Mexico City, Eaten in Order

Seven meals, four markets, one belt notch I'm not proud of.

I grew up in Guadalajara, so I arrive in Mexico City every time with a chip on my shoulder and leave every time with salsa on my shirt. This was the day I stopped pretending to have a plan and simply walked from market to market, eating whatever was pointed at me.

It started at the Mercado de Jamaica, the flower market, at seven, when the stalls are towers of marigolds and the air smells like a funeral and a wedding at once. Breakfast was a tamal de rajas and a champurrado at Atole y Tamal Licha, standing up, as God intended.

Then the long walk north to La Merced, the city's great roaring belly, where I lost my sense of direction among the chiles and found it again at Mariscos El Güero Feliz, a counter serving crab tostadas with enough lime to strip paint.

The Mercado de San Juan is where the chefs shop, and where a man offered me a grasshopper taco with the confidence of a sommelier. I accepted. Salty, crunchy, excellent. The evening ended on the Zócalo, the giant flag snapping in the dark, with a paper cup of esquites from Esquites La Nube. I had eaten seven times. I would like to report that I regret nothing, but my trousers would contradict me.

Lived November 08, 2025.