Spanish, Lebanese, Jewish, Armenian, Chinese and Anglo and African American expatriate immigrants after World War II. For Christmas and Lent, La Paella Valenciana is an especially busy place, as longtime customers put in orders of bacalao and romeritos for holiday feasts. The estofados and caldo gallego also are satisfying. Otherwise, it’s nice to pop in for a plate of quintessential Mexico City paella. Drench it in the salsa and, between bites, rip into a warm bolillo from the nearby Pilarica Karsapan panadería. Wash it all down with a glass bottle of Mexican Coca-Cola or a local soft drink.
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(PJ Rountree / For The Times)
Al Andalus
Lebanese $$
Del Valle and Narvarte are the middle-class Lebanese neighborhoods of Mexico City, reflected in a thread of Lebanese restaurants, butcher shops, barber shops and other businesses. The pinnacle of the Lebanese Mexican dining experience, though, is still found in this Centro jewel that sits in an old stone house on the outskirts of the Merced market, in the southeast quadrant of downtown. Al Andalus whips up fantastic falafel, shawarma, keppa, za‘atar and all the pita your heart could desire. It’s a great restaurant for a large family meal, maybe accompanied by a bottle from the diverse wine list, such as 7 Cepas, a chocolatey red Lebanese blend, or the delicious date pie. To get there for lunch, it’s best to walk in from Avenida 20 de Noviembre and head east for two blocks, through sidewalks jammed with vendors of school supplies and textiles, to an imposing colonial building. From a cool stone courtyard, take the staircase to the dining room and find a seat near a window overlooking a corner that’s been around for a handful of centuries. The hum of downtown is almost intoxicating. A classic Lebanese feast awaits.
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(PJ Rountree / For The Times)
El Pialadero de Guadalajara
Mexican $$
The torta ahogada is a Jalisco favorite: a messy, punishingly spicy torta of carnitas in a salsa-drenched birote salado roll — not a bolillo — from Guadalajara. A cold beer on the side is almost required. Locals regard El Pialadero as home to the best tortas ahogadas in Mexico City, with elaborately authentic offerings of Jalisco-style aguachiles and barbacoa. You sit in western-style patio chairs that would be familiar to anyone who’s ever lounged on a deck overlooking Lake Chapala. This is a fun option if you want something hearty before or after hitting the museums in Chapultepec Park. Get the medium spicy. It will still make your eyebrows and nose sweat, but it won’t make you momentarily lose consciousness like the extra picante threatens. Say yes to the disposable gloves when offered. You’ll appreciate them when you start tearing into your “drowning” torta.
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(Claudio Castro / For The Times)
Expendio de Maíz Sin Nombre
Mexican $$$
Sustainable agriculture. Heirloom corn. Original ingredients. Ethical restaurant service. All of these values that are considered basic for new restaurants were barely present in Mexico 30 years ago. (My theory is that the 1990s saw the Zapatista uprising in Chiapas, which swept the entire population with renewed revolutionary fervor, and the signing of free trade agreements, which also made everyone in Mexico worry about what native foods they might lose.)
I try to keep this recent history in mind when I ponder: In 2023, the most globally and locally admired Mexican kitchens in the city are those that treat maíz with near-religious reverence — in the land where corn was born — and employ ingredients grown at the highest standards of sustainable production. Much of this energy is found among the canals of Xochimilco, site of a resurgent movement for chinampa agriculture.
The Expendio de Maíz, another restaurant “without a name” (expendio means corner store or wholesale shop), sits squarely in this trajectory. Founded by chef Jesús Salas Tornés, the restaurant sources across the region and in the chef’s native Guerrero state. Arriving, a diner is repeatedly told the expendio has “no menu.” You must submit to whatever is brought to the table from the moment you sit. In between courses, servers will ask, with a slightly unsettling air of formality, “Are you still hungry?” There is no limit to courses, you’re told; the kitchen, painted all black and bustling right before you, is in theory infinite. So brunch may start with a quick dose of pulque blanco and then a simple tortilla molded playfully in the shape of a pig, adorned with a mound of requesón cheese.
