The Art of Adaptation

As often happens in Mexico, plans shift abruptly and one finds that one has a sudden chunk of unanticipated time to fill (while waiting for someone to make the date).

One night I was at a coffee shop waiting for the owner to arrive for an interview, for which he was already half an hour late. Upon receiving news that he'd be at least another half an hour (which, in Mexico, means likely an hour), and given that I'd already gulped one espresso, I thought I'd take a walk and a sate a lingering craving for a glass of red wine.

I'd spotted a hole-in-the-wall bar that offered tapas and ought to have wine. So I strolled up to the bar and asked the bartender what wines he had by the glass. He said there was only one, and he gestured to a barrel on the counter. "A red wine from Coahuila," he said. I gave him a doubtful look. He kindly offered a taste. "It's a young wine," he said. I took a sip and, practically against my will, made a face—"young" being a euphemism in this case for bad. Certainly, I wasn't hoping for much, but neither was I expecting something wholly undrinkable. So I said thank you and left feeling frustrated. Where could a woman get a decent glass of wine around here?

The night was clear and cool—a consolation—and I decided to walk off the rest of my wait. When I neared the corner of the coffee shop, I recognized a mezcalería I'd been to before. And I simultaneously recognized my mistake: Wine? To hell with it. I should have stuck to what this country does best. A perfect shot of mezcal (a cousin of tequila, the best of which is produced in the southern state of Oaxaca) beats an uninteresting glass of vino any day.

In Mexico, you can long for the perfect cheeseburger and face repeated disappointment, or you can relish tacos of juicy grilled beef. You can hanker for a loaf of crusty Italian bread and settle for a flaccid imitation, or you can roll up a steaming, hearty corn tortilla in grateful hands. Culinary happiness is learning to savor the flavors where you live.