There are places you dream of visiting your entire life—places that live in your mind, shaped by movies, meals, books, obsessions. For me, that place was Japan.

Forty-four years of slow simmering—through movies like Tokyo Story, Shoplifters, Tokyo Sonata, Perfect Days, and Tampopo. Through sushi cravings and Kurosawa, through whisky hunts and knife envy. And when I finally made it there last month, Japan met me with a quiet bow, a bowl of donabe rice, and a life-changing toilet seat.

It blew my mind. And I don’t mean that as a cliché.

It shook me.

This isn’t a brag. This isn’t “Look at what I did.” This is a love letter. An open invitation. If you ever have the chance—go. Go and pay attention. Soak it in. And bring some of that back with you.

Because the Japanese are doing things in a way that might just make you want to be a better person.

Clean Enough to Eat Off the Sidewalk

Tokyo, Kyoto, Nagoya—all sparkling.
Even without public trash cans. You're expected to take your garbage with you—and people actually do it.

I walked for blocks without seeing a single bin or cigarette butt.
This isn’t Disneyland cleanliness—it’s lived-in, respected cleanliness.

Public bathrooms? Spotless.

Osaka? Let’s just say… a little more grit, a little more flavor. (Still cleaner than most cities, but you’ll feel the difference.)

And don’t even get me started on the toilets.

I’ve always been a supporter of bidets. Call it basic hygiene. But Japan?
Japan takes it to a different stratosphere.

TOTO, you glorious marvel.
Heated seats. Adjustable bidet sprays. Pressure settings. Deodorizing functions. Ambient white noise for modesty. Some even open automatically—like they're genuinely happy to see you.

Honestly, going to the bathroom in Japan feels more futuristic than anything to come out of Silicon Valley.
I may never emotionally recover.

The Pursuit of Excellence (Even in Fake Food)

The first thing you notice is how seriously the Japanese take things. All things.

You want craft cola? There’s a shop that’s perfected it.
You want denim? Whisky? Sushi? Vintage records? There’s a temple for every niche.

Hell, in Kyoto I walked into Happy Jack, a used record store on a whim and found every Rolling Stones bootleg I’d been hunting for years. Just like that. No research. No plan. Just luck. In Japan, if you have a craving, they have your fix.

Even food you can’t eat.

Most restaurants feature stunningly realistic plastic models of their menu items. Sushi rolls, tempura bowls—even frothy beers—all made from vinyl and hand-painted to perfection. This isn’t kitsch. This is sampuru: another Japanese craft, done with precision and pride.

I passed a workshop where you can learn how to make them. Sculpting a shrimp tempura out of vinyl. Painting glossy lacquer onto a fake bowl katsudon.
They don’t just want you to eat well. They want you to see well. Even the illusion has to be right.

Everything Is a Ritual (Even Fruit)

Japanese society runs on ritual, protocol, and presentation.

One morning, I went to the post office to mail a few postcards. On the wall were posters—stunning images of fruit. Not just any fruit—gift fruit. Perfect strawberries. Elegant melons. Flawless grapes.

But it wasn’t just fruit. You could also mail top-grade steaks, grilled eel, or even boxed Japanese curry sponsored by a sumo wrestler. I’m not kidding. In Japan, even the post office is a shrine to excellence.

Later that night, after a remarkable dinner, I wandered through a district filled with upscale bars and clubs—the kind of place where Japanese businessmen go to unwind after work. Not a red-light scene, not flashy. Just subdued signage, soft lighting, and a sense of formality under the surface.

And right outside those bars? Fruit stalls.

Beautifully arranged, late-night stalls selling those same luxurious melons and pristine strawberries.

Because even in these moments—where money changes hands and roles are played—gifting matters. Men didn’t show up to see their mistresses with flowers or champagne. They arrived carrying fruit. A $100 melon as a gesture of respect or charm.

Because in Japan, everything is a ritual.
And the Japanese?
They elevate everything.

From Cliché to Convert

Back in the ‘80s and ‘90s, it was the Japanese who traveled the world snapping photos of everything. That was the cliché: camera-wielding tourists flooding Paris, Rome, New York. Japan was booming.

Now? The tables have turned.

It’s us.
It’s me.

I became the cliché. Camera in hand. Eyes wide.
Click. A perfectly arranged bento on the bullet train.
Click. A guy smoking in a tidy glass box on the sidewalk.
Click. The glow of a vending machine on an empty parking lot.

I wanted to remember everything. To document everything. Because it felt sacred. And it was.

Everyone Wants a Piece of Japan

Tourism is booming in Japan—and not just because the yen is weak.

There are two major forces at play: pop culture and food.

Generations across the globe grew up on anime, manga, Studio Ghibli films, and video games. Sushi became a global obsession. Ramen became the new burger. Matcha lattes, J-pop idols, Japanese denim, Uniqlo—all part of a cultural wave Japan has been exporting for decades. And we bought in. Hard.

Now, we’re going to the source. But that surge of visitors comes with tension.

By 2030, the Japanese government aims to attract 50 million tourists annually—part of a deliberate strategy to boost national income and offset the effects of an aging and shrinking population. (Yes, this is real: with one of the oldest populations in the world and a declining birthrate, Japan has had to rethink its traditionally closed stance on immigration and international engagement.)

You see the changes on the ground.

For the first time, you might spot immigrants working in convenience stores or construction sites—a shift that was nearly unthinkable just a decade or two ago. But the labor shortage is real, and slowly, Japan is adjusting.

Tourism, while vital, is also delicate in a culture known for order, etiquette, and restraint.

I saw this more than once—at least three different times during my trip. A group of Japanese toddlers on a school outing, led by two teachers—one in front, one in the back—and on the teacher’s backpack: a laminated sign in English that read:
“NO PHOTOS.”

A small, quiet plea. A gentle but firm reminder that not everything or everyone is public property. That even in a country as orderly and welcoming as Japan, consent and dignity still matter.

I’ve also seen the videos—tourists swarming geishas in Kyoto, shoving cameras in their faces like they’re attractions in a theme park. It’s dehumanizing. It’s disrespectful.

Just look at Barcelona. A city once proud of its global appeal is now choking on its own popularity—its neighborhoods hollowed out by short-term rentals, its residents priced out or driven away, its soul tested by waves of careless tourism.

Japan could go down that road too—if we’re not careful.

So if you go—and I truly hope you do—go thoughtfully.

Japan doesn’t owe you anything.
Be polite. Be humble. Bring your best self.
And maybe—just maybe—bring a little of what makes Japan special back home with you.

It’s not all peachy.

Japan is beautiful, yes. Immaculate. Profound. But like all “perfect” societies—think Scandinavia—it comes at a cost.

There’s pressure. Tremendous, invisible pressure. To do things right. To never stand out. To serve the collective at the expense of the self.

Work hours are long. The social formality is intense. People wear a public face that’s calm and courteous, even when privately they’re drowning. Loneliness is rampant. Suicide remains a crisis—especially among students and the elderly. There’s even a term for people who shut themselves off from the world entirely: hikikomori. They retreat into their rooms and disappear from society. It’s not a rare phenomenon.

In a country where everything must be done well, done quietly, done correctly, the pressure to never falter can crush the individual.

