Tamale Sandwich/Like Grits in a Bun

In theory, a tamale sandwich is a terrible idea. You take a cylindrical mass of cornmeal—thick as a fist and filled with things like shredded chicken or peppers—you insert it between two slices of a plump white bun, and you basically get a dough sandwich. The torta de tamal, or guajolota, as it's known in Mexico, is a Mexico City special—beloved by city natives and damned by just about everyone else in this country. How can one possibly eat a tamale (filling on its own) with bread to boot? It's just wrong, the naysayers protest.

I'd counted myself among them for the past year that I've lived in Mexico City, since I was bound and determined never to eat a tamale sandwich. Tamales are generally breakfast fare in Mexico and are typically washed down with atole, a hot, creamy drink made from rice or (surprise, surprise) cornmeal. Adding bread to that mix seemed silly, a reckless choice for a sensitive stomach.

Then one morning on my way to a class, I passed a señora selling hot tamales and she had a rare vegetarian option: green peppers and cheese, a favorite. As she reached into the steaming vat, she asked if I wanted it plain or in a torta. I realized that if I got it plain I'd have to stand there and eat it on the spot with a fork, cupping its corn husk wrap in my hands. Well, I didn't feel like it. So I said, "torta, por favor" and took my sandwich to go. I ordered a rice atole as well.

Near the school there are a few benches in the shade of trees and a large sculpture. I made myself comfortable and pulled out my tamale, conveniently contained in sandwich form, and took a bite. Epiphany struck. The mix of buttery cornmeal dough, green peppers, melted cheese and red salsa moistened the roll and tasted heavenly. And I discovered the secret lure of the tamale sandwich: convenience in morning rush hour and warm comfort food, combined.

Honestly, I was full practically until dinnertime... but officially hooked.

Pulque Bar La Pirata in Photos

A (Slimey) Sip of Pulque

Mexico's most ancient moonshine, nectar of the Aztec gods. Pulque may be the most Mexican of all Mexican spirits, although it's nowhere near as popular these days as, say, tequila or mezcal. Just a handful of pulquerías—cantinas where pulque is sold from barrels—remain in Mexico City where once they were numerous. Now they're a treasure to find.

Made from fermented aguamiel, or the honey water drawn from the heart of a cactus, pulque is thick and viscous as motor oil, milky in color and—frankly put—difficult to swallow at first. But pulque is a charmer and magical. Otherwise there's no explaining how the first sip barely goes down, but, by the end of glass, you've ordered a liter. And, in all likelihood, you'll have finished two or three liters (sharing with a friend, of course) by the time the afternoon wanes.

At La Pirata (The Pirate), the pulque is stored in tall, fat barrels and served natural or mixed on the spot with either oat milk, peanut milk, tomato juice or lemon flavor. Let it be said first that La Pirata is a dive, a serious cantina that dusts the floor with wood chips in case the clientele wishes to spit, vomit or spill their jug. The joint serves food as a courtesy; today's offering included moronga, a stew of pig's blood to be eaten with tortillas. We ordered a liter of lemon pulque—the safest choice—and slowly drunk it down to the tunes of a 25-cents-per-song juke box.

Pulque can't be bottled because the bacteria it contains continues to ferment and a bottle closed tight will explode. Producers are artisans who have followed a tradition that dates back to at least 500 years before Christ: Archeologists have found tools suggesting that indigenous Mexicans were producing pulque long before the conquest. There is legend to go with fact. A story is told that Quetzacoatl, the great feathered serpent god, asked the goddess Mayahuel to accompany him to earth, where they would unite as a tree with two branches. Mayahuel's grandmother, angered at her descent, sent wind gods to tear the tree apart, and the branch corresponding to the goddess was destroyed. Quetzacoatl returned to his serpentine form and collected the splintered remains of his beloved. He buried them and from that spot grew the cactus that yields pulque—an enormous cactus that grows taller than a man and blossoms as if its branches were the petals of a great flower. Mayahuel is the goddess of inebriation, a seductress.

And pulque is her potion.