Expendio de Maíz is a bit too self-serious for my tastes, but most diners will find themselves willingly pulled into its thought bubble for the simple splendor of its tacos, sopes, tlacoyos and whatever else Salas and team are adamant you must try.
I try to keep this recent history in mind when I ponder: In 2023, the most globally and locally admired Mexican kitchens in the city are those that treat maíz with near-religious reverence — in the land where corn was born — and employ ingredients grown at the highest standards of sustainable production. Much of this energy is found among the canals of Xochimilco, site of a resurgent movement for chinampa agriculture.
The Expendio de Maíz, another restaurant “without a name” (expendio means corner store or wholesale shop), sits squarely in this trajectory. Founded by chef Jesús Salas Tornés, the restaurant sources across the region and in the chef’s native Guerrero state. Arriving, a diner is repeatedly told the expendio has “no menu.” You must submit to whatever is brought to the table from the moment you sit. In between courses, servers will ask, with a slightly unsettling air of formality, “Are you still hungry?” There is no limit to courses, you’re told; the kitchen, painted all black and bustling right before you, is in theory infinite. So brunch may start with a quick dose of pulque blanco and then a simple tortilla molded playfully in the shape of a pig, adorned with a mound of requesón cheese.
Expendio de Maíz is a bit too self-serious for my tastes, but most diners will find themselves willingly pulled into its thought bubble for the simple splendor of its tacos, sopes, tlacoyos and whatever else Salas and team are adamant you must try.
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(PJ Rountree / For The Times)
Masala y Maíz
Mexican South Asian East African $$$
I first met chef Norma Listman years ago when she lived and worked in Oakland, and was delighted to run into her again with her partner, Saqib Keval, once they relocated to Mexico City. They launched a pop-up called Masala y Maíz at the old Café Zena that sparked a conversation reflecting their combined central Mexican, South Asian and East African heritages. It was an instant hit. Masala y Maíz expanded in 2019 into an artfully rendered, minimalist restaurant space in Colonia Juárez, adjoining a Carla Fernández boutique, that is animated by the pair’s passion for ethical sourcing, cooking and service. The restaurant has since blossomed into an internationally recognized leader in what you might call 21st century migration cuisine.
Listman and Keval cast themselves as activist-entrepreneurs in everything they do, challenging the Mexico City status quo head-on — like when they called out the culture of corruption tolerated by all stake holders (including restaurant owners) for permits at the delegational city halls. The food itself is the star: Camarones pa’pelar come with a ghee of vanilla and chile morita, while the esquites makai pakka emerge here with the flavors of East African coconut curry. It is a fascinating treatise on how flavors migrate, meld and flourish together — a metaphor for the culinary history of Mexico itself.
Listman and Keval cast themselves as activist-entrepreneurs in everything they do, challenging the Mexico City status quo head-on — like when they called out the culture of corruption tolerated by all stake holders (including restaurant owners) for permits at the delegational city halls. The food itself is the star: Camarones pa’pelar come with a ghee of vanilla and chile morita, while the esquites makai pakka emerge here with the flavors of East African coconut curry. It is a fascinating treatise on how flavors migrate, meld and flourish together — a metaphor for the culinary history of Mexico itself.
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(Daniel Hernandez / Los Angeles Times)
Entremar
Mexican Seafood $$$$
For many years, there was no better place to be than at an unscheduled lunch that went into dinnertime at seafood star Contramar on Calle Durango in Roma Norte. Chef Gabriela Cámara generated an alchemy of casual luxury, so effortless and perfectly balanced, it caused a palpable discord in the matrix of Mexico City fine dining. You could walk in unannounced and have a life-changing meal on a Wednesday at 2 p.m. and emerge in a different microclimate and maybe with a few new total best friends. How was this possible?
