August 2018
“The thing about a good taco is always the corn. The tortilla.
Now hear me out.
Just about anywhere in Mexico, it doesn’t fucking matter if you end up at one of those well-known, storied stalls in Mexico City; Los Cucullos, El Turix, El Visilito—the kind everyone tells you to go to—or if you wander into the most run-down, borderline condemned stand in a neighborhood that makes you double-check your pockets. The fancy ones are going to hit. That’s not the point. The point is that the worst stall; the one where you’re not entirely sure if you’re eating pork, beef, or dog—you eat it anyway. Because it’s cheap. Because it’s familiar. And what’s familiar is the tortilla.
Even when the tortilla is objectively bad—dry, stale, borderline criminal—the fat fixes it. The lard, the drippings, the residue of everything that’s passed through that disco before your order. The tortilla gets repurposed. Reanimated. Given a second life. It becomes something else entirely.
And somehow, that idea never really made it across the border.
You can be in LA. You can be in Chicago. A lot has changed, sure. But let’s be honest; it’ll never be like back home.
Portland, though. Portland is a whole different fucking story.
You’re talking about one of the whitest cities in America and, without question, some of the worst Mexican food in the country. Although, to be fair, I’ve been to West Virginia. That place is fighting for last.
Here’s where it gets confusing. White people in this town will swear by places. They’ll tell you you have to go here, you have to try that, some bullshit hole-in-the-wall they just discovered like they unearthed it themselves. Even food writers will write about it with authority, like they know something.
They don’t.
They’ve never really gone anywhere. Maybe Mexico City. If they’re lucky, Guadalajara. But they haven’t gone to the places. They don’t know what nostalgia tastes like. They don’t know what it feels like to eat something that reminds you of being ten years old, sitting on a plastic stool, knees dirty, hands greasy, life uncomplicated.
That’s how you end up with hipsters throwing pop-ups in hotel patios telling you they’re serving authentic tacos and handing you Wagyu beef with molcajete salsa that’s aggressively mid, wrapped in the most unforgivable tortilla you’ve ever encountered. The kind of tortilla that makes you angry in silence.
I have opinions about this. Too many, probably. Anyway, how is your cafecito” I asked as I stood behind the bar.
He stopped. Looked at me.
“Wait,” he said. “Are you Smalltime Genius?”
I paused. Smiled. It clicked.
The guy standing in front of me—chef’s coat on, café de olla in hand, his mood visibly shifting—looked like he was deciding whether to throw the drink at me or ask for a photo.
I recognized him. He was a few years younger than me, a regular. Came in almost every day and ordered the same thing: a café de olla latte, which had somehow become one of the most popular drinks across all my shops. Up until that moment, we’d never had more than a transaction. No real conversation. No time.
And of all the days for that to change, this was it.
The timing couldn’t have been better.
The subject couldn’t have been worse.
Still, there we were; locked in what white people would probably describe as a “Mexican standoff.”
“Yes,” I said.
“Motherfucker,” he replied. “You left me a two-star review last week.”
“I did?” I asked.
“Yes,” he said. “To my pop-up, the yelp elite event.”
“What a dick,” he added.
I froze. I genuinely didn’t know which way this was going.
Across the room, Lucy—my ex—had been listening the whole time. She laughed.
“I told you you shouldn’t have written that stupid review,” she said. “For the record, I liked your tacos. But I agreed that the tortillas needed help”
“Help?” I shot back. “They needed a fucking therapist.”
He laughed again. “Wow. You’re Mexican right? You should know that there’s more to a taco than the tortilla,” he said.
“No, there isn’t,” I replied.
A taco is a tortilla. Everything else either adds to it or leaves it alone. Once in a while it takes away, but that’s rare. You give me a good tortilla and a plate of beans, some rice, any questionable guisado from any market stall, and I’m pretty sure it’s going to be delicious.
“I can’t believe you gave me a two-star review,” he said.
“Okay,” I replied, “but can we talk about the name of the pop-up? Tacos & Tequila—really?”
I could tell my honesty wasn’t helping.
“What’s wrong with it?” he said. “That’s what it is. It’s a pop-up where we sell tacos and tequila.”
I paused. “But why? It’s corny. All of it. You’re one sombrero away from being a fucking Chili’s.”
“A Chili’s?” He stared at me. “Are you serious?”
He took a deep breath, shook his head, then smiled.