Alcohol becomes a release valve. On Friday nights, I saw it myself—men in suits, drunk and stumbling, faces red, ties loosened. In a society built on control, alcohol is one of the few socially acceptable ways to let go. It’s not indulgence—it’s survival.

Even the chefs—the quiet warriors of the kitchen—carry this weight. The pursuit of perfection. The reverence for tradition. The constant measuring against those who came before.

Manucho —the Barcelona based Argentine sushi chef and friend who organized this trip and travels to Japan every year—put it plainly:

“I love Japan. But I could never live here.
Too much pressure. Too much conformity.
Not enough oxygen.”

There’s a lesson here, too: perfection can be exquisite—but it can also be suffocating.

Shadows & Grain

Maybe that’s why I’ve always been drawn to Japanese street photographers.

Daido Moriyama, Seiji Kurata, and Nobuyoshi Araki captured the Japan that doesn’t show up on glossy postcards or in Zen garden calendars.
They shot the alleys. The chaos. The shadows between the neon.
The salaryman passed out on the sidewalk. The teenager in rebellion. The sex worker lighting a cigarette under a flickering sign. Their grainy black-and-white images showed a Japan that was raw, restless, and human.

Korean born Yang Seunghwoo carries that torch today. His lens turns toward the yakuza, the homeless, the disenfranchised. He photographs the people big cities like Tokyo try to forget. And in doing so, he reminds us of their existence—and their dignity.

These photographers don’t romanticize. They don’t shy away from the other Japan. They reveal. Their work helped prepare me for the Japan I truly wanted to see—not the myth, but the texture. The realness.

Because for all its beauty, Japan isn’t perfect. It’s human. Complex.
And it’s in those messy edges that you often find the most truth.

Nihon, Not Japan

The Japanese call their country Nihon or Nippon—not “Japan.”
It means “origin of the sun.” And when you’re there, it makes perfect sense.
The light hits differently. The shadows have history.

This trip changed me. And not in some cheesy “Eat, Pray, Love” way.

I watched sumo wrestlers in early morning practice, their bodies reshaped by centuries of discipline.
I met knife smiths selling blades so precise they could split hairs—tools forged by hand, knowledge passed down through generations.
I went to vinyl bars with floor-to-ceiling vinyl collections, sipping Japanese whisky while Prince whispered through $30,000 speakers.
I found a store entirely dedicated to Mario Bros. and adult videos.
I ate at PST Pizza in Roppongi that had a dough so good I wanted to write Italy an apology letter.

Japan is balance.
Tradition and innovation. Discipline and play. Stillness and noise. Restraint and release.

Even Godzilla fits into this. He’s not just a pop icon—he’s a metaphor for imbalance. A beast summoned by hubris. By environmental arrogance. By forgetting the natural order of things.
When harmony breaks, the monster comes.

I visited Godzilla: The Art exhibition at Mori Arts Center Gallery in Tokyo, and it drove that point home. This isn’t just a franchise—it’s a national myth. A cautionary tale told over and over, through rubber suits and CGI and fan devotion.
A society obsessed with order needs a monster to remind it what happens when chaos breaks through.

That’s the hidden logic behind so much of Japan: keep the balance. Respect the rules. Maintain the flow.
They live it. They breathe it.
And somehow, despite the cracks underneath… they still believe in beauty.

Just Walk. Just Listen.

One last thing.

I overheard a woman at Itoya—the iconic stationery store—tell her friend:
“Tokyo isn’t about landmarks. It’s about walking. It’s about the feeling.”

That’s it. That’s the secret.

Don’t come to Japan for the checklist. Come for the alleyways, the tea, the quiet moments, the vibe. Come for the vinyl. The street food and high-end omakase.
The knife maker perfecting his edge for the thousandth time.

I know I’ve only scratched the surface of a magnificent destination. There’s so much more to discover, to learn from, to absorb. But this was a perfect introduction. A first sip.

Maybe, like Manucho, I’ll need to prepare for a yearly pilgrimage to Nihon.
To keep searching. To keep learning. To keep feeling that balance.

Come—and if you’re lucky—you’ll leave a piece of your soul in Japan.

But you’ll bring something better back with you.

Arigato gozaimasu.

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Some people follow trends. Others follow roads. And then there are the rare few who follow the land. In Sonora, where the sun scorches and the landscape doesn’t forgive, I met someone who does just that.

The First Encounter

I met Cristóbal Matiella last year in Sonora, while filming a documentary about chili peppers. He was on the call sheet—as our fixer. The guy who’d help us find the right roads, the right people, and keep the production wheels turning in the middle of nowhere. A behind-the-scenes presence.

Cristóbal is 34, restless, deeply curious, and a little impulsive. A trained chef with a degree in Gastronomy from the Instituto Culinario de México, he's passionate about nature and food. He wasn’t trying to impress anyone, but when he spoke about chiltepín, the desert, and the people who live in rhythm with it, something shifted. The noise dropped. The crew leaned in.

We turned the camera on him, almost by instinct. He didn’t ask for it. He didn’t need to. As he later told me, "I didn’t have an epiphany about belonging here—I’ve always felt like part of this place."

Sonora Silvestre: What the Desert Gives

Cristóbal doesn’t just believe in Sonora—he bottles it.

Through his company, Sonora Silvestre, he’s found a way to translate the brutal poetry of the desert into something tangible. Not by taming it, but by working with what grows wild, thorned, and proud.

Take Oro Rojo, his flagship hot sauce. It’s made from chiltepín, a tiny wild chili that grows only in the Sonoran desert. But Cristóbal doesn’t stop there—he ages the sauce in French oak barrels, making it the only hot sauce in Mexico crafted this way. The result is a subtle smoky, layered heat that lingers long after the first bite.

Then there’s Suaqui, the world’s first pitaya distillate, developed in 2016 by Casa Matiella. Pitaya, or Stenocereus thurberi, is a wild cactus fruit with an intense magenta hue and a sweet-sour punch. It’s closely related to dragon fruit—the more familiar, mass-cultivated variety often seen in smoothie bowls—but this Sonoran version is wilder, more intense, and deeply rooted in the desert it comes from. Suaqui comes in two forms: a bright, clean blanco, and a reposado aged 12 months in French oak.

“I thought about making jam," Cristóbal told me. "But no one was going to fly to Sonora for jam. Alcoholic beverages have a proven draw. So I created a spirit that would let our pitaya travel the world—and bring people back to Sonora."

That vision is rooted in hard labor. As he explained, the process starts at 4:30 a.m. with a walk into the monte carrying a bucket and a stick called a chiviri, used to knock down pitayas that grow like crowns atop towering columnar cacti. Once harvested, the fruit is de-spined, split open, the pulp extracted, seeds separated. The juice is slow-cooked for eight hours in copper pans over mesquite wood until it thickens into a syrup. That syrup is then blended with fresh juice, fermented 8 to 10 days, and finally double-distilled in copper stills.

His skincare line uses equally wild ingredients: pitayo dulce, cardón (the largest cactus in the world), and torote (Bursera microphylla), a fragrant desert tree. All products are handcrafted from natural ingredients, harvested respectfully, in close collaboration with local artisans and the Comcaac people.