Over time, you’d less wander in and more be pulled in. Kisses abounded. Contramar became a magnet for in-the-know events: art fairs, expositions, book launches, film premieres. More people from farther away would fly in and gamble for a seat to savor Cámara’s incredibly executed tostadas de atún and the showstopping snook a la talla, or zarandeado.
Cámara has grown her slate of restaurants and her profile; she recently popped up on my screen doing a MasterClass video on a flight I took to New York. Consequently, nabbing a table on Durango has become a quest. Bar slots are available for walk-ins, but good luck. Recently, a friend suggested I try Cámara’s outpost over in Polanco, Entremar, with the same classic menu. There are plenty of tables in a second-floor dining room overlooking the trees of Plaza Uruguay. The vibe is refreshingly less sceney or competitive than on Durango. You can lounge again with Cámara’s food. If you have three or more at the table, order the zarandeado upon sitting. And maybe a mezcal negroni?
Over time, you’d less wander in and more be pulled in. Kisses abounded. Contramar became a magnet for in-the-know events: art fairs, expositions, book launches, film premieres. More people from farther away would fly in and gamble for a seat to savor Cámara’s incredibly executed tostadas de atún and the showstopping snook a la talla, or zarandeado.
Cámara has grown her slate of restaurants and her profile; she recently popped up on my screen doing a MasterClass video on a flight I took to New York. Consequently, nabbing a table on Durango has become a quest. Bar slots are available for walk-ins, but good luck. Recently, a friend suggested I try Cámara’s outpost over in Polanco, Entremar, with the same classic menu. There are plenty of tables in a second-floor dining room overlooking the trees of Plaza Uruguay. The vibe is refreshingly less sceney or competitive than on Durango. You can lounge again with Cámara’s food. If you have three or more at the table, order the zarandeado upon sitting. And maybe a mezcal negroni?
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(PJ Rountree / For The Times)
Nevería Roxy
Ice cream $
My very young nephews, when they were 2 to 4 years old, had a hard time acclimating to Mexico City’s altitude, I think, when the family visited me. They cried a lot for a few days upon arriving and I suspected that it had to do with the altitude affecting their little bodies. But the 7-year-olds to 12-year-olds had a blast with the sensory overload of the city’s sweets. With kids in tow, take Mexico City’s obsession with sweets seriously and splurge whenever possible on artisanal street candies, pan dulce and fruit- and milk-based paletas. And for a truly retro experience, visit the postwar throwback of Nevería Roxy in Condesa. There are trendier or more elaborate ice cream shops by now in Mexico City, for sure, but Roxy holds its own with classic, comforting flavors like coconut, bitter chocolate, arroz con leche and pistachio.
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(PJ Rountree / For The Times)
El Califa
Mexican $$
The model of the modern Mexico City taco, I believe, was set by Califa when it opened in 1994 on a corner on the southern end of Condesa. Most new-school taquerías today emulate it: a freshly handmade tortilla instead of a machine-made pile of teeny ones, a single slab of meat instead of a handful of chopped bits, and an emphasis on multiple salsas of scaling heat and textures — unless it’s al pastor, that means no guacamole, cilantro or onion. Crucially, Califa stayed open very late, and there was a vibe in there that somehow reflected the neighborhood: Condesa was far more rough around the edges and politically progressive (Zapatista-level progressive) than it is today in its polished, consumerist mode.
Years later Califa is going strong and still reliable as the original fast-yet-upscale taquería with Mexico City classics: al pastor, costilla (I get mine with cheese), frijoles de la olla, jugo de carne and my all-time favorite appetizer anywhere, chicharrón de queso, which was popularized here. This is basically a slathering of melty cheese on a griddle, toasted as a sheet until just before burning, scraped off in one piece and molded into an extravagant cylinder as it cools. Snap into it, break its form and crunch away. Multiple locations.
