For the Love of Tostadas
Following Taste, Finding More
Tostada Coyoacán | Mexico City, Mexico
I was battling an unusually accommodating stomach virus the back half of my trip through Mexico City. When Sunday rolled around, I decided to use the wide open day in front of me to resuscitate my tired, weary body through none other than the time-tested combo of retail meets food therapy.
Sometimes we find these places that just enchant us through and through and Coyoacán Market was one such place for me. I knew the moment I arrived I’d be back again one day.
First, I walked the outdoor art market and then I tried with some sense of order to wander the perimeter and interior stalls. I didn’t want to miss anything. There was a little bit of everything, a great Sunday afternoon energy to the space and an inviting sense of welcome.
My first lap was as much for shopping pleasure as it was to scout out lunch. I did a chocolate tasting with a local brand and bought gifts before I could simply wait no more.
I was starving.
I had my heart set on an Octopus Tostada from Tostada Coyoacán. I followed my gut to the busiest and buzziest place in the market, not surprisingly its center and a no-nonsense, seen-it-all waiter showed me to an empty stool. He put a write-in menu in one hand and a pen in my other.
I ordered my octopus tostada and a carnitas one for good measure with a side of chips and guacamole. I even splurged and had a coca cola. As I ate, I watched as this crowd-pleasing institution, fed everyone around me – couples, families, tourists. It was no-fuss, no-frill, fast-paced and must-return delicious.
I had been seated next to a multi-generational family. Across the counter, Grandma doted over the family’s only child, an agreeable four-year old with a mischievous grin. They had been engaged in the age-old, universally fought battle for him to finish the last few bites on his plate. He stole, quick embarrassed glances at my own amused grin for moral support as he shook his clamped mouth side-to-side in defiance and then eventually defeat.
On my side of the counter Grandpa pushed without saying a word different salsas in front of me. Testing my resolve, my internal spice meter and most definitely my curiosity – chocolate habanero? Yes, please.
The boy’s father was the last to join the group and the only to speak some English. He volunteered to me that he had a big job interview that week and he hoped he didn’t speak English too slowly. I tried my best to reassure him saying that we always sound slower in our own heads than we actually sound in real life. “You’ll do great,” I said as convincingly but sincerely as I could.
When I got back to the hotel that evening, I realized I‘d just had Sunday dinner with a family I’ll never see again, who in many ways reminded me so very much of my own.
Similar battles, dreams and trickery.
And one shared love – for tostadas.
