Inside Mexico City’s proud, beautiful and boozy michelada culture

My senses are on high alert as I enter Tepito’s infamous market for the first time. We bypass one character offering drugs under his breath to interested passers-by and move into the heart of the tianguis, the open-air bazaar, where virtually every product you can think of—clothes, electronics, toiletries—is displayed and sold by merchants beneath tarps in makeshift booths. Much of what we see is obviously counterfeit, with logos of brands from Gucci to Adidas to Abercrombie sewn or ironed onto poorly-stitched fabric. ‘Dupes,’ as they’re often called, are common across many of Mexico City’s markets—after two years of living here, I am unfazed. I also notice, however, cut-price products that look much more authentic—because they are.

“This was all on the back of a truck a week ago,” my friend Chris casually surmises, with a wave of his hand. “Oh! I should probably buy more shampoo…”

Tepito, a neighborhood in Mexico City just north of its popular Centro Histórico, is the known home of the city’s ‘black market,’ with much of its inventory being stolen goods. Any time a delivery truck is robbed on the highway in Mexico, it’s very possible that its contents will wind up for sale, at a fraction of the typical sticker price, within the billowy walls of El Tianguis de Tepito.

I dismiss both the temptation to shop and the ethics of doing so, because that’s not why I’m here. I’ve come to Tepito—despite the caution of virtually every local I know—to drink micheladas.

Between tequila, mezcal, and cervezas like Corona and Modelo, Mexico is known for its alcoholic beverages. But if you think the average Mexican is sipping a jumbo margarita as our northern neighbors seem to advertise, you’re quite mistaken.

Margaritas are virtually nowhere to be found in the country’s landlocked capital: A true Chilango (Mexico City resident) will more likely have a michelada in hand, a beer-based drink that can include salt and lime juice, salsa, nuts, or even mountains of candy. But more on that later.

My tour guide and local expert Rodrigo Salas tells me it’s believed to be Mexico’s first twist on a regular beer (sorry, Germany)—adding a bit of lime and salt was simply thought to help keep flies away from your drink at the beach. “We Mexicans also just like to add lime to everything,” he laughs. To date, this three-ingredient concoction is known as a michelada tradicional with the word michelada meaning “my cold beer” in Mexican Spanish (mi = my, chela, local slang for beer, and ada, being short for helada, which means “frost” or “cold”).

To understand Tepito, considered by many to be the most dangerous neighborhood in Mexico City, requires understanding of the city’s history.

The next version of the michelada to gain popularity was the michelada con clamato, a classic michelada with Clamato, a type of tomato juice. After that, the michelada cubana, which mixes in salsas like Worcestershire sauce, Maggi (like soy sauce but made with wheat), and hot sauces Tabasco and Valentina. The drinks have had a presence in Mexico City for the past 30 to 40 years, steadily growing in notoriety with each decade.

Leaning into the helada part of the name, bartenders began adding ‘frost,’ aka salt, to the rims of the pint glasses, and soon realized they could do the same with Tajín, a powdered chili pepper which might be Mexico’s collective favorite topping.

About 15 years ago, the transformation of micheladas was taken a step further by changing the topping to chamoy, a sweet and sticky salsa made from pickled fruit. Chamoy had existed as a common ingredient in Mexican candy, but had not, at that point, been sold commercially or really used independently. The original purveyors of these new micheladas realized that since there were so many flavors of candy, it was an easy and natural transition to create and play with those different flavors of chamoy. It completely changed the game.

“The lime, the salt, and the chili no longer mattered,” says Rodrigo. “It became all about the mixing of flavors… and as some people feel, ruining the beer.”

More creative versions of the drink have long been associated with Mexico’s working class. There are some Mexicans who only consider the micheladas tradicionales to be the legitimate style of the drink, whereas others extend the thought to the micheladas con clamato or cubanas.

Micheladas with chamoy and even wackier toppings are found throughout the city, but are most at home in the grittier barrios, with Tepito being the HQ.

