Welcome to moviepuding, a newsletter about food and film. This issue is focuses on the latter.
As a neophyte traveller and CDMX first-timer, 96% of things that I ate substantially impressed me. Also in my favor was liberation from the tyranny of hype and Google reviews, which refreshingly haven’t infiltrated the dining scene in Mexico as much as it has New York. That said, it was difficult to find comprehensive reviews instead of itty bitty round-ups and guides, even for some of the more storied places, so I’m going try to rectify that here.
i. “Tables for Two”-style review of Contramar
iii. More things I ate & drank
iii. The wonderful world of pan dulce
CONTRAMAR
The first thing that strikes you upon entering Contramar is the bar, Bill Cunningham-blue, and the similarly hued mural above it: angular, hieroglyphic renderings of marine life constellate an wall-spanning expanse of unruffled cobalt. The motif is apt, since this a seafood institution, opened by Gabriella Cámara in 1998, where the food is minimalist but not austere, straightforward but not boring.
The atmosphere is dignified—white table cloths, white shirts, but breezy—rattan covered chairs and ceiling, which is pitched high, high, heavenward. The diners follow suit: leisurely power lunchers in expert tailoring, and solo diners in beat-up sneakers at the bar.
The impeccable service also precisely combines affability and formality, like someone guiding you with a light hand on your shoulder. When I selected a paloma from the not-so-short cocktail menu, our server decorously instructed me to get a mezcal margarita instead. It came in three flavors: tamarind, hibiscus, and classic lime. Easily, I chose tamarind and just as effortlessly hiked the drink up in my pantheon of margaritas, owing likely to the quality mezcal. Zach had the lime version, tolerably crisp for us whisky drinkers.
Having secured our trust, the server helped us advised a game plan. Going against the long-spouted wisdom of Anthony Bourdain, we started with two specials, which here are a bounty of freshness, comprising the morning’s catch. The whitefish ceviche was topped with shards of pistachios and jalapeno, and scallop aguachile flecked with traditional chiltepin peppers. Both were pristinely chilled and gratifyingly pert, and the delayed force of the chiles will remind you that the latter is, afterall, a dish that translates to chile water.
Just as my sinuses started to run, the shrimp cocktail arrived. Shrimp so often tastes to me of rubbery disappointment so I avoid it, but at Contramar they’re runty yet plump as God intended. With soda crackers, they gave my tongue a fortuitous respite.
The tuna tostadas are a must; Cámara’s version is a dish so iconic they’ve landed on the Wikipedia page for this humble Mesoamerican dish. Tantalizingly fresh tuna sits atop golden discs of toasted tortilla, smeared with mellow chipotle mayo. It‘s finished with a crescent of avocado and a scattering of fried leeks—a winning, left-field addition that ties everything together. Rarely ever have I had such a well-constructed bite of food. I preferred the tuna this way, over “carnitas”-style, used to make your own tacos. They’re expertly charred but you lose out on the freshness of course.
The centerpiece to our meal was grilled octopus. It was a coin flip between that and the restaurant’s namesake snapper, butterflied and painted half red, half green with different sauces. But the octopus edged it’s way to the finish line because I’d been craving it since Triangle of Sadness and my last newsletter, and because the server obliged us a half portion (300g), a request that isn’t always accepted by the looks of some online reviews. The tentacles were terrific on their own, but I quite liked the runny chipotle adobo, which sang sweetly of toasted sesame. The best bites were the curved slices of head, slicked with a gelatinous layer reminiscent of rendered fat.
You shouldn’t skip the desserts, which are displayed on a large tray instead of a menu. I only had room for one: the fig tart, of course, which lays fans the fruit on thick clouds of mascarpone set on a crumbly tart crust, with a few nuts still in tact. I haven’t stopped thinking about it since.
MORE PLACES TO EAT AND DRINK
Loose Blues: Japanese-Mexican fusion restaurant on the second floor of a small curated vintage store. Sipped on yuzu margaritas rimmed with shichimi.
Bosforo: Bar next to a small restaurant of the same name. Experienced the breadth of mezcals against a backdrop of velvet curtains and sultry drone music. One of them tasted like musky sage and another like graham crackers.