There was a beat. “Okay,” I said, “maybe not a Chili’s. But watching that many white people take selfies with their margaritas and tacos gave me the same vibe.”
“A Chili’s?” he repeated, still holding the cup, the espresso bar counter between us.
“Look,” I said, “now that I know it’s you, I’ll bump it to three. But you’ve gotta change the tortillas.”
“It was a free event!” he shot back.
“Yes,” I replied, “but those tortillas were offensive. I would have paid to not eat that taco. Actually; let me rephrase. I would’ve paid for everything but the tortilla. You’d have to pay me to eat that part.”
This time he really looked like he might murder me.
He turned to Lucy. “This is your boyfriend right? How do you live with this guy?”
She laughed. “I don’t. I kicked him out months ago.”
“Checks out,” he said.
“Man, I am sorry fam, your name is Lauro right? coffee is on me tomorrow” I said, as he shook his head and headed out the door.
“Forget it. I’m never coming back to this place.” He pretended to walk out, standing at the door holding the handle. “Okay, fine”, he added. “I like this place. But you’re still an asshole.”
He walked out.
Portland has never had a real Mexican scene. That absence probably explains a lot about my opinions. Up until that point, I hadl lived in the city for almost 9 years, and in all that time I’ve never really felt compelled to tell someone, go there, it’s great. People in this town tend to confuse quality with quantity, or quality with cost. Sometimes it’s worse than that. Sometimes they confuse motion for progress; extra this, extra that, louder plates, busier menus—activity mistaken for accomplishment.
Our first pop-up happened while I was still running coffee shops. At that point, it was just me. I was living alone, though honestly, I don’t remember where. I think it was an apartment that belonged to a friend; a construction manager who came into town every other month supervising one of his buildings. He was a fan of mine. Of the coffee, mostly. That was my celebrity back then. Coffee was how I made friends. Or at least the kind of friends who were interesting, or useful, or offering something.
I was in one of the rougher stretches of my life, so I took what was available. A place to live? I’ll take it. And like most things I touched back then, I managed to make a mess of it; not in a bad way, though. Quite the opposite. I spent my own money and Martha Stewarted the whole fucking place. Plants everywhere. New sofas. Painted walls. Art hung with intention.
When he came back and saw it, he just stood there and said, what the fuck. But he wasn’t mad. He said it felt like a vacation every time he walked in. Good lotions in the bathroom. Good shampoo. Conditioner. Incents.. Clean towels, always. There was food in the fridgel; not heavy, but thoughtful. I made a point of stocking it whenever I knew he was coming.
The catch was that every time he showed up, I had to disappear. Which meant I was always on the prowl, looking for someone to sleep with for a weekend just to get out of the apartment. I was love bombing a lot back then. Even if it only lasted a couple of days. I’m not proud of it.
Eventually, I slowed it all down. I went from fucking around almost daily to seeing the same three women on rotation. Three very different women, for the record. That arrangement didn’t work for one of them, so I narrowed it to two. I know how that sounds… stay with me.
The thing about these two women is that they both, in very different ways, had a place in my heart.
One of them was a free spirit. The kind of person who liked to sit around in my apartment; drinking wine, watching movies, and talking about her ideal life somewhere else—another country, another version of herself. I liked her. She was beautiful. Tall. Come to think of it, most women I dated back then were taller than me. She was fun. She liked routine in a way that felt comforting; the same bar, the same drink, the same stool. She had an incredible smile, a youth to her that I loved deeply. But when it came to what we wanted, we were worlds apart.
The other one walked into my life; literally—through one of the coffee shops. La Perlita. I met her on her first day at her new job. She worked upstairs, for the non-profit. I remember thinking, I’m going to marry that woman one day. It’s true. I can tell you everything about that moment; mostly because I felt as if everything about her; her smile, her outfit, the curls in her hair, every single one of them perfect. Her smile. Her energy. The way she shook my hand, firm and confident, and said, I’m Olivia. I think you worked with my sister at Airbnb.
I played it cool. Too cool. For over a year. Until she became available. And then I didn’t hesitate. I was knocking on her door.
She was a real one.
When the first pop-up came around, I invited them both. After all, there were two seatings. In my mind, it made sense. Two people I was very fond of and liked for different reasons. Two separate moments. One night. A pop-up. What could possibly go wrong?
At that point, I had three coffee shops, all opened within the same year. None of them were making real money. Things were rough. But I was convinced—almost stubbornly—that it was all working toward something.
