Culinary Adventures, Inc.

I keep thinking of the plazas- or zócalos- in Mexico.

The plaza de armas in my hometown Morelia; with Magnolia trees and roses, pink cantera stone fountains, our exquisite cathedral, and surrounding archways with cafés full of all the regional political, universities, art and music gossip imaginable.

The Port of Veracruz’s tiled square, with its rare moments of silence and long hours of vibrancy filled with music, dance and food.

Each plaza in each town or city is like a stage set with different casts, lighting, sounds and sets.

After learning local cuisines all day, those plaza benches are a place to reaffirm, reassess what these regional foods are all about–“take the pulse of the culture,” my father would call it.

You find yourself surrounded by the people who make these cuisines what they are. Without the Mexican people– the humble, average people– there is no Mexican food.

No matter where you are in the world, Mexican eateries cannot taste even slightly like Mexico without its people in the back or front of store or in the mind of the cook(s).

Even in home cooking, when preparing something as “simple” as a pot of beans, one’s mother, grandmother, grandfather, godmother, neighbor, friend, teacher, mentor – a real person- will be perched on your shoulder, accompanying you as you prepare what you have learned by osmosis or intentionally, tutting, encouraging, correcting, scolding.