This isn’t a brand. It’s a slow, intentional act of preservation.

Earned Ground

Cristóbal joins hunting trips not as a guide, but as the cook—the one who keeps the fire going and the crew fed before and after long days tracking game through the desert. But make no mistake: his connection to the land runs just as deep. He moves through the terrain with quiet fluency, as if the cactus and stone recognize him. His food, cooked in the middle of nowhere, feels inseparable from the place itself—seasoned by mesquite smoke, heat, and history. Even without a rifle in hand, Cristóbal brings the terroir of Sonora to the table.

He’s also close with the Seri people of Isla Tiburón, also known as the Comcaac. Those relationships weren’t built for optics or outreach reports. They’re the kind that come from shared meals, long walks, and being invited—not asserting—your presence.

As he puts it, "Sonora’s geography makes it unique—bordered by the Sea of Cortez and the Sierra Madre Occidental. That land shapes its flora, fauna, and people. From there, culture and cosmovisión are born."

Baptism by Fire

As part of the documentary, every guest got the same challenge: eat a chili on camera—your choice from the spread. Cristóbal didn’t blink. He went straight for the habanero.

He bit in, chewed slow, and tried to play it cool. But that heat hit hard. Eyes watering, nose running—he was definitely enchilado. Still, he took it with a grin and a quiet "Ay güey," the kind you let out when your brain’s melting but pride won’t let you tap out.

That’s Cristóbal. He doesn’t pretend it’s easy. He just leans into it. Wild fruit, wild heat, wild land—he’s part of it all.

The Soul of the Desert

While the world chases the next big thing, Cristóbal Matiella is reaching back—to carry the wild, the ancient, and the enduring into the future. Not out of nostalgia, but out of purpose.

What he’s building with Sonora Silvestre isn’t just a product line—it’s a rebellion. Against industrial food. Against generic flavors. Against the slow erasure of local knowledge. He's proving that innovation doesn't have to come from a lab—it can rise from a desert, from a fruit that grows between rocks, from a chili no one thought to ferment in French oak.

Cristóbal is part preservationist, part mad scientist, and part storyteller. His work is rooted in the land but forward-facing, finding new ways to honor and evolve traditions most of the world doesn’t even know exist. He doesn’t posture. He doesn’t preach. He just lives the life—working closely with the Comcaac, supporting local craftspeople, honoring the wild ingredients that make Sonora a biome like no other.

"Gastronomy is one of the steps from nature to culture," he told me. That belief guides everything he does. He’s not just selling sauce or spirits. He’s preserving a way of being in the world that most have forgotten, or never knew.

And he does it with humility. One of the stories he shared stayed with me:
"Something that marked me forever was seeing an old woman, María Jesús Cantú, coming out of the monte with a bucket of pitaya balanced on her shoulder. She was once the Pitaya Queen in Carbó."

He also recalled Don Cipriano López, a man who taught him how to survive in the wild. "He taught me so much," Cristóbal said. "Unfortunately, he’s no longer with us."

In an era of synthetic everything, Cristóbal makes things with dirt on them. With thorns. With heat. With soul.

Sonora is a hard place—dry, demanding, merciless. But in Cristóbal’s hands, it becomes something radiant. Something to taste. Something to believe in.

In Mexican Spanish, the phrase al chile has two meanings. Literally, it means "with chili." But ask anyone in Mexico what it really means, and they’ll tell you: it’s about truth. Raw, unfiltered, straight-up honesty. Dime la neta, al chile—tell me the truth, no BS. So when I set out to create a food show that was unapologetically Mexican, both in subject and tone, there really was no other name.

And it all started with a plate of peppers in Spain.

FROM PADRÓN TO THE PAST: THE SPARK

It was summer 2021. I was living in Barcelona, my adopted home during a strange, post-lockdown world. I’m half Spanish, born and raised in Mexico, and I'd grown up around Spanish food thanks to my grandmother. I'd eaten pimientos de padrón plenty of times before—those small green Galician peppers, blistered in olive oil, sprinkled with flaky salt. Most are mild, but every now and then one sneaks up on you with real heat.

That day, something clicked. A question struck me: why aren’t these spicy? And more importantly, how the hell did chili peppers end up in Galicia?

As someone obsessed with food and its backstories, I dove into the history and found myself deep in the Columbian Exchange: that grand reshuffling of plants and goods after Europeans stumbled onto the Americas. Turns out, the chili pepper—like tomatoes, cacao, vanilla, and corn—is native to what is now Mexico. We domesticated it thousands of years ago. And yet, here it was, quietly living a second life in Spanish cuisine.

The more I read, the more I realized how little most of us—even Mexicans—actually know about the story of chili peppers. We eat them constantly, we build our identity around them, but do we know them? That eureka moment over a plate of padrón peppers sparked the first notes of what would eventually become Al Chile.

FROM CHEF’S TABLE TO EL VITOR: A SHOW IN FLUX

At first, the show I had in mind was serious. Academic. Shot in English. Maybe hosted by a Mexican-American like Chef Aarón Sánchez or Claudette Zepeda. Something you’d see on Netflix or Prime Video. I researched like crazy, wrote up a deck, and even pitched it to Food Network. They liked the idea but didn’t quite get it. Why chili peppers? Why now?

Funny how time proves people wrong. Since then, Hulu has released a spicy pepper series, Apple TV+ launched Omnivore with an episode dedicated to chiles, and YouTube’s Hot Ones has gone viral for years. But back then? No bites.

Then I brought the idea to Pablo Cruz, the powerhouse producer behind The Taco Chronicles on Netflix. Pablo didn’t just reshape the scope—he reframed the entire mission. "This is a Mexican story," he said. "Speak to your people first. Then the rest will follow."

We scrapped the English pitch. We leaned into comedy. Pablo suggested a host: Adrián Uribe, stepping into the shoes of El Vitor, a beloved Mexican TV character with over two decades of screen time. I was hesitant. I didn’t want to make a joke out of the subject. But the more I thought about it, the more it made sense. El Vitor is every Mexican. Loud, confident, funny, and sure he knows everything about chiles—until he realizes he doesn’t.

WAITING ON VIX: THE GREEN-LIGHT

We pitched it to Netflix Mexico first. They passed. Said they weren’t buying food content at the time.

Meanwhile, Televisa and Univision were in the middle of launching ViX, a new Spanish-language streaming platform aimed at the Hispanic market in the U.S. and Mexico. It was a smart bet. That audience is massive and wildly underserved. Pablo had his finger on the pulse. "Let’s wait," he told me. "They’ll need fresh content, and El Vitor is perfect for their crowd."

We waited. ViX launched. We pitched. They bit.

Almost 2 years after that lunch in Barcelona, we were green lit.

BUILDING THE RIGHT TEAM

Pablo Cruz was my ride-or-die on this. He’s a titan in Mexican film and TV—a true tastemaker. I first reached out to him in 2020 with a Cold War spy show set in Mexico City. He liked it but said the timing was off. Still, we hit it off. We’re both cinephiles and food nerds. Later, when we both moved to Barcelona, we became lunch buddies.

When I pitched him Al Chile, he said yes on the spot.