Years later Califa is going strong and still reliable as the original fast-yet-upscale taquería with Mexico City classics: al pastor, costilla (I get mine with cheese), frijoles de la olla, jugo de carne and my all-time favorite appetizer anywhere, chicharrón de queso, which was popularized here. This is basically a slathering of melty cheese on a griddle, toasted as a sheet until just before burning, scraped off in one piece and molded into an extravagant cylinder as it cools. Snap into it, break its form and crunch away. Multiple locations.
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(Daniel Hernandez / Los Angeles Times)
Hanky Panky
Bar/Nightclub $$$
I held some skepticism for this relatively new high-end cocktail speakeasy hidden behind a fonda in Colonia Juárez. The once-overlooked leafy neighborhood is starting to feel some gentrification spillover from Roma Norte (I also lived about four doors down from it for a while). Yet I found myself charmed here. The vibe is far less pretentious or hostile than similar bars in Polanco or Condesa. The cocktail program, aggressively internationalist, beckons with signature drinks named for global cities that apparently inspired them. Oaxaca City is represented in the Guelaguetza: Esapín mezcal with a chile ancho liqueur and a mole foam served in a wooden spoon set over the glass. Or the Casa Batló, pictured here, of tequila curado cupreata, tepeztate mezcal and a Caprese cordial. Avoid the late-night crush and tuck in for a drink in the early evening hours, when mixologists are generous with their chatter. Bar snacks are elevated and satisfying: A salad with strawberries hits nice, as does a light ceviche. Hanky Panky has the programmatic feel of a Disneyland encounter — exiting the bar, you emerge through a trick refrigerator. Though it’s already considered one of the best cocktail bars in the world, it’s still just a quality spot to get a drink.
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(PJ Rountree / For The Times)
Nadefo
Korean Barbecue $$$
There is a surge of modern Japanese restaurants in Mexico City, led by restaurants like Rokai and Fideo Gordo, plus exciting things popping up with new chefs in Chinese, South Asian and Korean cuisines. Canton Mexicali is doing something interesting with a high-end take on traditional Mexicali Chinese favorites. And there’s an excellent Sichuan hot pot place off the Metro in the working-class Viaducto area that a lot of us keep to ourselves for midweek feasts. Meanwhile, a proper Koreatown has formed in the Zona Rosa and west tip of Colonia Juárez. The community is growing and thriving. There are places that specialize in Korean fried chicken, as well as fun pocha drinking dens, where I once hid out a lot when I especially missed life back in Los Angeles.
An L.A. visitor reared on our Koreatown barbecue might not want to go out for it here, or anywhere else, on a tight trip. However, I highly recommend established favorite Nadefo for an enlightening peek into casual Korean Mexican family-style dining. The cooking here happens over mesquite coals, brought to the table while crackling hot. The added depth of flavor on your orders of beef costilla and tocino will be unmistakable. When a powerful smoking moment happens on the grill, staff maneuver ventilation intake tubes hovering just overhead at full power. All the satisfying banchan are laid out before you, and you can order Korean beer and spirits. Does Nadefo equal or rival the dining of Koreatown in Los Angeles? I’d like to hear from Angelenos, but for now, my stance is yes.
An L.A. visitor reared on our Koreatown barbecue might not want to go out for it here, or anywhere else, on a tight trip. However, I highly recommend established favorite Nadefo for an enlightening peek into casual Korean Mexican family-style dining. The cooking here happens over mesquite coals, brought to the table while crackling hot. The added depth of flavor on your orders of beef costilla and tocino will be unmistakable. When a powerful smoking moment happens on the grill, staff maneuver ventilation intake tubes hovering just overhead at full power. All the satisfying banchan are laid out before you, and you can order Korean beer and spirits. Does Nadefo equal or rival the dining of Koreatown in Los Angeles? I’d like to hear from Angelenos, but for now, my stance is yes.
