From Trumplandia to Tacolandia

I checked my phone to find the closest coffee shop. After zeroing in on Qūentin Café, a two-block walk, I almost instinctively clicked through the front pages of the Washington Post, Politico, CNN, and New York Times to make sure I hadn’t missed any breaking news in transit. Thankfully, Trump hadn’t dropped any bombs that late March afternoon—literal or in the form of an error-laden tweet.

Though I’ve traveled in Mexico quite extensively—Oaxaca, San Miguel de Allende, Puerto Vallarta, and beyond—I hadn’t visited since Trump entered the picture. I wondered whether Mexicans would view me as an extension of his racist and xenophobic outlook, which couldn’t be further from my own. I wanted to get a t-shirt made that read, “Don’t blame me, I voted for her,” but couldn’t get it together in time.

Nevertheless, the barista didn’t seem to be judging me when I asked in my American-accented Spanish whether I could step behind the counter to take a picture of his anti-Trump sign. My vocabulary is limited to food, directions to the closest bathroom, and the basic numbers required to haggle at the market, so I didn’t feel like I could embark on a deeper discussion. Instead, I raised my right hand and gave him the devil horns and a smile as a thank you for his permission.

For the next several days, politics stayed out of my exchanges with the Mexicans I met. I did spot a few pieces of anti-Trump art—my favorite was a small poster with delicate cursive script declaring ‘Fuck Trump’—but his face was nowhere to be seen on the covers of the papers and magazines lining the newsstands on almost every corner.

Though my wife and I frequently chatted about the latest news from the north, our most frequent topic of conversation was where we were going to eat next. We were dead set on tackling some top tacos, which is how we ended up at Tacos el Güero (the name is slang for anyone with pale skin, though the clientele was all locals), a modest stall with an open kitchen and a battered red awning in the San Miguel Chapultepec neighborhood.

Two cooks were on duty. One was working the flattop, slicing thin strips off a slowly rotating skewer of pork basting itself as its fat melted, and assembling tacos on plastic bag covered plastic plates. The other oversaw a comal bola, a circular steel pan positioned over a stove. The center rose up like a small knoll with a moat running around its edges. In the trench, pieces of meat and green stalked white onions sat in a dark bubbling liquid that wouldn’t have been out of place in a witch’s cauldron. When an order was called, the cook would take a pair of small tortillas, quickly dip one edge into the murky gravy and place them on the metal hillock to warm while the liquid fused the two layers together.

Building a wall between America and these tacos would be a crime against humanity.

The first taco to arrive was an al pastor, sweetened with grilled pineapple. Street tacos are generally served flat and open, so you can add your choice of condiments; I squeezed on fresh lime and spooned on fresh red and green salsas. Folding up the tortilla, I took a bite, not caring that the juices ran between my fingers. The meat was tender and rich, but the acidic components cut through the heaviness.

The encore was a messy bifsteak lavished with a blanket of melted cheese, a flurry of chopped white onion and cilantro sprigs. It was one of the best damn tacos I’ve ever eaten, its super savoriness balanced by the sharp zing of the onions and the fresh cilantro. As I wolfed it down, I unconsciously made guttural noises of sheer pleasure, which earned a smile from the cooks.

“Bueno?” one asked.

“Muy, muy bueno,” I agreed between bites, nodding emphatically.

Building a wall between America and these tacos would be a crime against humanity.

On the fourth morning of the trip, I ventured out of the hotel before my family in search of another strong cup of espresso. Surprisingly, most cafés in CDMX don’t open until 8am, but thankfully, Espressarte, a tiny café-panadería up three floors in a dusky blue building, was going full bore. Well, the bakers were anyway. The side of the shop devoted to coffee was empty, though the shelves were littered with an alchemist-worthy array of coffee-making gear and the cold case was full of cork-topped glass bottles of house-made cold brew.

I commandeered a stool at the counter and waited. A few minutes later, another customer came in and sat down. He was dressed sharply, clearly on the way to work. I tried to tell him in broken Spanish the barista wasn’t in yet, but he responded in smooth English, saying that she often ran late and asking where I was from.

“Washington, DC,” I answered, wincing. I felt like I needed to add something to let him know that I wasn’t one of the ‘Make America Great Again’ yahoos, and to express my…what? Chagrin? Sorrow? Embarrassment? Shared fear?

“Sorry about this whole Trump thing,” I added. “Many Americans dislike him as much as I’m sure you all do.”

He waved his hand dismissively. “We try not to listen to him. He’s an idiot. And it’s not like our politicians are much better.”

This was reassuring; though I was depressed I had to start my interaction by basically saying, ‘I am not the enemy.’

I had a longer conversation on the topic two days later while plunging deep into a self-proclaimed ‘taco omakase’ at chef Enrique Olvera’s Pujol, a perennial favorite on ‘best restaurant in the world’ lists, which had recently reopened in gorgeous new modernist digs on Calle Tennyson in the Polanco neighborhood. Sitting alone at the bar, I got to talking to two diners seated to my right: she was a pastry chef at a local hotel, he worked in marketing. Both were Mexican natives, though he had lived in the States for most of his life.

As I sipped Mexican beers and dove into cheffy takes on traditional tacos—pork belly with peppery radish rounds and mustard leaf that packed a bite, avocado purée cradling chunks of lamb dressed up with petite zucchini flowers, and Wagyu beef complemented by epazote (an intense, botanically complex herb), onion, quelite (wild greens), and what I was told were ’herbs guacamole’—our conversation turned to Trump. Again, I apologized up front, still not sure how to express my myriad of feelings about having Trump serve as my representative in any way. Again, my apology was graciously waved away. “We know not all Americans are like Trump,” they told me.

We discussed how the election had exposed the deeply ingrained, widespread racism in America, and how we could fight against it while staying sane. I can’t say we solved that problem over the course of lunch, but we were able to have a candid  discourse about it. Frankly, they were much more pragmatic about the entire situation. After all, this isn’t the first time a boorish blowhard has made sweeping racist statements about their countrymen, or a US  president has used Mexico as a punching bag. Their advice was to remember this too shall pass.

By the end of our chat, I felt revivified and was no longer dreading my return to the States. It turns out a taco summit has the power to make everything seem better—even Trump.