From there, I inherited the incredible team that made The Taco Chronicles what it is. Writer, researcher, director of photography, editors, crew—they all knew how to blend food, humor, and cultural pride.

Adrián Uribe was the final piece. I remember pitching him over the phone from windy-ass London. He loved it. It would be the first time El Vitor dived into food, and that was exciting. El Vitor is cocky, clueless, lovable—and he’s perfect for a journey that challenges assumptions. His arc mirrors our own: we think we know chiles, until we realize we’re only scratching the surface.

PRODUCTION: CHAOS, HEAT, AND THE CHILÓMETRO

We shot for four weeks across Mexico: Mexico City, Oaxaca, Puebla, Guadalajara, Sonora, and Mérida. We wrapped with a week in Delhi, India. It was a whirlwind.

One of the running gags in the show is a helmet called the Chilómetro, a DIY device El Vitor "invented" to measure how spicy a chile is. (It’s his way of mocking the Scoville scale, which is the actual scientific measure of capsaicin, the chemical that makes chiles hot.) The Chilómetro is basically a kitchen colander with LEDs glued to it. Hilarious. It made for some great reactions as guests strapped it on and took bites of scorching-hot peppers.

Shooting wasn’t always smooth. One day in Mérida, the temperature hit 40ºC (104ºF) with crushing humidity. Word got out that Adrián was at the market, and the place basically collapsed under the crowd. It was mayhem. In Delhi, no one knew who he was, but the chaos was in the streets themselves. The heat. The noise. The sheer intensity of filming in India wore everyone down.

But then there were moments of magic. One day, we were filming with the legendary Chef Ricardo Muñoz Zurita. In the kitchen, while making salsa, El Vitor joked about how spicy it should be. Chef Zurita calmly replied, "The kitchen, like life, is about balance."

That moment wasn’t scripted. It was just beautiful.

Another time, El Vitor got schooled on how dozens of dried chile varieties come from just a handful of fresh ones. It was funny, but also deeply informative. I realized: we were teaching. People were going to come away knowing more about their own food culture. That felt good.

WHY THIS ONE BURNED DIFFERENT

Al Chile is my baby.

In my day job, I direct food commercials. I get hired for my camera work, my tabletop skills, my taste. But the ideas? They’ve usually passed through a dozen hands before they land on my desk.

This one was mine. From spark to screen.

It just premiered yesterday. Too soon to say how it’ll shape my career. But I know this: it’s the kind of project I want to do more of. Long-form. Personal. Cultural. Honest.

I want people to laugh—and they will, thanks to El Vitor. But I also want them to walk away knowing something new. To understand that chile peppers are ours in a way the world forgets. That they’re everywhere now because our ancestors domesticated them. That every time someone in Thailand or Korea or Hungary eats a spicy dish, they’re tasting something born in Mexico.

I didn’t make Al Chile alone. Far from it. It took a small army of smart, passionate, stubborn people to drag this thing into existence—through rewrites, production mishaps, insane heat, and a pasta colander strapped to someone’s head. I’m grateful to every single one of them. This wasn’t just a show. It was a hell of a ride. I came out the other side smarter, tougher, and with a few more scars. And I’d do it all again.

So yeah. Al chile? This one’s for real.

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Al Chile is now streaming on ViX.

When Is It Still Sushi? And When Is It Just a Roll With Feelings?

Let me confess something up front: the first time I ate Japanese food, it wasn’t sushi. It was teppanyaki.

Not hibachi—that’s what they call it in the U.S., where dinner comes with flying shrimp, onion volcanoes, and knife tricks that feel more Vegas than Tokyo. In Mexico, back in the late ’80s, teppanyaki was quieter. No showmanship. Just a hot griddle, a chef with monk-like focus, and the smell of soy sauce hitting steel. It was controlled, restrained, and to my dad—sacred.

He loved taking us there. It was his way of feeding us culture, of saying, “This is the real thing. Pay attention.” And we did. It felt foreign, important, serious.

Then the ’90s happened.

The California roll went global. Supermarket sushi spread like a food court gospel. Cream cheese slipped through the cracks. Fusion wasn’t just accepted—it was deep-fried. And that’s when we met Sushi Itto.

It was the opposite of what my dad revered. A chain spot slinging breaded shrimp rolls with avocado, spicy mayo, watered-down soy, and yes—sometimes mango. I never loved the mango. Even as a kid, it felt like sushi trying too hard to be dessert. But everything else? I devoured it.

We begged to go there. My dad caved. Begrudgingly. “That’s not sushi,” he’d mutter, watching me and my sister tear through crunchy rolls with neon sauces. He wasn’t wrong. But we didn’t care. It was fun. It was ours.

And it wasn’t just in Mexico. I remember being in a mall in Rio de Janeiro in 1991 and ordering “sushi” from a bright little counter wedged between a burger joint and a clothing store. I got a roll with mango in it and just thought, “Oh boy, even here?” Same story, different country. I didn’t love it. Too sweet. Too weird. But I ate it. Because I was curious. Because it was new. Because back then, sushi still felt like something foreign and exciting—even when it came with fruit.

Then, a few years later, in the mid-’90s, I was in San Francisco. I ordered futomaki at a real Japanese spot. No cream cheese. No sauce. Just seaweed, rice, egg, vegetables—maybe a sliver of fish. I took a bite and thought, That’s it?

I was naive. A little fool. I didn’t understand what I was eating—only what I was missing. The fried crunch. The indulgence. The sugar rush.

Fast-forward many years, and I’m a different eater entirely.

I’ve spent the last decade and a half chasing down real sushi—authentic sushi. I’ve eaten at the best counters in LA, New York, and London. I’ve sat in front of revered shokunin like Tadashi “Yoshi” Yoshida at Yoshino in Manhattan, where every piece of fish feels like it was composed in a monastery. I’ve tasted sushi so precise, so balanced, so achingly perfect, it made me sit in silence just to process it.

I’ve evolved. I’m not the kid who thought futomaki was boring or who flinched at raw fish anymore. Somewhere along the way—bite by bite, trial and error—I trained my palate. I learned what real rice should taste like: warm, seasoned, gently tangy, holding together just long enough to disappear. I started noticing things I never paid attention to before—the angle of a cut, the temperature of the fish, the texture of nori before it wilts. I learned to appreciate restraint. To listen more than I talked. To trust the quiet confidence of a chef who doesn’t need to explain anything.

And now, finally, I’m going to Japan.

Food Moves. Food Changes. Always Has. Always Will.

Food doesn’t stand still. It migrates. It adapts. It mutates. Sometimes out of creativity. Sometimes out of survival. Sometimes just because that’s what sells.

Look at pizza. In Naples, it’s sacred—charred, chewy, minimalist. In Chicago, it’s a cheese bomb wearing a crust. Deep dish is technically pizza the way a tank is technically a vehicle. Then there’s Domino’s—spreading across the globe like a weed, redefining pizza one rubbery slice at a time.

Mexican food? Same deal. What much of the world calls “tacos” are often crunchy shells filled with ground beef, cheddar cheese, iceberg lettuce, and sour cream. To a Mexican, that’s not a taco—it’s a prank. But to millions of Americans, it’s what they grew up on. It’s comfort. It’s Tuesday night. And nostalgia, even for the wrong version, is a powerful seasoning.

