Dispatches from Pujol: smell the roses and forget where you're going
Meanderings from one night eating and watching in CDMX
Dispatches from Pujol, Polanco, Ciudad de Mexico.
They’ve sat me in the corner, slightly blocked by an indoor tree, framed by two sets of gay men on dates, with a view of the whole bar and a little bit of the kitchen. Before I can ponder the lone Asian man seated on the other side of this wing, a fraternal mirror of me, the sommelier arrives to tell me that he cannot recommend one cocktail over another, as the cocktails are all made by different but equally skilled bartenders (one cocktail per bartender). This statement didn’t make the most sense to me — there aren’t thirty bartenders by the bar —, but my strawberry flavored, lovingly orange Hashirama Margarita arrives with such surprising speed that this tall tale may as well be true.
There are too many Americans in this restaurant. Five tables near me, four are clearly occupied by Americans and the last table (right in front of me) appears to be occupied by Whitexicans, a term I was made aware of only recently. The young fellow with suave black hair is wearing a black Comme des Garçons black jean jacket with the infamous heart logo in black, blocking my view of his date.
First course — snacks. First, a thick corn tortilla with avocado, pine nuts, and fried kale. Of course, the first thing I do is drop a piece of kale on my orange dress, its oil leaking onto the satiny material. It’s good to be humbled by the universe. Second, a baby corn drenched in orange sauce served on a smoking bed of corn husks. My mother comments later: “that barely looks like corn.”
The lone Asian man eats very quickly. His jawline cuts square, slightly rounded at the cheeks. He has relatively short straight hair and he’s clothed in a blue button down, drinking something bright orange (looks like Fanta) served in a champagne coupe. He finishes his course very quickly and promptly looks down at his phone. A pattern: he looks down at the food and then down at the phone. Kinda boring honestly, was hoping to make some tension-filed eye-contact and look mysterious.
The comme des garcons young fellow gets up to use the restroom, and I’m excited to observe his date. Another baby-faced boy, glowing with youth and luscious cupid-like brown curls, palming his cellular device in that half-interested manner, his wrists carrying two silver bracelets and his fingers silver rings. It’s undeniable that he’s very chic, in a black shirt and an oversized off-white cardigan. When the first fellow returns, they giggle over an Instagram post.
A second course — sea snail ceviche with taro chips. Satisfyingly crisp, thin, salty, crackling perfection. A great chewiness, and a fresh tangy sauce. I tasted some white pepper, which felt appropriate as well.
At the beginning, I asked the server to share the details of each dish to me in Spanish, and while I understand the majority of what he says, it’s nice to hear it again in English when he delivers the same dish to the table next to me.
I finally notice the two folks to my right, nondescript white gay men, when one goes to the restroom and leaves a light forehead kiss on the other. The one left behind twiddles his thumbs. He stares intently at his cocktail, then grasps the side of his chair tightly; he seems to calm himself by looking down at his hands (now clasped together). It seems the couple has been together a long time, but he is also quite nervous. I wonder if he’s about to do something big tonight. A random thought: he has a much larger face compared to his body.
The kitchen periodically emits a shout, seemingly an acknowledgement between chefs. I find it amusing.
Third course — Brussel sprout leaves on a tortilla with Salsa Brouhaha. This is pretty nondescript; I’ll probably only remember the fact that they stuck the tortilla to the plate with a light sweeping of sauce, and the feeling of lifting the tortilla was quite lovely.
The Asian man has moved on to another course, mopping up mole with his tortilla, hand to mouth. He has a new cocktail too, a brown concoction probably with mezcal in a low glass with a giant square ice cube. Even his eating is generally nondescript, and it doesn’t seem like he’s experiencing all that much pleasure.
There is a blue sweater-vest sporting American sitting diagonal from me whose resonant voice can be heard across the room. The couple leans into each other, debating something about the world, politics maybe; their heads are so close across the table, laughing together in cahoots. I like them in their steady middle-age love.
Forth course — rockfish, served in a warming and cheering sauce of shrimp and calabazas sausage, next to the freshest asparagus I’ve eaten. The fish was perfectly cooked, melt-in-your-mouth experience. Probably the best part of the meal.
The service in this restaurant is a well-coordinated dance. I just saw four servers, each carrying a dish, walk perfectly behind each other and pause at the same time to let customer pass. Another server seems dedicated to refolding napkins each time a patron gets up and leaves the table.
Fifth course — a dolma and hummus build-your-own taco. A cool concept and nicely executed, but not necessarily my favorite. Would be better spicy.
There is a light fixture that I can’t help staring at. It is a mirror with a band of LEDs behind it, emitting a wonderful golden hue that keeps the place lit but warm.
“Why are you in CDMX?” the waitress asks the lone Asian man.
“For work, but I’m only here for 6-7 weeks,” he responds somewhat regretful.
The rest of their conversation is basically an upsell ad for the restaurant’s Omakase experience, so I won’t repeat it.
Sixth course — a wild mushroom taco. Honestly excellently sautéd, with great body and texture. Unfortunately, I missed their specialty dish, an aged mole, because it contained nuts I couldn’t consume.
Some departures:
The beatific young couple leaves. The curly haired fellow gently grazes Comme-des-Garcons’s cheek, and they stare into each others eyes. A waitress walks over with their check, and they walk out hand in hand.
The Asian man leaves. Hurriedly, it seems. He finishes the dessert course, downs his drink, and gets up, big strides out the door.
The gay couple next to me is ushered to the back patio by a waitress: “You will finish your dinner outside in our patio.” Curious. A proposal? A birthday gift?
Finally, dessert — Two things: first, a mango puree in a crisp mango pastry shell with fresh mango on top. Tangy and fresh. Second, a concha, a lovely Mexican sweet pastry stuffed with cream and dusted with cocoa powder.
T’was lovely night in pause, just eating and watching. Anyways, take yourself on a date, I dare you.
PS: Big love to Clara and Emilia, my wonderful hosts in CDMX; to Nick, co-conspirator of our Mexico trip, who told me about Pujol; and to Gaby, my one-week Spanish teacher extraordinaire (el passado!!) Muchas Gracias.