One of those shops lived inside a wine bar in South Waterfront—Frank Wine Bar. That’s where we held our first pop-up. The space already had a history. At one point, Gregory Gourdet and Vince Nguyen had both held residencies there. Now it was our turn—two unknowns, stepping into the same room, ready to make our case.
I promised the owner we’d pre-sell everything, do all the work, help with the dishes, and leave him with nothing to worry about except pairing the food with wine and selling it.
We did exactly that.
It was an exciting time. For me, and for the kid from Hidalgo. Over the few weeks we’d known each other, I’d grown to admire him deeply. He became my friend quickly; my best friend, really. Most nights were spent chasing down whatever mezcal we could get our hands on, drinking late, talking endlessly about our dream restaurant. What it would look like. What we’d serve. We were going to have our own molino. We were going to mill our own corn. We were going to serve Mexican wines and introduce people to really good mezcales.
Somehow, we went from those conversations to suddenly holding our first pop-up.
It was a special time in our lives.
The menu was built on a collision of things: our shared nostalgia and the technique he’d developed over years cooking Japanese and French food. For this night, we created our own tasting menu. I sent out the invites. Built playlists. Wrote stories behind every dish. By now it was early 2019. I still can’t believe it.
Two seatings. Full room.
For the first seating, I arranged a table for one of the women—the one with the curls I’d been quietly crushing on. At this point we had spent only a few random nights together, but it wasn’t anything serious. In fact, coming to think of it, she actually showed up to this thing with a date, which to be honest, I wasn’t really concerned about. Somewhere during the day, I must have sent the wrong email or the wrong time. It doesn’t fucking matter. Because five minutes after she arrived, the other woman walked in. With her mother. Of all people.
She kissed me hello.
I looked up and saw Lauro glance over. He shook his head, leaned toward the cook next to him, and said, Shit’s about to go down.
This was the first seating. I had fucked up. I had sent them both at the same time. I still don’t know how. Luckily, they were about thirty feet apart, and because I was buried in chaos, everything felt normal—at least on the surface.
That night, I became aggressively affectionate. Didn’t matter who you were. Grandmother. Regular. Random guy just happy to be there. I’m pretty sure that everyone got a kiss on the cheek. I wasn’t about to show my cards.
Eventually, the night began.
I sat them both down, smiled a lot, then looked back toward Lauro, who was standing there patiently, waiting for the inevitable. I remember him leaning over and saying, te van a cortar los huevos—they’re going to cut your balls off.
You have no faith, I told him.
Then I went into service.
The music started. One hit after another. A little José José. Los Ángeles Azules. We’d pick up the pace, slow it down. Café Tacuba. Then bring it back up. When Natalia Lafourcade came on, we shifted again, followed by boleros from Juan Gabriel. All of it intentional. All of it paced course by course. We knew exactly what we were serving and when.
That was the beginning of everything for me.
That night, I understood—fully—that I would do whatever it took to do this every night. To talk about food differently. To stand in a room and watch it come alive. To look back at my dear friend, in full command of his makeshift kitchen standing on the pass before I even knew what the fuck a pass was, plating beautiful dish after beautiful dish with his 2 person team. Me pouring mezcal. Me talking. Shaking hands. Kissing babies—well, mothers, in this case. Kissing everybody.
Nothing scared me that night.
Up until that point, it was one of the greatest—if not the greatest—night of my life.
Eventually, we finished. We drank mezcal. There are plenty of people who remember that night. Even the two women who crossed paths on their way to the bathroom. I remember thinking, please don’t talk to each other. They didn’t.
Life’s funny that way.
That was the night that changed everything.
Lauro and I kept going. More pop-ups. Same routine. Same playlists. We got tighter and tighter, until eventually—well, things happened. Despite how much joy I had found in all of it, my own personal life was falling apart and my professional wasn’t much better. I shut down for a while. I had too much going on. I couldn’t quite sort it out.
By then, though, I’d narrowed everything down to one person. One person I was completely crazy about.
So I decided, fuck it. I’m tired of this place. I’m going to Mexico.
There were other reasons, of course. I wish it were more poetic. But the truth is, I just knew I had to get the fuck out of Portland. If I was ever going to do this for real, I needed to be there. With the people. Moving from place to place. Eating across regions. Understanding the differences; not just in food, but in culture. Learning how to talk about it honestly, and with authority.
I needed that credibility.
I needed that experience.
I didn’t know what it was for yet.
Or when it would matter.
I just knew it was necessary.