And now, just to complicate things further—Chipotle is opening in Mexico. Yes, that Chipotle. The burrito bowl empire born in Denver, forged in fast-casual fire, and often blamed for feeding the world a skewed idea of what Mexican food is. Unsurprisingly, the reaction on Mexican social media has been loud and brutal. Outrage. Memes. A collective national side-eye.

But here’s the thing: Chipotle isn’t trying to be “authentic.” It never was. It’s a brand. A ritual. A flavor profile that means something to a lot of people—just maybe not to us Mexicans. I’m not a fan, but I understand why it works. It has a market. It makes certain people happy.

Will it succeed in Mexico? Maybe. Maybe not. Starbucks, for instance, faced skepticism when it entered Italy, a country with a deeply entrenched coffee culture. Yet, by adapting its offerings and creating inviting spaces, it has managed to establish a presence with over 40 stores, appealing to both locals and tourists . In Colombia, despite initial concerns about competing with the beloved Juan Valdez brand, Starbucks has expanded to over 50 stores, indicating a successful adaptation to the local market .

These examples show that while initial reactions may be resistant, there's potential for integration if the brand respects and adapts to local tastes and cultures.

Authenticity Is a Feeling, Not a Set of Rules

So what makes a dish authentic?

Is it ingredients? Geography? Technique? Or is it emotion?

My dad’s teppanyaki outings were about reverence. He wasn’t just feeding us—he was teaching us. And I’m grateful for that. But I also can’t deny that those absurd, overstuffed rolls at Sushi Itto are burned into my childhood memories.

They weren’t “real.” But they were mine.

Even the ones I didn’t love—like the mango roll in Rio—they were part of my journey. And if you follow the trail of crunchy, spicy, fried sins long enough, you eventually reach something quieter. Something truer. Something that doesn’t need sauce to sing.

I know now that authenticity isn’t just about rules. It’s about meaning. About care. About someone giving a damn.

When Does It Become Something Else?

At some point, fusion stops being imitation and becomes identity.

Tex-Mex is its own cuisine. So is Chinese-American. So is Japanese curry. They’re not cheap knockoffs—they’re the real deal, born from new homes, new needs, and new palates.

Maybe the shift happens when people start cooking it that way on purpose—not out of ignorance, but out of love. When it’s not trying to be something else. When it just is.

Deep dish pizza still goes by the same name, but nobody in Naples would recognize it. And that’s fine.

Maybe cream cheese rolls stopped being sushi a long time ago. Or maybe they were never sushi to begin with. But they stuck. Because they mattered to someone.

What Really Matters

Here’s what I’ve learned: I’ve had sushi that changed me—quietly, profoundly, wordlessly. Meals so precise they felt like memories being carved in real time. I’ve also had sushi that made me want to punch a menu.

But some of the most meaningful food I’ve eaten wasn’t “authentic.” It was comforting. Familiar. Honest. I think about Washington, D.C., where most “Mexican” restaurants aren’t Mexican at all—they’re Salvadoran-owned, run by cooks from a country with a different flavor language entirely. But Mexican food is what sells, so they adapt. And somewhere along the way, the tacos start looking suspiciously like pupusas—thicker masa, softer edges, fillings that lean more Central American than norteño.

As a Mexican, I’ll be honest: I found it a little offensive when I first lived there. It felt like someone pretending to speak my language, but getting the accent all wrong. Still, I’ve come to understand its place. It’s not a scam—it’s survival. A kind of culinary code-switching. Fusion born not from creativity, but from necessity.

A sushi master in Tokyo might spend decades perfecting temperature and cut. A Salvadoran cook in D.C. might be pressing masa from memory while shaping it into something that’ll pass as a taco. And both, in their own way, are feeding someone with care.

So maybe the better question isn’t is this authentic?

Maybe it’s why does this exist—and who is it feeding?

Full Circle: Japan and the Roll That Started It All

Now, I’m going to Japan. I’ve been building up to this for decades.

And I know—I know—that I’ve already eaten sushi as close to perfect as it gets. I’ve sat at the best counters, eaten fish flown in that morning, tasted rice adjusted to the humidity of the day. I’ve paid dearly for the privilege.

But still—this trip will feel different.

Not because it’ll be better. Because it’ll be complete.

Because place matters. Because ritual matters. Because eating sushi in Japan—even at a small, unpretentious spot tucked behind a train station—will feel like coming home to a country I’ve never lived in, but have always traveled toward.

And here’s the truth: I wouldn’t be here without the supermarket sushi. Without the cream cheese rolls. Without Sushi Itto. As far removed as they were from traditional Edomae, they gave me a foundation—however shaky. They sparked my curiosity. They laid the groundwork for the obsession that followed. And who knows? If I hadn’t tasted that first “wrong” version of sushi, maybe I would’ve never gone looking for the right one.

And that’s the thing.

Both versions of these foods—the traditional and the transformed—have a place. A deep-dish pizza isn’t Neapolitan, but it’s still pizza. A Taco Bell crunchy shell isn’t a taco al pastor, but it’s still food that shaped someone’s childhood. A spicy roll might not be sushi in the purist sense, but for some people, it’s the version that feels like home. The one they crave. The one that makes them happy.

They’re not the same. They’re not equal. But they’re both valid.

Because food is memory. Food is survival. Food is joy.

And maybe my dad would be proud—not just because I’ve learned to appreciate the “real” thing, but because I never stopped being curious about what made it real in the first place.

That’s food.

It evolves. It seduces. It betrays you. It brings you back.

Even if “back” is half a world away, on a quiet street in Tokyo, where a man in a white coat places a perfect piece of sea urchin in front of you…

…and says nothing at all.

Gracias, papá.

Growing Up with Aguas Frescas in Mexico

I grew up in Mexico, a place where Coca-Cola is king. The country drinks more Coke per capita than anywhere else in the world—millions of liters consumed every year, practically woven into the national identity. But my parents did a good job of keeping it out of our house. Instead, we always had agua de Jamaica (hibiscus tea) and agua de limón—made with Mexican limes, not lemons—chilling in the fridge. Nothing beats a glass of cold agua fresca after kicking the ball around in the sun instead of doing my homework on a hot day.

Aguas frescas were everywhere—at birthday parties, kermeses, taquerías, even school cafeterias. Slowly, horchata became my favorite. There was something about it—the way it coated your mouth with a creamy sweetness, the way the cinnamon played against the sugar, how it made you want to drink more before you’d even swallowed your first sip. It was cold, rich, indulgent, yet refreshing, like drinking dessert without the guilt. A milkshake’s humbler, cooler cousin.

As a kid and a teenager, I never paid much attention to ingredients in food or drinks. I just ate what tasted good. But the first time I tried Spanish horchata in the mid-nineties, something felt… off. It wasn’t bad—it was just different. How could something that was supposedly the same taste so unfamiliar? No cinnamon, no rice, just an earthiness I couldn’t place. My Andalusian abuela never told me they were different—I wonder if she even knew. Decades later, I found myself in Egypt, chewing on tiger nuts for the first time, and suddenly, it clicked. That dusty, nutty flavor—the one that had puzzled me back then—was chufa, the original horchata base.

