HOLY SMOKE

THREE YEARS AGO, my husband and I wandered the streets of the toniest neighborhood in Mexico City. His job had just transferred us to the city, and I was trying to see myself somewhere in the designer-shop windows and fancy restaurants. The Polanco district felt too clean and polished for me, a born-and-bred New Yorker, and my hunger was mounting by the minute.

After hours of walking, we joined a long line of suited men who were waiting at a hole-in-the-wall taquería with a few counter seats and a sign advertising it as a corner of mérida, now in, the specialty of the house. The soft corn tortillas had been dunked in the meat’s burnt-sienna marinade; the pork, stained orange and topped with pickled red onion, was lightly sweet, a little smoky, and messy as hell. The meal was homey, casual, unadorned—just what I needed. When we wiped our orangey mouths and stumbled, stuffed, back onto the street, Polanco and even Mexico City looked different. , I thought.