Joe and I arrived in Guadalajara yesterday evening. We were the only gringos on the entire Volaris flight out of San Jose that we got for dirt cheap ($271 plus tax each). The Volaris airline stewardesses wear great outfits.
Being served a Sol beer by these ladies is first class despite the cheap ticket price.
I don’t know if this is because it’s May—a very untouristy month in this area largely because it’s hot. Or because of people like my friend Blaise, who kindly told me to please come back home with my head on.
I might be naive, but I think it’s short sighted to stop visiting an entire country because of isolated incidents of violence, mostly related to drugs. San Francisco experienced its lowest homicide rate in years in 2009 (like half the number of ’08) but there were still 45 people killed last year in our own pristine little town. To not visit Mexico is to miss out on so much. And a flight to Guadalajara brings you to a world away in only four hours. I’ll take the risk.
The cab zipped us out of the airport, past three massive bottles of Cazadores tequila, positioned as sort of a gateway to the city (should you be confused as to why you’re here, it’s a not so subtle reminder that this is tequila country). Almost 95 degrees out, we kept the windows up, inhaling the smell of the cab’s baby powder air freshener while watching the familiar funk of Mexico’s roadside landscape roll past: wonky stands selling tacos and birria, the occasional lone cow, cactus, ramshackle buildings. The whole population seemingly taking a break in the shade. Guadalajara is built on rough and tumble land and the thin layer of dust that’s on everything right now is punctuated only by Mexico’s paint colors of shocking mint green and red, Push-Up orange, azure blue—colors that would be gaudy anywhere else, but are so right here. I always have moments of wanting to go back to SF and paint our house something similar. But you can’t take Mexico with you like this. Especially when you want to continue to have good relations with your neighbors.
Fresh chickpeas, the healthy alternative
We arrived at the very nice La Villa Del Ensueño in Tlaquepaque (if you get the right room, that is; I recommend #26), a village that has sort of been absorbed by sprawling Guadalajara. As I’m writing, the birds are chirping somewhat manically and the pool right outside our door is beckoning.
The area surrounding this town’s lively main plaza, El Parián, is known for things like blown glass—some of its shops pretty upscale. The first night before we went to eat, in typical form I combed through the blogs, the book, the guides and came up with what sounded perfect: a locally place that I found on Chowhound called El Pescador Rojo. There’s nothing that depresses me more than a disappointing meal when I feel my time is limited somewhere.
Heart attack on a plate never looked so good.
We headed out, through the plaza which is full of street vendors. The line was the longest at the fried hot dog vendor, where I stood for a good while, my mouth agape watching him take basket after basket filled with chunks of hot dogs out of a vat of hot oil. They were then served up in a heaping pile on a paper plate (french fries, optional). I secretly wanted to try them, but Joe was horrified. As if my eyes had just had a heart attack from gawking, we paid penance by getting some warm fresh chick peas from another vendor and walking around very piously eating the warm, edamame-esque snack. I should be Catholic.
Looking for the restaurant, we must have traipsed the same stretch four times over until finally—starving, restaurants closing up and blisters on my feet from my new sandles that I insisted on breaking in that night—we gave up and stumbled into a place that looked lively enough, windows open, soccer game on the flatscreen. The pre-World Cup energy here is fierce. Looking down at the menu too late, I realized the restaurant was called Soho Sushi and Bar (with pizza to boot). At that point, I didn’t care.
Finding a little Mexico at Soho Sushi and Bar.
Thankfully, there were also a few Mexican offerings so I ordered some chewy, tasty grilled chorizo, which came with guac and good tortillas; Joe got grilled steak. On the TV, the WWE was showing our old friend Rey Mysterio as he battled it out with hulking man in very, very, very short shorts. The Rolling Stones were on, the hot breeze blowing through the wall of windows. To go with dinner, we had glass of Los Abuelos tequila, served traditionally with a glass of delicious sangrita and lime juice. Hello Mexico.