A quiet evening at La Puerticita

Just for old times sake I had dinner at La Puerticita last night, the little boutique hotel where I stayed the first time I came to San Miguel de Allende over a decade ago. Amazingly enough Chema was still there, though I don’t think he remembered me. Why would he?

Chema was wearing a double-breasted suit and when I took a seat in the courtyard he came over, took my order, and then came back bringing me a Don Julio reposado on the rocks, carrying it on a glass tray. Though it was not yet dark, there was the muffled poppoppop of fireworks coming from somewhere in town and the squawk of wild parrots in the arroyo where the campesinos slowly moved their sheep and a few scrawny cows back up into the hills.

When it got dark, the waiters, wearing black pants and tuxedo shirts and red bow ties, lit the votive candles on the white wrought-iron tables and Chema, standing stiffly with his hands clasped behind him, told me of the dishes for the evening—chiles en nogada, chuletas en salsa pasilla, camarones al ajillo—and then raised his eyebrows as a signal to Felipe, the oldest and most elegant of the waiters, to bring me a bowl of pollo con champiñones soup, placing it, with two hands, slowly in front of me.

I ordered the shrimp and a bottle of rioja, slightly chilled. For dessert, Chema said the cook, Guadalupe, had made a pastel tres leches, and although this is one of my favorite cakes, I passed it up in favor of a brandy.

A mariachi band in the Jardin. Photo by David Lansing.

Afterwards, a little drunk, I walked down Santo Domingo, beneath the ancient arched stone bridge that crosses the arroyo, smelling the spicy smoked air, to the Jardín. There were several mariachi groups in the park, serenading lovers sitting on the green wrought iron benches, and the whole scene made me a little wistful.

I decided to have a drink at Tio Lucas but there was something about the crowd there that bothered me so I quickly finished my tequila and went next door to La Cave de Beso to listen to the fado. I sat at one of the tables in the back, in the darkness, listening to the sad Portuguese music and watching the two machodas sitting at the table next to me kiss each other. I suppose the two young women, who were both heavily made up, thought sitting in La Cave de Beso making out was all very scandalous and dramatic and perhaps it was, but to me it just seemed boring.

I finished my drink and walked home. The two cats, who had not yet had their dinner, were waiting up for me.