From Ancient Egypt to Spain

Chufa or Tiger nuts have been around for a while—like, ancient tombs of pharaohs kind of a while. In ancient Egypt, they were ground and mixed with honey to make sweet confections, as seen in tomb paintings like those of Rekhmire. Egyptians also used them medicinally and ate them raw or roasted. Today, in Cairo and other parts of Egypt, they're still sold dried under the name hab el-Aziz and chewed as a nostalgic street snack.

But it wasn’t until the Moors brought rice and chufa cultivation to Spain during their rule (711–1492 AD) that the tuber found its true calling. In Valencia, the warm Mediterranean climate and sandy soil proved perfect for tiger nut farming. Horchata de chufa was born, and it thrived. Today, the Spanish tiger nut industry is thriving, with Valencia still reigning as the epicenter of true horchata. In recent years, chufa has been rediscovered by health-conscious consumers around the world and rebranded as a superfood—praised for being high in fiber, iron, and resistant starch. Spanish producers now export tiger nuts globally, where they show up in everything from plant-based milks to gluten-free snacks and paleo granola.

While most people outside of Spain know horchata as a cinnamon-sweetened rice drink, the original version is something else entirely. In Valencia, horchata is made from chufa—soaked, ground, and sweetened into a creamy, nutty, earthy drink that tastes almost like almond milk’s more rustic cousin. It’s dairy-free, slightly gritty in texture, and served ice-cold in tall glasses. The flavor is unexpected if you’re used to the Mexican version—less dessert, more terroir. In Spain, horchata is a staple with protected designation of origin (Denominación de Origen Protegida, D.O.P.) status, and so woven into local tradition that it has entire establishments devoted to it. In Mexico, horchata is often a sidekick to tacos. In Spain, it’s the main event.

In Valencia, horchata isn’t just a summer refreshment; it’s a ritual. The best place to drink it? At a horchatería, where it’s served ice-cold, often with fartons—long, fluffy pastries designed for dunking. The most famous of them all is Horchatería Santa Catalina, a true Valencia institution. But beyond traditional spots, the industry has grown significantly.

Valencia even has pests horchateros—small beetles that infest chufa crops—reminding us that even an ancient drink has its agricultural struggles. The industry is no small operation either—by 2005, Spain was producing around 47.7 million liters of industrial horchata per year, with a retail market value of 27.3 million euros. Today, major brands like Chufi and Costa ensure that even outside of Valencia, horchata remains a household staple.

A New World, A New Horchata

When the Spanish brought their version of horchata to the Americas, one key ingredient was missing: chufa. Why? I think because the Spanish didn’t see a reason to bring it. Unlike wheat, grapes, or sugarcane, chufa wasn’t an economic priority. It wasn’t widely cultivated outside Valencia, and when the Spanish introduced horchata to the Americas, they replaced chufa with rice, a crop that had already become part of Spanish agriculture thanks to the Moors, who had cultivated it in Valencia for centuries.

Rice itself was not native to Mesoamerica. It was introduced by the Spanish in the early colonial period, brought over from Asia via trade routes. Before its arrival, indigenous civilizations relied on maize, amaranth, and chia as staple grains. Once in the New World, rice adapted well to the warm, wet conditions of Mexico and quickly became a dietary staple. It was only natural that it found its way into horchata, replacing chufa entirely and blending with local flavors like cinnamon and vanilla. In Oaxaca, they took it even further, replacing rice with melon seeds to create a richer, nuttier version of the drink.

Oaxaca also gives horchata its most celebratory moment during La Samaritana, held every fourth Friday of Lent. Inspired by the biblical parable of the Samaritan woman, this uniquely Oaxacan tradition sees locals offering free aguas frescas to passersby from colorfully decorated stalls outside homes, churches, and markets. Horchata flows generously—especially the version topped with cantaloupe cubes and crushed pecans. On special occasions, you might even come across horchata de maíz azul, a blue corn variation that feels both deeply ancestral and oddly modern. It’s not just about quenching thirst; it’s about community, kindness, and cultural memory in liquid form.

Horchata in Mexico is no longer just a beverage; it’s an institution. It’s what cools you down on a blistering hot afternoon at a market stall, the thing you order with your tacos al pastor, the creamy, cinnamon-kissed antidote to too much spice. It’s cheap, it’s refreshing, it’s nostalgic. And it’s everywhere.

From Street Stalls to Hard Seltzers and Beyond

In the U.S., horchata’s popularity has exploded alongside the rise of aguas frescas. Once found only in Mexican taquerías, it's now on grocery store shelves, in bottled versions, in coffee shops as horchata lattes, and, inevitably, in alcohol. That’s right—there are horchata-flavored hard seltzers now. But when American brands say ‘horchata,’ they don’t mean the Valencian tiger nut drink. They mean the Mexican rice-based one, sweetened, spiced, and sometimes boozy. It’s an evolution that would probably baffle a 12th-century Valencian farmer but would make perfect sense to anyone who’s watched a traditional drink morph into a cultural juggernaut.

And then there’s RumChata. A boozy lovechild of horchata and rum, this cream liqueur—made with Caribbean rum, dairy cream, cinnamon, and vanilla—was launched in 2009. What started as a niche product quickly became a hit, shipping over a million cases by 2014 and generating more than $420 million in retail revenue. By 2016, it was the second best-selling cream liqueur in the U.S., just behind Baileys Irish Cream. Its versatility made it a favorite for cocktails, from RumChata White Russians to Cinnamon Toast Crunch shots, turning horchata’s familiar flavors into something decidedly more decadent.

The tiger nuts stayed in Spain, but horchata kept moving, changing, adapting. The drink survived conquest, colonization, and globalization, shifting from chufa to rice to melon seeds to whatever ends up in a hard seltzer or a creamy, spiked bottle of RumChata. It’s a testament to how food—like language, like culture—is never static. It moves, it transforms, it tells a story. And in this case, that story is sweet, creamy, and tastes just a little bit like cinnamon.

I didn’t plan to eat there twice.
But Crudo had other ideas.

There’s something magnetic about a restaurant that doesn’t play by the rules of its postcode. You land in Oaxaca expecting mole, memelas, tlayudas big enough to cover your face. And you should — Oaxacan cuisine is one of Mexico’s most storied treasures: rich moles thick with history, smoky pasillas and chilhuacles, corn that feels almost sacred, quesillo (Oaxaca’s iconic string cheese), and the ever-present kiss of mezcal.

What you don’t expect, in the rugged heart of Mexico’s south, is a sushi counter. Not just any sushi counter, but a six-seat omakase bar where the chef, Ricardo Arellano, serves jurel nigiri with Oaxacan herbs and eel crowned with a jelly made from mezcal jam. No menu, no bullshit. Just sit, surrender, and let him cook.

I visited in March, and it was so good, I went back two days later. No regrets.

Ricardo Arellano is an original. He was born in the remote Cañada region of Oaxaca — a rugged, isolated part of the state where traditions run deep and the climate, hot and dry, yields some of the rarest ingredients in Mexican gastronomy. It’s one of the last places still cultivating chile chilhuacle, the legendary pepper behind Oaxaca’s most complex moles. I had the chance to visit La Cañada last year while shooting a documentary, and I can tell you firsthand: this is a place of living culinary heritage.

