A Fat Purple Fig

Kitty and choose a whimsical ceramic gift, fill the car with gas, tip our Alamo shuttle driver, and say farewell (for now) to Los Angeles. We are pumped about this flight. I have splashed out on first-class tickets for the shortest flight of all, so Kitty can experience the wonder that is feeling flight-special. We glide gracefully past the cattle-class queue for the bag drop, and instead have a lovely conversation with our Sky Priority attendant as he adds a fluorescent ‘Priority’ tag to our cases, and wishes us a lovely time.

First class is a disappointment. The seats are larger, to be sure, but there is nothing resembling a cubicle, or even an extended seat drop, to create a bed-of-sorts. There are no special headphones, no slippers, no toiletries bag sponsored by Acqua Di Gio. I perk up a little when I hear the couple in front order mimosas, and the attendant reply, ‘do you like them orange? or with just a little colour?‘ We order our just-a-little-colour mimosas at 9.30am and cheers with our plastic cups. ‘This isn’t the best example of first class‘ I whisper in Kitty’s ear, my two business-class legs making me an expert. ‘It doesn’t matter‘, she replies, ‘the best part was walking past everyone and boarding first.’ We’re all about being seen right, me and my girl.

With assistance, we find our driver, Angel, waiting for us at Door 8. He plays only English hits in the car, quickly changing the track if a Mexican song breaks through. I want to tell him the Mexican music is great, but don’t want him to feel bad about his choices. ‘Me gusta la musica‘, I tell him, as Kitty shrinks in embarrassment. He smiles broadly. We notice a sign for Kinder Surprise and see a boy painted silver, twirling fire batons. I wish I had given him money.

It thunders on the drive to La Condesa, and fat, hail-strength raindrops hammer the car. The drivers here are not so much aggressive, but every-man-for-himself. And they like to beep their horns…a lot. We move slowly enough to see mobile phone hands resting on steering wheels, a toddler climbing from the back to the front seat, and a team of whipper-snipper handlers working in the rain.

At The Red Tree House, we tip and dash, and find ourselves in an elegant foyer with Herman, who guides us to our room and gently explains the property’s features. Breakfast from 8-10am, drinks in the lounge from 6-8pm, the location of the filtered water, and the 24-hour concierge. I can see why booking happens months in advance. It’s simply beautiful.

After a short rest, we catch an Uber to La Tonina, to meet our ‘Taco Beats and Mezcal Sips’ host, Carolina. In Mexico City, every person is within five minutes of a taqueria, and this tour will introduce us to a handful of the 4000 on offer. The evening loses some of its sheen when we are introduced to the three middle-aged, party-mode American men who are joining us, but the North-style tacos of La Tonina replace some polish, as does Carolina’s enthusiasm.

Our next stop is the reason for choosing this tour; a visit to El Califa de León, the humble taqueria that was unexpectedly awarded a Michelin star in 2024, making it the first taqueria to do so. The tacos here are simple, and consist of a corn tortilla, a thinly-sliced beef fillet, salt, and lime. The Michelin Guide describes the combination as ‘elemental and pure‘. I agree. The tortilla is out-of-this-world. The Americans aren’t impressed, and call Kitty a ‘star-chaser‘ when she declares it a favourite.

At Tacos La Chula, we hover by the counter and accept gifts of meat from this al-pastor maestro, who flicks chunks of pineapple onto tortillas with a deft hand.

The Americans are becoming unruly, ordering extra beers and complaining about the tacos. ‘My barbeque is better than this‘, one of them declares, posturing like a toddler. Carolina directs her energy into corralling the group so she can describe our samples over the noise of the rain. We are extra-attentive as the Americans toss their half-eaten plates on the counter. I now need to eat them all.

At Tizne Tacomotra, we try contemporary tacos. My heart sinks when I learn they are made with smoked meat. The American with the ten restaurants is annoyed, because he can have his staff make this food for him anytime. Another goes to the back of the restaurant to ask where their smoker is, only to discover that the smoking is carried out offsite. Expert BBQ American calls, ‘You would be able to smell it, if it was in here.‘ He repeats this a few times, to assert his status as a top barbequer, instead of a person with a nose. ‘I don’t even like tacos‘, the restaurateur laughs, swigging his beer.

Kitty and I appreciate the flavours of miso and pickled ginger. My lemonade, served with peppermint ice-cream is, unexpectedly, the taste of the night. On the way to the van, Kitty whispers, ‘How did we get stuck with the most obnoxious blokes in Mexico? I’m gonna say something soon…I don’t give a shit.‘ She is glorious.

Agavito MPDL, the Mezcaleria, is a literal hole-in-the-wall. The owner prepares three tastes of mezcal for each of us. They strip the hairs from the inside of my nose. After a few sips, I start to appreciate the smoky flavour, but doubt ‘mezcal aficionado’ is in my future. The Americans want to know which is the most-expensive mezcal, because they are SUCCESSFUL. Carolina sets the rosemary in our mezcal-and-hibiscus cocktails alight, and we applaud her efforts.

The God of Tacos is smiling down upon us when the Americans declare they want to remain at the Mezcaleria and, presumably, get shit-faced. One of them hands Carolina a tip. ‘It’s about fifty dollars‘, he tells his buddies, self-satisfied with his benevolence. Two of the handshake-hands offered on departure are limp. It figures. Outside, I take a picture of Kitty and Carolina, who are almost the same age.

At Taqueria Selene, we taste a traditional ‘taco al pastor’, created by the Lebanese immigrants who introduced the region of Puebla, Mexico, to classic shawarma in the 1930s. The iconic al pastor can be seen all over Mexico City, the stacks of meat sizzling close beside an open flame, with a now-familiar pineapple atop.

We also try a ‘gringa’, which is said to have been requested so often by two American women in the 1970s that it became a staple. It is essentially an al pastor made with a flour tortilla and added cheese, and is the only taco of the night I don’t enjoy.

‘The gringa is my absolute favourite!’ declares Carolina. ‘Mine too,’ Kitty agrees. We discover this is Carolina’s third-ever tour. We assure her she has done a magnificent job, hug, and wave her farewell when her lift arrives.

‘Hola…si…to The Red Tree House‘.