To understand Tepito, considered by many to be the most dangerous neighborhood in Mexico City, requires understanding of the city’s history.

Tepito became this way through no real fault of its own. When modern-day Mexico City was established, the Historic Center was the hub, and the neighborhoods immediately surrounding it, the outskirts. Tepito is directly in between El Centro and Tlatelolco, once home to the largest market in the Americas during pre-Hispanic times.

When the Spaniards disassembled the market during their colonization of Mexico, the merchants were forced underground to continue their business and make ends meet. The proximity to the underground market (which, at first, sold perfectly acceptable goods, but soon included questionable goods too) along with the city outskirts generally being home to low-income, undereducated, and overall marginalized communities, made Tepito an ideal location for criminal activity.

The original residents of Tepito were not criminals, though. They may have been poor, but they were honest and hardworking: Most were shoemakers and cobblers, like the family in Disney Pixar’s Coco. The Tepito market is still an excellent place to buy quality shoes today, and the shoes made in the area are sold throughout North America.

“Like in every industry, there’s competition, but it’s about how you treat your customers. I’m the owner, and I am always checking in on every table, seeing what they need.”

- Julieta, Las Mamalonas booth

But the neighborhood was overlooked and forgotten about by politicians and police, and outsiders saw its abandoned buildings as the perfect place to discreetly store stolen merchandise. They moved in, bringing large amounts of drugs, weapons, and general delinquency ​​with them, and today the community is an awkward split, with kind people who have a fierce loyalty to their neighborhood (and perhaps an inability to leave, financially speaking) living alongside the unwelcome interlopers.

The one benefit of Tepito becoming the city’s ‘barrio bravo,’ meaning a fierce, rough neighborhood, is that the michelada scene was able to grow and thrive in the mercado. Make no mistake: Drinking alcohol in public (the markets are considered public) is not legal in Mexico City. But as crazy and undiscerning as it sounds, Tepito is somewhat of a lawless land. When asking one local about how policing in the mercado works, he replied coolly, “We do what we want here and don’t really give a fuck about the police, or about anyone.” And that was that.

I tap my fingers together in anticipation when I see the market’s first michelada booth. I am eager and thirsty, but Chris motions for us to keep going. A fellow American immigrant to Mexico, Chris Priore has lived in CDMX (Ciudad de México) for four years but was regularly visiting for a while before that.

He’s a bit of an odd duck among both foreigners and locals here, with the Tepito tianguis being his favorite place in the city. He knows the market (and its micheladas) well and moves through the aisles with confidence. That’s why, after fielding his invitations for months to join him on a Sunday, the best day for micheladas as all of Tepito turns into a street party, I finally felt comfortable finally joining him. The fact that we were in a group of six and that Chris is a professional bodybuilder also helped.

Chris brings us first to Dolls Drinks, arguably Tepito’s most well-known party spot. It’s one of the first businesses in the market we’ve seen that isn’t set up as a booth, but a bricks-and-mortar space. We’re given thorough pat-downs and asked to pay a cover charge before passing beneath the pink and glittery Barbie-inspired banner into an open-air warehouse space.

The music is cripplingly loud. Not only is talking completely out of the question, but thinking might be, as well. It’s still early in the afternoon, so attendees are more interested in slurping down drinks than dancing. Most are pressed up against the back wall, reminiscent of a middle school dance, possibly waiting for the liquid courage to kick in. The whole scenario reminds me of arriving too early to a Bushwick rave, when the lights are still on and the space is empty, but you know it’s only a matter of time before the revellers turn up.

We relieve our eardrums by re-entering the chaotic market. I’m nearly swiped by a child zooming a motorbike down the pedestrian-only aisle, and soon wind up at Las Mamalonas Snacks and Beer. We passed several other michelada vendors before that, but felt compelled to stop here as owner Julieta rushed over to greet us the moment she noticed our eyes lingering. Julieta finds us a place to stand in the crowded space, and a moment later, six tall micheladas appear before us.

