The chileatole arrived in a thick-rimmed, cacao-brown pottery bowl. It was jungle green, as vivid as leaves in a Frida Kahlo oil painting. A vegetable soup, I guessed, having been given no menu to cross-reference. I lifted it to my lips and sipped and my eyes jolted wide, almost comically, like a cartoon mouse catching sight of a cat. This was no ordinary soup. It was at once savoury and herbaceous, with flavours as deep as the most cavernous Yucatecan cenote. It hit me with a splash of tastes that seemed to run up and down my tongue in a millisecond, pinging every sense. It felt as fresh as spring