His parents were bakers, but Ricardo never intended to become a chef. He studied architecture, drawn to the structure, the design, the balance of it all. Life, however, had other plans.

He spent time in the U.S., mostly behind the line at a Greek restaurant in Chicago, flipping souvlaki and plating moussaka — a far cry from either Japan or Oaxaca. But his time there was cut short. Ricardo was deported back to Mexico, landing not in Oaxaca but in Mexico City. And it was there, surrounded by the capital's explosive food scene, that he caught his first serious break: working at Pujol, the crown jewel of Mexican fine dining, where chef Enrique Olvera redefined what Mexican cuisine could be on the global stage. From there, he moved to another of Olvera’s spots, Tecuchi, a temple to fire and smoke, before life called him back to Oaxaca after his father’s passing.

Back in his home state, Ricardo saw something no one else seemed to: for all its coastline (Oaxaca has over 500 kilometers of Pacific shoreline), the region’s cuisine barely touches seafood. Oaxacan tables are heavy with meats, corn, beans, and earth-driven flavors. Fish? A distant afterthought. So Ricardo asked the obvious question: What if?

What if the crudo, the raw treasures of the ocean, met the gutsy soul of Oaxaca?

Crudo — which literally means "raw" in Spanish — is his answer. He opened it in 2020, in the middle of a pandemic, no less. The concept is sharp: a Mexican-Japanese omakase, deeply rooted in local ingredients but cut with the precision of Japanese technique. It’s not a gimmick. It’s a true fusion — the rare kind that feels natural, inevitable even.

In a way, what Ricardo is building at Crudo could be for Oaxacan gastronomy what Nikkei cuisine is for Peru: a bold, cross-cultural marriage of native flavors and Japanese technique, not just to impress tourists, but to spark a new conversation in his own backyard. A cuisine of its own, born from curiosity, respect, and a little rebellion.

Crudo has three spaces, like chapters in a good book.

The first, and most coveted, is the intimate six-seat counter, where Arellano himself plays Itamae, serving guests directly. There’s also a slightly larger room, where two younger chefs follow the maestro’s playbook but riff with their own touches. And then there’s Cru Cru — the casual bar, for those looking for a looser experience but still chasing that flavor high.

There’s sake, of course — a tight but thoughtful list. I tried Nami, a sake from Sinaloa of all places (yes, Mexico is brewing sake now). Their Junmai Daiginjo won gold at the Fine Sake Awards Japan, and it drinks like a dream: crisp, elegant, with a soft ricey hug. Perfect for cutting through the fattiness of the tuna belly or the buttery folds of quesillo.

They also have their own beer, brewed especially for them by Aguamala, the excellent craft brewery from Ensenada. It’s a great local touch, keeping the Baja connection alive while offering something crisp and refreshing between courses.

Speaking of quesillo: let’s talk about this moment. Ricardo serves a small orb of the famous Oaxacan string cheese, creamy and slightly salty, wrapped around an oyster. Presented on its shell, it’s like biting into a briny memory of the coast — unexpected, sensual, a revelation.

Then there’s the rice. Arellano uses Koshihikari, the prince of short-grain rice, but ditches the classic su (vinegar) seasoning for a blend of Oaxacan herbs that feels earthy, herbal, almost forest-like. It’s a small tweak, but it matters. It tastes of place.

Tuna from Ensenada (because you won’t find bluefin in Oaxacan waters) arrives in a trinity of cuts: akami (lean, ruby-red), chutoro (the silky middle ground), and otoro (fatty, decadent, melt-in-your-mouth). Each bite is meant to be layered: a sliver of tuna, a dab of that earthy, grasshopper-laced paste, a leaf of quintonil (a native Mexican green with a subtle bite), and a slice of heirloom tomato. Then — and here’s the brilliant twist — you follow the bite with a sip from a small bowl of black bean reduction, served on the side. This isn’t sauce for the fish; it’s Ricardo’s local answer to soy sauce, but presented as a separate drink. Earthy, rich, and deeply rooted in Oaxacan flavors, it ties the elements together like a culinary chaser. Clever and deeply satisfying.

The jurel (yellowtail) nigiri is flawless. Bright, clean, and topped with a whisper of something herbal and sharp that feels like Oaxaca whispering into Japan’s ear.

There’s also a fantastic bite of local green tomato crowned with ikura (salmon roe), served as a nigiri. It bursts in the mouth — bright acidity from the tomato, saline pop from the roe — but what really stood out to me was the tepiche, an herb I had never tried before. Pungent and herbal, it added a sharp, distinctive note that cut right through the richness. A discovery.

The temaki is another highlight: a hand roll of verdolaga, a wild Mexican green known as purslane, with a slightly lemony, tart bite, and rice, plus soft shell crab — a combination that’s both crunchy and unctuous, and deeply satisfying.

But the showstopper, the moment that tattooed itself into my memory, was the eel. Served with a gelatinous glaze made from mezcal jam — extracted from the smoky, caramelized agave hearts after they’re roasted but before fermentation. You chase the bite with a shot of pure mezcal smoke. In the second room, they swap the agave jelly for a maguey worm paste, grounding the dish in Oaxacan tradition. Either way, it’s a tribute to mezcal, the liquid soul of this land.

Ricardo also surprises with real-deal Kobe beef — and yes, it’s certified. One of the few places in Mexico serving it.

To close the meal, there’s dessert: a granita made from zapote — a sweet, custardy tropical fruit native to Mexico, somewhere between a ripe persimmon and a mango in flavor — paired with xoconostle, a tart cactus fruit related to prickly pear, and a splash of pulque, Mexico’s ancestral fermented agave drink. The result is a beautiful balance of sweet and sharp, cold and refreshing, with a gentle, almost milky tang from the pulque. It cleanses the palate and leaves you wanting just one more bite.

Accolades? They’re piling up. Crudo has been recognized by the Michelin Guide and was recently crowned "Best Restaurant Outside Mexico City" by Food & Travel magazine. No small feat in a country bursting with talent.

But honestly, screw the awards. Crudo is impressive because it’s original. Because Ricardo Arellano is doing something truly personal — not just for the tourists chasing the next viral omakase, but for Oaxaca itself. He’s inviting locals to rediscover their own coastline, to taste the Pacific in every bite, and to experience the wild magic that happens when you let two great food cultures collide without fear.

Crudo isn’t just a place to eat. It’s a place to wake up your palate. To sit, drink, and trust a man who saw an opportunity in the unknown, and chased it all the way to greatness.

I grew up in a Spanish and Mexican household—two cultures separated by an ocean and, honestly, by very different cuisines. There aren’t many dishes they have in common, but arroz con leche—rice pudding—is one of them. Sweet, simple, and familiar. I always thought of it as ours. What I didn’t know back then was that rice pudding is everywhere. No single country claims it. It belongs to all of us.

Now that I’ve been living in Cairo for a while, I notice it’s everywhere here too. Egyptians don’t just eat rice pudding—they live with it. They even have a handful of desserts with rice. And that’s what pulled me in. How did this beloved dessert end up here? And how did it become so deeply rooted in Egypt’s culinary soul?