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(PJ Rountree / For The Times)
Covadonga
Mexican Bar/Nightclub $$
I can’t remember when I first set foot inside this old-school Asturian Spanish cantina and events space, but I can tell you that it probably had to do with a late-night DJ thing or an after-party to an after-party in the upstairs ballroom. Downstairs, on any expectantly charged afternoon, the cantina’s high ceilings and formica-topped tables draw older Spanish Mexican gents who use the space largely to play dominoes. Thursday and Friday nights soon became a magnet for younger creative types in the mood for some boisterous socializing. Friends run into each other and holler at one another across the hall.
Foodwise, this is classic Spanish and Mexican fare like tortilla española and a house favorite, the sopa azteca. Tortas are great. The play here is to drink and be merry with tequila straight-up and the “little flag” of lime and tomato juice on the side. (My go-to sipping tequila inside Mexico among the mainstream labels is Herradura blanco, which somehow has a stronger cinnamon note than the Herradura blanco manufactured for the United States.) There are private banquet rooms in the rear and upstairs — I’ve been to multiple anniversaries and birthdays here — and it’s great in the daytime to watch a game of fútbol. Our Vice Mexico office all-team “lunches” at the Covadonga during World Cup tourneys became legendary.
Foodwise, this is classic Spanish and Mexican fare like tortilla española and a house favorite, the sopa azteca. Tortas are great. The play here is to drink and be merry with tequila straight-up and the “little flag” of lime and tomato juice on the side. (My go-to sipping tequila inside Mexico among the mainstream labels is Herradura blanco, which somehow has a stronger cinnamon note than the Herradura blanco manufactured for the United States.) There are private banquet rooms in the rear and upstairs — I’ve been to multiple anniversaries and birthdays here — and it’s great in the daytime to watch a game of fútbol. Our Vice Mexico office all-team “lunches” at the Covadonga during World Cup tourneys became legendary.
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(PJ Rountree / For The Times)
Xel-Há
Mexican $$
I take heart in knowing many of Condesa’s old charms are still thriving. You could almost miss Yucatecan cantina Xel-Há when driving past on Avenida Michoacán, with all the other bells and whistles going off around it. Warm and inviting, the simple cantina offers spirits and beer and terrific Yucatecan food in a setting that hasn’t changed in decades. I gather here with disparate friends when searching for a central, casual spontaneous get-together. Xel-Há helps me momentarily conjure the many enriching trips I’ve taken to the peninsula. I head here for drinks and sopa de lima, the citrusy Yucatecan chicken broth with crunchy tortilla strips, and tortas de cochinita pibil.
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(Daniel Hernandez / Los Angeles Times)
Molino 'El Pujol'
Mexican $$
This is chef Enrique Olvera’s molino concept: a traditional small tortilla maker serving a community and offering a few bites at a cornerstore, prepared with Olvera’s famously high standards. Come for a modestly impressive brunch with the tamal de mole or a bowl of chilaquiles. The taco de aguacate is an eyeful, with its blue tortilla matched perfectly with a single hoja santa. The molino, of course, offers various tortillas to-go by the kilo, as well as seasonal atoles and fermented drinks such as pulque and tepache, part of a burst of activity around native Mexican ferments.
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(PJ Rountree / For The Times)
Mercado de Comida de Coyoacán
Mexican $
Coyoacán is great for the Frida Kahlo house; the traditional mercado, coffee and churro shops, decent bars and restaurants that ring its dual plazas; and the incredible churches that are more worn from usage than from sitting empty as museum pieces. There are lots of new and rekindled restaurants scattered amid Coyoacán’s cobbled side streets that are worth exploring, but my go-to whenever I have a trip to the city’s south is the traditional mercado de comida, across from the Parroquia San Juan Bautista, for Mexico City comfort food. Here, stalls are open late at night offering home-style dishes like pozole, juices and milk shakes and quesadillas fritas. Find the busier stalls and squeeze into an open space on a bench before a skillful quesadilla maker as she molds a mound of wet masa into a willing receptacle for tinga, huitlacoche or flor de calabaza. Douse your hot fried quesadilla with fresh crema and green or red sauce. Order and eat as you go, because one is never enough.
