Mexico City

Four Days, Fifteen People, Endless Plates

There are cities you visit, and there are cities that grab you by the collar, drag you through traffic, pour mezcal down your throat, and somehow still tuck you into bed with a pastry. Mexico City is the latter. The chaos, the beauty, the food — all colliding in one glorious mess.

I’ve been around Mexico plenty, but never the capital. This time, I didn’t come alone — I was invited. A trip cooked up by my friends Conrad and Zeke of Provecho, who assembled a ragtag band of chefs and creators. Fifteen of us, dropped into CDMX like a traveling circus. I’ll admit, I’ve probably annoyed some of you with the barrage of updates. But this is where I gather them, one place, one memory, one long scroll I can come back to when I need to remember why I do any of this.

First Stop: Sarde

Straight off the plane, I was hungry. No time for naps or unpacking. We hit Sarde, a seafood-focused spot that’s been making noise — Michelin mentions, Instagram chatter, all that. The room was warm, all wood and amber light. The kind of glow that makes every plate, every face, look like a portrait.

We built our own tasting — oysters with dashi vinegar and fermented chili water to start, paired with something I’d never seen: a tomarillo. You’re supposed to hollow out the flesh and eat whole like a fruit. Bright, tropical, surprising. Tuna carpaccio came with a creamy tomato sauce and a nest of fried potatoes — textural whiplash in the best way. Kimchi clams that we’re both funky & fresh in the best way. And a crispy octopus over black rice and saffron cream that’s still rattling around in my brain days later. Dessert was fried brioche with corn ice cream, and yes, it was exactly as decadent as it sounds.

Sarde reminded me of what seafood can do when you keep it playful and simple, but with a surgeon’s precision. You walk out lighter than you came in, which is a dangerous way to start a trip like this.

Blanco Colima: Dinner and a DJ

By nightfall, our full crew had arrived. Fifteen strong, we rolled into Blanco Colima, a Roma Norte restaurant-slash-nightclub where the food tries to impress and the building — a stately mansion split between dining room and party den — more or less succeeds on charm alone.

We started with a grilled artichoke, tender leaves with just enough smoke. We ordered an onslaught of mezcal drinks. Mine came with passionfruit espuma, and I could’ve lived inside that glass. Then plates started hitting the table like a drumline: octopus carpaccio, chicharrón tacos with tortillas tough enough to hold their weight, short rib tacos, jamón croquettes, grilled prawns, huitlacoche quesadillas. It was food for sharing, food for passing around with friends you’ve only known six hours but are already willing to split a taco with.

We never made it to the club side — the half with the DJ and the thumping bass. But the restaurant alone was enough: a proper welcome dinner, a little messy, a little loud, a little perfect.

Rosetta: Tamales and Ant Butter

The next night was the big one: Rosetta, currently ranked one of the top 50 restaurants in the world. If Blanco Colima was our “welcome to the city” toast, Rosetta was the fine print on the invitation: This is serious. Pay attention.

We had a private dining room. Plates came like small sermons: cabbage tacos with pistachio cream, tamales with smoked cream (one of my favorite bites of the trip), a cactus-and-tomatillo salad that actually made people shut up mid-sentence. Even the bread had drama — sourdough with chicatana ants in the butter.

The main was snapper in green romesco sauce, bright and spicy, though I’ll be honest — I wanted a crispier skin. Dessert blurred together: chocolate, fruit, sugar. By then, the food had done its job; we were high on it.

Rosetta is the kind of place critics both praise and nitpick. Some find it transcendent, others shrug at the hype. For us, in that room, on that night, it worked. It didn’t need to be perfect. It just needed to be ours.

We were invited to this incredible trip by the team at Provecho, a platform where chefs and creators share their favorite recipes with the world. The trip was both a thank-you for being among the top performers on the platform and a celebration of their next big step — the launch of their brand-new app! Now, all our recipes are right at your fingertips, beautifully gathered in one place. It’s such an exciting milestone, and I’m truly grateful to be part of it!

Streets, Boats, and Bugs

Days blurred into late nights and early mornings. There was a marlin quesadilla eaten in a no-name spot that proved marlin has been criminally underrated my whole life. There was a boat ride through Xochimilco, mariachi on the water, vendors pulling up alongside with tacos, micheladas, grilled corn. Picture Venice, but sweaty and a little drunk. My favorite part of the entire trip.

There was Santo Habanero, where we ordered scorpion tacos because, well, why wouldn’t you? The scorpion was hollow and fried, crunchy like shrimp shells, bitter at the end. Would I eat it again? No. Am I glad I did? Absolutely.

And then there was Handshake Speakeasy — the number one bar in the world. We didn’t have a reservation, but we got lucky. Tucked in the back with two bartenders to ourselves, we tried everything on the menu. Drinks built with whey instead of citrus, aged wines turned into syrups, flavors that felt impossible to pin down. My favorite was called Once Upon a Time in Oaxaca — smoky, delicate, more poem than cocktail.

Street Food Religion: Jenni’s Quesadillas

Our last day was for the streets. Jenni’s Quesadillas — just a woman, a griddle, and a line that never ends. She’s been written about, hyped, and she lives up to it. Huitlacoche with cheese, zucchini flower, lamb — folded in fresh tortillas, cheese fried right onto the griddle so it crusts as it melts. One of the best bites in Mexico City. No Michelin star needed.

We spent the afternoon at the market, buying fruit and tortillas, chicken and cheese, adobo from an abuela. We cooked a sendoff feast in our rental: Mexican-style Caprese with local cheese, ceviche with mango, chicken and steak tacos, salsas flying everywhere. May’an baked rugelach for dessert, because why not? A final act of chaos and gratitude.

The Curtain Call

On my way out, I stopped at The Green Rhino, the bakery run by Richard Hart, the man behind Copenhagen’s famed Hart Bageri. He was in the back, shaping loaves, when we stopped him for a chat. I walked out with a signed book and the feeling I’d just shaken hands with one of the greats.

Then one last stop: Mi Compa Chava, the seafood joint that broke the internet with oysters and octopus and over-the-top garnishes. I didn’t have much room left, but I found space for grilled prawns with chipotle crema — maybe the single best bite of the trip.

And then it was over. Uber to the airport. Belt loosened, brain buzzing. Mexico City — a blur of food, mezcal, friends, and strangers who feel like friends after one shared plate. I’ll be back, if only to chase those quesadillas and those perfect prawns.