Breakfast of Champions
Exquisite offerings on Mexico City's streets
Walking outside our apartment in Mexico City’s Santa María La Ribera neighborhood on any weekday morning, BB and I are confronted by a dizzying array of culinary pleasures. Between the brick and mortar establishments, stalls known as puestos (some permanent, some assembled and disassembled each day) and mobile vendors biking through the streets, the options for breakfast within a three-block stretch of Calle Salvador Díaz Mirón seem endless.
On this particular morning (having eaten cochinita pibil for both lunch and dinner the day before), BB and I have a hankering for jugo verde, or green juice. Even though we’re out the door just after nine, our vendor has been open since five to service commuters from the busy train station across the street, so there’s no guarantee he’ll have any left.
Exiting our building, we pass a tricycle-cart parked fifty feet away and eye the selection of remaining sandwiches (plenty of jamon y queso, great!). As we cross the street an intoxicating whiff of potatoes and onions sizzling on Rio Sella’s flat-top nearly pulls us off course (hmmm, maybe we can stop for a quick taco or two?). BB notes my hesitation and prods me forward.
Nearing Insurgentes (the longest street in Mexico City and the seventh longest in the world), the number of food stalls multiplies and the energy intensifies. The tamales seller always does a brisk business, as tamales are one of the most popular comidas callejeras (aka street foods) in the capital, especially for breakfast.
While we don’t stop on this day, I do enjoy watching him prepare the only-in-Mexico City-sandwich known as a guajolota. He plucks a tamal from a cylindrical metal steamer with a pair of tongs, unwraps the masa filling from the corn husk and stuffs it into a bolillo roll to create the ultimate carbs-on-carbs treat. Some locals will take things a step further and order atole, a mesoamerican masa-based beverage, in a classic pairing known as a “guajolocombo.”
Rounding the corner, a riot of colors comes into focus. Plastic cups with electric orange and brilliant crimson liquid appear before us but, alas, there is no green juice. A woman standing beside us notes our disappointment and assures us that “everything is incredibly fresh here, it’s all natural.” We chuckle, letting her know that we have no doubts about the quality; rather, we’re upset that our coveted “I ate way too much pork yesterday” curative is already sold out.
Our juice man Jorge picks-up his cell phone and makes a quick call as he cleans the watermelon rind and guava seeds off his cutting board. Before I realize what’s happening, a man comes running up the street and sets down two jade-colored juices. As he sprints off, Jorge explains that he owns a puesto a block south with jugo verde made according to similar specs.
While the ingredients vary slightly from vendor to vendor, jugo verde typically consists of orange or grapefruit juice blended with celery, parsley and nopal (prickly pear cactus). The plastic cup is always sticky with the pulpy concoction — a sterile glass bottle filled with cold-pressed elixir this is not. However, one gulp and I feel fortified, ready to start my day in this bustling megalopolis.
After a futile attempt at securing the cups’ ill-fitting lids, BB and I circle back to the torta de chilaquiles vendor so I can claim my preferred carbs-on-carbs treat. I place my order for one sandwich with chicken and watch Saajan go to work. She grasps a pile of totopos (fried tortilla chips) and drops them into a Tupperware filled with salsa verde. She secures the lid and shakes vigorously, asking me if I would like them to remain crujiente, or crispy. Chilaquiles’ texture is a hot topic in this city, where the spectrum runs from mushy to nacho-like, but I let her know that I prefer a little bit of crunch in my chips.
Meanwhile, her colleague Emily grabs a telera roll and warms it in a back room. She sets it down in front of Saajan, who applies crema, queso and thinly-sliced onions to the bread before laying down the salsa-bathed totopos and shredded chicken. She sets the packaged sandwich next to a box of breakfast pastries and homemade gelatins as I hand over 42 pesos for this lovingly-made torta. All of this transpires in a miniature storefront that converts into a stationary store each day at noon.
On the way back, BB grabs one of the ham and cheese croissant sandwiches he had spied at the beginning of our outing. We huff up four flights of stairs to our apartment and marvel at the exquisite breakfast before us. I bite into the torta de chilaquiles and relish the contrasting textures and temperatures: the floppiness of the bun against the slightly brittle chips; the warm chicken paired with the cool crema.
In a few weeks I’ll be back to my regular routine of a toasted half bagel with cream cheese. Until then, I’ll be delighting in the morning ritual of walking out our front door and enjoying the exquisite breakfast offerings found on Mexico City’s streets.
Photos by Jared Wheeler
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The fresh orange juice is amazing!