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(Daniel Hernandez / Los Angeles Times )
Máximo Bistrot
Mexican $$$$
A flat stone façade amid the hustle of Avenida Álvaro Obregón beckons mysteriously. Is that a nightclub, a concept store, a gallery? The first thing you spot walking in is a window into a dry-aging refrigerator, dangling with ducks and hunks of jamón Ibérico. This is Máximo, chef Lalo García’s updated meat-friendly bistro that is hitting all the best buttons of Mexico City’s current culinary peak. (His wife, Gabriela Lopez, is co-founder and co-operator.) Along with nearby Rosetta, from the world’s best female chef, Elena Reygadas, Máximo is part of an elite tier of restaurants that have helped turn Mexico City into the dining destination it’s become. The new space in a large single room with a metal hangar roof is a showcase for García’s notable starters, such as roasted baby corn and kampachi with ginger vinaigrette and avocado, before you venture toward the lacquered duck breast or Waygu cross beef cheeseburger. At the sommelier’s suggestion, my table split a beguiling Grenache from vintner Dominio de las Abejas, from Valle de Guadalupe, Baja California — surprising me, as I usually don’t take well to the Valle wines (sacrilegious for someone of Baja heritage, I know). The chef’s compelling personal story — he worked in agricultural fields in the U.S. before being deported — is the subject of a new book by Laura Tillman, “The Migrant Chef,” making the case that García is the chef of the zeitgeist.
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(Daniel Hernandez / Los Angeles Times)
Pujol
Mexican $$$$
On a cool February night, I sat with a group at the stone bar of Enrique Olvera’s Pujol, for the omakase tasting menu from chef de cuisine Jesús Durón and team. A kind of operatic performance followed, with a suite of tacos and small dishes, and a cascade of desserts on a night I likely will never forget. We had a taco de atún and shiso, an octopus tlacoyo, a small pambazo with fish chorizo and kale, chicharrón de piel de pollo and more. We went for broke and added the wine pairing, a journey in itself. On this night we traveled along with a brut espumoso from Puerta del Lobo in Querétaro, to a bottle of the Exceptional Harvest from Casa Xímenez-Spínola in Jerez, Spain. I had to also try the mole madre/mole nuevo, Pujol’s climactic signature, concentric pours of Olvera‘s “new” and “mother” mole, the latter aged and reembodied at 2,989 days precisely on the evening I dined there.
Olvera has been repeatedly named one of the best chefs in the world, has opened restaurants in New York and Los Angeles, published books and just seems to loom large over everyone else. His new nearby late-night mezcal spot, Ticuchi, is also a growing star. Although I can sense some exasperation in the air over all of Olvera’s successes, it is hard to deny he’s still riding high on a crescendo of excellence. The chef’s devotion to local ingredients, sustainable sourcing and equitable partnerships has not wavered. And all of it culminates in a nightly display of standard-setting cooking and service at Pujol. Serious yet playful, gregarious yet minimalist, it retains its crown — or let’s say, penacho — as the best restaurant in Mexico City.
Olvera has been repeatedly named one of the best chefs in the world, has opened restaurants in New York and Los Angeles, published books and just seems to loom large over everyone else. His new nearby late-night mezcal spot, Ticuchi, is also a growing star. Although I can sense some exasperation in the air over all of Olvera’s successes, it is hard to deny he’s still riding high on a crescendo of excellence. The chef’s devotion to local ingredients, sustainable sourcing and equitable partnerships has not wavered. And all of it culminates in a nightly display of standard-setting cooking and service at Pujol. Serious yet playful, gregarious yet minimalist, it retains its crown — or let’s say, penacho — as the best restaurant in Mexico City.
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