Upon arrival in México, la capital, DF, Mexico City, Ciudad de Mexico, or wherever the fuck I was, I immediately continued to eat. Best. Vacation. Ever.
My hosts whisked me away to Eno, a hip sandwich shop in their Polanco neighborhood. I have learned that in today’s globalized world it is possible to find hipsters everywhere, as noted in both the decor and menu stylings of the restaurant. This is extraordinarily gratifying, and by the way, stop judging. Just last night as I protested my un-hip-ness (this is a perennial concern of mine, likely deriving from my status as a social pariah in secondary school), I was told by a friend:
You can’t have pictures [of yourself posing in a Moonrise Kingdom* outfit] and deny you’re a hipster.
Shit. Perhaps she’s right. I guess after living in Brooklyn amongst the real hipsters, I feel like a fraud assuming the title. But of course, refusing to associate oneself with the label hipster is a true marker of hipsterism. So there, yes, I’m a hipster. Puzzle that one out!
Point being, at Eno we ate delicious tortas and drank water from ball jars in front of house-made canned goods and artisanal mezcals, as one does in hip locales. The rest of the week was full of quests to find the ultimate tacos al pastor, sample as many licuados as possible and drink tequila and sangrita every night. Objective fulfilled!
I cannot adequately describe in words the ecstasy induced by one edible item after another, so I won’t. Sometime soon, after my heart has calmed down a little, I’ll write about it. For now I’ll leave with the parting words of my dear friends:
Thank you for making all my Mexico City dreams come true.
And a slideshow, ’cause this is a blog. Duh.
*N.B. Wes Anderson movies are the apotheosis of hipster culture. Hipsters (and me) love them unironically.