Salma Hayek's Life-changing Art Tacos

Once again Charlie made us breakfast, which consisted of eggs, beans, salsa, and avocado. Oh, and we polished off the remainder of the kilo of tortillas we had bought not even twenty-four hours earlier. Tony and Elena decided they wanted to have a pool and/or beach day, but Charlie and I were interested in venturing out into downtown again.

We had a cab drop us at the Plazuela de Machado, which is a major tourist destination for some reason. Don’t get me wrong, it was pretty, but it was just a typical tree-lined plaza. It was surrounded by typical tourist trap restaurants, one of which wasn’t even Mexican but Argentine, with persistent hosts going out of their way to convince you to eat there. We arrived just as a tour group was stopped in front of one such place. An assertive female staff member was offering and administering shots of tequila. We decided to take a walk around the neighborhood to see what we could see. It was about midday and very quiet. Brightly colored buildings lined the almost abandoned streets. These were occupied by homes, small kiosks selling junk food and drinks, and several art galleries and upscale restaurants.

Plazuela de Machado

Colorful buildings line the plaza

A tree divides old and new

We zigzagged through the neighborhood until we encountered a perimeter beyond which things looked decidedly less interesting. At one point, we walked by a restaurant called “Delirium”. A young woman who was standing in the doorway walked out and handed us a flyer that read, “Tacos will never be the same after Delirium.” We neared a pastelería and talked about going in because Charlie knew his mom loved Mexican pastry and had run out of what she bought earlier in the week. Two Americans, who we recognized as being the people who had asked us if we needed help the day before, overheard us speaking English and approached. They asked if we had come on a cruise ship because they had seen a large group of people earlier (probably the tequila drinkers). We said “no” and then discovered that we were all from Seattle. Jokes were made about escaping the weather and getting our vitamin D, as well as the supposedly life changing tacos at the restaurant we just passed. We parted ways and Charlie and I went into the pastelería and picked out a few different goodies.

We flanéed through the neighborhood and I insisted we stay on the shady side of the street because the hot Mexican sun was starting to kick my ass. We stumbled upon the tiny Museo Arqueológico de Mazatlán [Mazatlán Archeology Museum], run by the Instituto Nacional de Antropología e Historia [National Institute of Anthropology and History]. A tiny policewoman stood guard at the door and asked us to sign the visitor's register while she fetched the man who was supposed to be at the front desk. The museum did not seem to attract many visitors, so he probably had more pressing matters than sitting there staring into space, waiting for the rare visitor to appear. He emerged from a back room, collected our few pesos, and told us where to begin.

The museum was so small it only had three or so separate rooms for exhibits, one of which contained a living artist's large, brightly colored paintings of Mexican historical figures. Only a couple other visitors came in while we browsed the exhibits.

Funerary vase

 

Remnants of a funerary vase

Pipe collection

The museum took about 30 minutes to complete and we were back out in the heat taking in the sights.

A few cases of rare glass bottle Coca Cola spotted in their natural habitat!

A colonial style building under renovation

Casa Bonita, yaaaaaaayyyyy!!!

These loud little jerks were guarding the Casa Bonita. This was the most popular type of guard dog in town, much to my dismay.

Eventually we ended up at the waterfront and the strong breeze blowing in from over the water was a welcome respite from the oppressive heat reflecting off the paved streets. The waterfront was beautiful and refreshing, and we could see several sunbathers, a man flying a kite, and people just enjoying the view.

A local enjoys the beach

Graffiti in an abandoned lot

A kitten chases a beam of light reflected off of someone's wristwatch.

By then we were starting to tire and get hungry, so we headed back toward the historic district. We perused the options in Plazuela Machado but nothing caught our eye, plus several establishments were now closed for siesta. We decided to head back to Delirium for some life-changing tacos.

The restaurant was a hip Mexican fusion place that claimed to have something for everyone, whether you were a carnivore, vegetarian, or vegan. We went in and were invited to sit wherever, so we installed ourselves in an empty room containing several works by Mexican artist “La China”. Our table was right next to some kind of art sculpture that consisted of the base of a sewing trundle with an old box TV on top. Inside the box were wine bottles holding candlesticks. On top stood a tiny 5x7 painting on a tiny easel. There was also a projector across the room that appeared to be pointed at the TV screen, but it was turned off. We rolled our eyes, as we often do with modern art. Our friendly waitress looked just like a 20 year-old Salma Hayek, minus the bazongas. While we ate, another female employee who dressed like M.I.A. wandered in and out.

We started with fantastic chicken mole sopecitos topped with pickled onion. The mole was sweet and flavorful, and the sopes were crispy and fluffy. We had identical main courses of three different tacos: shrimp fried in amaranth with chipotle sauce and pickled onions, shredded marlin in spicy and citric yucateco sauce with pickled onions, and sautéed shrimp with gouda and jicama.

Analyzing a sope

Unfortunately, the last one tasted, as Charlie put it, “like the oil was set on fire.” I had to agree that it had a distinct burnt oil flavor. We paid and left, asking to be pointed in the direction of the market, which I knew was nearby. Charlie stopped at a kiosk to buy a coffee that tasted like “slightly colored water” and threw it away after a few sips.