They’re the standard style you’re most likely to find in Tepito—a liter of cerveza de barril (draft beer) in a paper cup, the rim topped with a generous heaping of chamoy and sesame seeds. It hits the spot. The music is still too loud, but we manage by shouting in each other’s ears, and hey, there’s free wi-fi.

Julieta tells me that she opened Las Mamalonas—whose name is a slang expression that she says means “something cool, worthy of attention”—two-and-a-half years ago, after losing her job selling medical scrubs during the pandemic. Born and raised in Tepito, she saw opportunity in how the market’s michelada scene was booming, and quickly established a local customer base, with some regulars coming three times a week or more. (The market and the michelada vendors are open six days a week; it’s all closed on Tuesdays).

“Learning the local dialect and moving through different social classes helps you feel more like part of the community. Don’t close yourself off to something because it sounds ‘too foreign.’ Everyone at the tianguis in Tepito is just there to have a good time. On a Sunday afternoon, there’s nowhere in the city that I’d rather be.”

- Chris Priore, now CDMX resident

“Like in every industry, there’s competition,” she says, about making her mark among vendors who’ve been open longer, “but it’s about how you treat your customers. I’m the owner, and I am always checking in on every table, seeing what they need.”

After some time, we excuse ourselves to continue walking, but Julieta insists we try one more drink first, free of charge. I assume it’s going to be her other best seller, a volteada, a mixed drink with a small bottle of vodka opened and upside down, but instead, I find a plastic, lime-green and liquid-filled penis thrust into my hand. I can’t help but make a phallic joke to my companions, much to the chagrin of my conservative Mexican fiancé, who wouldn’t have dreamed of allowing me to explore Tepito unescorted. Also topped with chamoy and sesame seeds, the penis drink contains vodka and who knows what else. It was too loud and hectic to determine, but it was tasty, and the plastic cup may well make a fun and silly souvenir for future bachelorette or Pride events I may attend.

Now with a full liter of beer in our bellies, our goal is to find some of the market’s more left-of-center michelada concoctions. We stop at a couple more places on our way to find La Doble SS, put on the map (figuratively, not literally—Google Maps is no help here) internationally by Netflix’s Heavenly Bites: Mexico series.

Sisters, co-owners, and lifelong Tepiteños Sara and Susy claim to have been the first vendors in the neighborhood to add candy to their micheladas—coined the gomichela for the gummies they use—two years ago. “That’s why Netflix wanted us,” Susy tells me, confidently.

The story, as told on the show and retold to me, is that the sisters were experimenting with their product (“We were drunk,” Susy clarifies) and came up with the idea of adding gummies. In the five years they’ve been in business, they say they’ve had other creative ideas pinched, like their best-selling blue vodka drink, Semen de Pitufo (‘Smurf Semen’). It’s one you see almost as much as a michelada, and explains the popularity of the X-rated cups. In case you’re doubting how well those drinks have fared, rest assured that there are more of its kind—La Doble SS went on to create another called Pene Loco (‘Crazy Penis’) and is working on a to-be-named drink whose cup will be shaped like a woman’s butt.

It’ll likely be only a matter of days before a cohort of asses join the penises all throughout the tianguis, but the sisters don’t mind. “If we see an interesting drink somewhere else, maybe we’ll copy it too!” says Susy.

Our last stop is at 777, a stand at the far end of the market that Chris insists has the best chamoy in all of Tepito. The name is simply a lucky number, but this family business serves nearly that number of different chamoy flavors to deck out your michelada with: Tamarindo is the classic and most popular, but you can also try bubblegum, green apple, strawberry, mango, cherry, pineapple, watermelon, kiwi, cucumber, blue raspberry, and more.