Taqueria Orinoco; Taqueria Los Cocuyos; Tortas al Fuego: Al pastor is the order du jour but I did enjoy a few cochinita pibil. Order at least one of your tacos gringa-style which means that it will come twice as large and with melted cheese.
Casa Bosques: I was already a fan of the chocolate bars from graphic designer Rafael Savvy, which you can procure from Dimes Cafe or Leila Gohar, but I wanted to try the Enrique Olvera collab. I chomped through a third of it before realizing what “hormigas” are. Spoiler alert: They’re ants.
Churreria el Moro: Undeniably great, these unlooped twisted strands of dough can only go so far in my book with their contractual and cruelly short shelf-life as a member of the yeast doughnut family (a substandard class of dessert). How good can a food be when it’s only good for five minutes after it’s completed?
Choza: In this Mission-Chinese esque restaurant behind an unmarked door (a veritable speakeasy joint), Thai and Mexican food are so seamlessly fused over fire that a causal interloper might not even realize it. Eight different Mexican chiles infuse the chicken curry verde, and the scallion pancake is stretched thin to create a palatable tortilla. While waiting for a table on the second floor, you can have a mango daiquiri and examine the ceiling, which is rafted with t-shirts from the likes of Spicy Village, Russ and Daughters, Kalustyan’s, and more, nodding towards the owner’s taste.
BREAKFAST AND PAN DULCE
I can’t stop laughing at this tweet. The same can’t be said of Mexico City, a paradise of pan dulce, or sweet breads, which extend far beyond sugar-crusted conchas and encompass everything from tiny sandwich cookies of jam (besos) to flakey ear-shaped palmiers (orejas). These may seem par for the course, but the secret’s in the sugar: piloncillo, a type of pure unrefined cane sugar. But a few highlights—there are literally hundreds of different pan dulce:
I can’t deny the easy charm of sprinkles, nonpareils specifically so, naturally I was smitten with the garibaldi. The tiny sugar globes cover a faintly lemony inverted cupcake. Apricot jam acts as the glue. This one is from Eno, which I didn’t much like otherwise.
I genuinely thrilled to the pan de elote at Maque, a local chain though you wouldn’t necessarily know from search results. The pan de manzana also exhibits an enticing custardy composition.
At Cafe Nin, the guava and cheese pastry, shaped like an figure eight, is two danishes in one, as flaky and buttery as the best croissant.
Verily, I gleaned the power of Mexican sweet treats before we even landed when the flight attendants tendered packets of polovorones, a wan, dry puck of shortbread tinged with orange and bearing exceso calorias y azucares, which is why it was so fantastic. (I have since stalked my bodegas for them to replace my biscoff, the original underrated airplane snack.)
El Cardenal is a classic establishment that you’re supposed to visit for a traditional Mexican breakfast but it was so very close to our hotel and I was famished, so I insisted we go anyway at 3PM. In a state of impending migraine, I failed to photograph the bread basket, which reiterated the country’s revelatory way with flour. (S/o to TripAdvisor for the above photo.)
Fluffy insides are tautly encased in the bubbled-crisp exterior of taut bollilos, making them something like stubby, less austere baguettes. Rectangles of shortbread speckled with sesame ranked low on the sweetness-scale, I scarfed them down before the cafe au lait arrived, awakening my brain to just how bad the average coffee is in America.
What else: We loved the suadero, the carnitas de michoacan, and salsa, but could’ve done without arrachera, a flattened steak served with beans and nopales. The servers asked if we were Canadian, which I take as a complement of our politeness.
As far as savory breakfasts go, there’s chilaquiles at pasillo de humo a modern, industrial, cavernous Oaxacan restaurant that sits above a food hall. The silky mole had a muted depth and a pronounced note of thyme. The “empanadas" are what we Americans think of as a quesadilla, a half moon of tortilla and cheese. We ordered two, plus one order of memelas, which came four to an order—too much food, but everything plus drinks totaled $54.
Mexico City food diary
Went to CDMX last year solo and ate 8 tostadas at contramar because I did not have someone to share them with! No regrets, so good. You must get the cookbook!