We reached the market and walked all the way around the outside of it so we could get to the food section while avoiding the gauntlet of saleswomen in the clothing section. We stopped at a butcher to buy some meat. The guys working behind the counter were the joking sort so we had a good laugh while we were there. After the usual conversation about how I knew Spanish, Charlie told me to ask them for beef haunch. When I said I didn’t know how to say that, he suggested “nalgas de res” (beef buns), employing a few of the useful words he knew. Against my better judgment, I asked them for nalgas de res while pointing to my own haunch. They laughed and said this was just called “esteak”. Of course. The guy helping us drew Charlie a diagram of a cow leg to make sure that was exactly what he wanted. Then when he wanted to know how to cut it up, I told him to leave it whole because Charlie was a chef and could do it himself. “¡Chingao!” he exclaimed, impressed. He also asked whether Charlie had a decent knife to work with and probably would have sold him one if not. I lied and said yes, figuring Charlie could make due with the pocketknife he had been using all week.

We then stopped at a spice vendor to buy some house-made mole mix, grabbed a few veggies from the stand we had visited the day before, and were on our way.

We exited the market just as a pulmonía was turning the corner. These are open-air converted VW bugs (the old style), sometimes convertible and sometimes with a canopy overhead like a golf cart. They have loud engines and smell of exhaust, but they looked like a hoot to ride in, so I signaled for it to stop. I negotiated a reasonable price with the driver, a middle-aged man wearing a Dallas Cowboys shirt, and we hopped in. There was little more than a metal bar between ourselves and the outside of the vehicle, and we knew that we would probably die if we crashed, but it was worth the risk.

The driver turned up the music and we were on our way. We had heard a lot of disco while here and this pulmonía was no exception as we were treated to Rasputin right away. We also got Buffalo Soldier and some raucous banda sinaloense. The ride home was cool but suffocating given the exhaust smell we had to endure the whole way. It was exciting and a little scary because the driver had no qualms about speeding and weaving in and out of traffic. Luckily, we made it back to the resort in one piece. 10/10; would ride again!

Tempting fate with my favorite guy

Nice sea views

For dinner we decided to try a Cuban-Mexican fusion restaurant just a short car ride from the resort, which we had seen in Lonely Planet. It was called Carlos & Lucia’s and was run by a Cuban husband/Mexican wife team. The very amicable and charming Carlos waited on us that evening. He was a handsome older man with smooth skin, a warm smile, and the most fluid English we had heard the entire week. The restaurant’s walls were decorated with photos and artwork from both countries represented there. I think we were all in the mood for something slightly different from what we had been eating all week because we all ordered Cuban dishes. We knew the local specialty was shrimp, so for starters we ordered shrimp aguachile, whole raw shrimp dressed in lime juice, salt, pepper, chiles, and cucumber. It was the most delicate, creamy shrimp I had ever tasted. We also ordered the standard shrimp cocktail, which was quite good. I had asado cubano, a mixture of pork and potatoes. Charlie had ropa vieja, pulled pork cooked with onions and peppers. Tony had smoked pork with peppers and onions. And Elena had a house specialty whitefish platter served with sautéed onions and melted cheese over Spanish rice. All of our plates were served with congrí, a mixture of black beans and rice, and fried plantains (to die for!)

We all ate way too much. During the meal we heard several of the patrons interact with Carlos as if they knew him well. Additionally, several cars drove by from which people yelled “Hi, Carlos!” and he would wave back. Clearly he had a well-deserved positive reputation in the neighborhood. After dinner, Carlos was kind enough to hail us a cab on the street and see us off.

When the car pulled into the hotel we could see spotlights darting back and forth from the beach area behind the resort. There was a large group of Mexicans entering the lobby and talking to the resort staff, seemingly checking in. Charlie and I went out for our nightly read and cigar by the pool, where we found that the recent arrivals to the resort were all coming for a party being thrown in one of the timeshare sales buildings near the beach. Clumps of people walked by us, following the colored lights and thumping reggaeton rhythms coming from the building. After a while we saw several musicians walk by with a collection of drums, a trumpet, and a few other mystery instrument cases. Soon enough it was clear what sorts of instruments they had when crashing banda sinaloense poured from the building, amplified or muted every time the door opened or shut. Charlie noticed the telltale macho gait of my security guard admirer as she approached the area where we were sitting. “Your girlfriend is coming,” he said. I looked up just in time to catch her eye, smiled and nodded. She also smiled and continued to grin widely, as if she couldn’t help it, as she strode by the table where we were sat.

After Charlie was finished smoking, we walked toward the timeshare sales building to see what the party was all about. It was pretty crowded, with people lined up at the bar on the veranda. The music was loud and it wasn’t really a style that I enjoy all that much, so we decided not to find out whether it was a private party or not. Also, my “girlfriend” was working the door and I didn’t want her to think I was following her around.

Instead, we went back to the room, ate Takis and watched more Arrested Development. I feared we were going to end up going through Takis withdrawal by the time we left.