“Their chamoy is very candy-like,” says Chris with excitement. Indeed, while many of the other stands we passed had chamoy that was clearly a sticky liquid, this stuff is thick. Rather than licking it off with a sip of your beer, you can take an actual bite of it. They sell their chamoy to-go, as well—it makes for a tasty topping to slices of fruit.

Aside from the flavor, Chris has developed an attachment to 777—and Tepito, in general—because visiting has made him feel more like a local in his adopted city. The vendors remember his order (“extra lime and extra salt”) and frequenting the market has improved his Spanish fluency and understanding of local culture. I can certainly see how. While normal Mexican Spanish is riddled with slang, the lingo used in the barrio is something else. While texting with one michelada vendor to confirm their hours, my native Spanish-speaking partner and I were both completely stumped about what the word aki translated to, until I realized it was a chatspeak misspelling of aquí, the word for ‘here.’

“Learning the local dialect and moving through different social classes helps you feel more like part of the community,” says Chris. “Don’t close yourself off to something because it sounds ‘too foreign.’ Everyone at the tianguis in Tepito is just there to have a good time. On a Sunday afternoon, there’s nowhere in the city that I’d rather be.”

Many Mexicans from outside the neighborhood are wary of spending time in Tepito. If you’re planning to visit El Tianguis de Tepito, don’t go alone, and make sure at least one person in your group speaks Spanish. If you can have a guide take you, even better.

Tour guide Rocío Vazquez Landeta of Eat Like a Local Mexico has a food tour called Tepito & Lagunilla Sunday Brunch that spends about one hour on the outskirts of the Tepito market to give guests an introduction to the area before swiftly moving elsewhere. “It’s not the safest place,” she says. “I wouldn’t send people by themselves to drink.”

Rodrigo Salas of Mexico Underground will take people to Tepito on private tours, but usually focuses more on the neighborhood’s cultural history than the inside of the market. Like Rocío, he prefers to keep to the edges. “I would never want to put my tour guests in a position where something could go bad,” he says, citing examples of how innocent pedestrians can get swept up in police drug raids, or worse, become victims of theft and assault. “If I’m being honest, it’s at the bottom of my list of must-see tourist destinations in Mexico City.”

Tepito’s locals, however, disagree. Julieta of Las Mamalonas compares visiting Tepito to visiting the Eiffel Tower when in Paris, saying that you haven’t experienced Mexico City until you’ve been to the “Sunday street club.” Susie of La Doble SS acknowledges that the area can be rough for outsiders and echoes the sentiment of moving in a group, but assures me that “once you’re at our business, you will be completely safe and have fun.”

After spending a full afternoon moving through the safer parts of the market with a drink in hand, I sit somewhere in the middle. Yes, Tepito has a reputation—but my bigger takeaway was the hospitality and warmth, and the people who work hard and play harder.

I went wearing a small fanny pack that contained only my cell phone, my keys and about $30USD worth of cash in Mexican pesos. I wore just a plain t-shirt and jeans, and left my diamond engagement ring in my jewelry box at home. In my group of six (comprised of three Mexicans and three foreigners; four men and two women; five fluent in Spanish and the sixth with a general understanding; two experts in the area, two who had been before, and two newbies), I felt completely comfortable, and that I was being looked out for, not just by my party and not just by the vendors, but by everyone I was surrounded by.

That said, I did not allow myself to get drunk, or even very tipsy. I felt that keeping my wits about me was the best move, and while I might have “missed out” on the true craziness of the street party, I wasn’t comfortable with taking the risk. I don’t regret that decision, and I would absolutely go back. The micheladas were fantastic, and it was a fascinating glimpse into an authentic and meaningful part of the local culture that, until that point, I hadn’t experienced. Mexico is a beautiful country, but one rife with prejudice—I think some judge Tepito with too harsh of a lens. If you stay aware of your surroundings and location, move with trusted locals, dress plainly and carry little, and keep to the main roads and michelada stalls, it’s absolutely worth your while.

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