There’s a kind of magic in Cairo—a city where even the simplest bowl of rice and milk carries the weight of centuries. Roz bel Laban isn’t just dessert. It’s comfort dressed in cream, a humble dish that tells the story of empires rising and falling, of trade routes and migrations, of sweet tooths spanning continents. Somewhere, steam rises off a battered tin pot, milk thickens around tender grains, and a sprinkle of nuts or coconut reminds you this was once a dish fit only for the wealthy, now beloved by everyone. You don’t need a silver spoon to taste the history—just an appetite and a little curiosity.

In Egypt, rice or roz, is not just an ingredient—it’s a way of life. Walk into any home, any street food joint, or any bustling kitchen, and you’ll find rice front and center. It’s the backbone of dishes like koshary—Egypt’s chaotic, comforting answer to hunger—where rice, lentils, pasta, and crispy onions collide in a perfect mess. Or mahshi, where rice, kissed by a blend of spices, finds itself snug inside grape leaves and zucchini. Or hamam mahshi, where tender stuffed pigeons are roasted until golden, their bellies packed with spiced rice that soaks up every drop of flavor. Then there’s fattah, the grand feast of layered rice, crispy bread, and slow-cooked meat, drenched in garlicky tomato sauce, a dish so indulgent it feels like a royal decree. Rice is everywhere, in everything, a grain that’s woven into the fabric of Egyptian cuisine. Though widely consumed in Egypt today, rice was a late arrival to its culinary landscape.

While some believe rice came during the early Islamic period, Professor Daniel Newman, Chair of Arabic Studies at the University of Durham, explains that historical sources only mention its cultivation in Egypt by the 10th century, particularly in Fayoum and Upper Egypt. Before that? No sign of it.

Rice pudding, however, boasts ancient origins. Versions like kheer appear in Indian texts such as the Mahabharata—dating back more than two thousand years. Medieval Arab cuisine, heavily influenced by Persian traditions, embraced it too. “Culinary literature from the Abbasid period—9th and 10th centuries—mentions rice puddings, which appeared in Iraq, Syria, and Egypt. These were elite dishes, sometimes made with ground rice, sometimes whole, often sweetened with honey or sugar,” says Professor Newman. They were enriched with rosewater, saffron, and nuts—flavors we still find in Egyptian sweets today.

Rice and milk have been mingling in kitchens worldwide for centuries. In ancient Rome, rice was so rare it was used more as medicine than food. Meanwhile, in Korea’s Joseon Dynasty (1392–1897), milk was an even rarer commodity, reserved for royalty, and used to prepare tarakjuk—a dish strikingly similar to rice pudding.

Closer to Egypt, the recipe journeyed through Persia and the Middle East, morphing into various forms before settling here. Professor Newman points out that rice entered Europe through Spain and Sicily, likely carried by Muslim rulers—and probably with the idea of rice pudding alongside.

Egypt’s version kept the silkiness and floral hints of its ancestors but made one thing non-negotiable: fresh milk. In both medieval Europe and Egypt, rice pudding had sweet and savory forms. “In Egypt,” Professor Newman notes, “some versions included shredded chicken—a tradition that still survives in Turkey today with dishes like tavuk göğsü.”

One chef helping keep this culinary heritage alive is Chef Moustafa Elrefaey, executive chef and cofounder of Zööba—ranked 21st in the MENA’s 50 Best Restaurants 2025. Chef Elrefaey recalls, “My grandmother used to make a savory version of rice pudding called roz me’ammar with chicken—very simple but very flavorful.” It’s a reminder that Roz bel Laban, like Egypt itself, has layers—of flavor, of meaning, of history.

As rice grew more common, Roz bel Laban found its soulful expression. Professor Newman explains, “Initially, rice was an elite product—three times more expensive than wheat—but by the 15th century, it became part of middle-class culinary traditions, even appearing as street food.”

Unlike elsewhere, where rice pudding stayed mostly homemade, Egypt developed a unique tradition: dairy shops dedicated to selling it. You can still imagine the medieval markets where milk merchants would serve bowls of warm rice pudding—just like some do today. It’s this deep relationship with dairy that truly defines Roz bel Laban.

Milk runs through every spoonful—more than an ingredient, it’s a marker of class, craft, and taste. “The wealthiest versions were prepared with milk,” Professor Newman explains, “while poorer versions would use water. It was a social marker.” Cow’s milk was considered superior, especially in cities, while sheep and goat’s milk filled in elsewhere.

That reverence for milk lives on. “I use a combination of cow milk and buffalo milk,” Chef Elrefaey tells me. “It gives you richness and a lovely flavor. Never canned, always fresh.” His method—cooking the rice directly in milk—preserves the grains, with sugar and vanilla added off the heat to keep the color and fragrance. A hint of orange zest brightens the whole thing.

“Egyptians prefer any dessert that contains milk,” he laughs, rattling off ashura, mihallabiya, belil—each a testament to dairy’s central role in our sweets. For him, Roz bel Laban is personal—memories of eating it warm, straight from the pot with his mother and grandmother. “There’s something special when it’s still warm, fragrant, with a gratin from the oven. That little bitterness from the top layer—it’s lovely.”

Centuries of refinement shaped the dessert we know now. Rice slowly simmered in milk, finished with rose or orange blossom water. It became the soft landing after a heavy meal, a Ramadan staple, a symbol of sweetness and abundance. It’s the dish grandmothers make with a knowing touch, the treat kids beg for, the midnight indulgence that soothes and satisfies.

What sets Egypt’s version apart is the sheer smoothness and intensity of the milk. Egyptians don’t overcomplicate it—they win you over with authenticity. And that milk? It tastes like milk should—rich, fresh, almost farm-like. It’s a flavor you don’t get in the Mexican, Spanish, or British versions, where the milkiness is often more muted.

Then there’s qishta—thickened clotted cream—folded in to deepen the richness and give Roz bel Laban its signature velvety texture. It’s that uniquely Egyptian touch few other rice puddings have.

Walk through Cairo and you’ll find Roz bel Laban everywhere. El Malky—founded in 1917. Khalifa, established in 1907. Newer players like B.Laban, boasting millions of social media followers—a testament to how this humble dish keeps capturing new generations. These aren’t just dessert shops—they’re institutions. Behind every counter is a family recipe, passed down and fiercely guarded. A story of tradition, craft, and quiet pride.

And like everything we love, Roz bel Laban keeps evolving. Across the city, shops are experimenting—topping it with ice cream, Nutella, pistachio cream, Lotus cookies, mango purée, even chocolate drizzle. But somehow, these twists never stray too far from the heart of it. Roz bel Laban evolves, but it never loses its soul.

In the end, Roz bel Laban is Egypt in a bowl—humble, rich, layered with stories. A dessert that started as a luxury, sold in markets centuries ago, and now lives on in family kitchens and neon-lit dessert shops. It doesn’t just satisfy a craving—it carries a country’s history, its love for sweetness, its unapologetic indulgence.

Because in Egypt, even the simplest bowl of rice and milk carries a story.

History is weird. It’s full of pirates, broken deals, and strangers washing up on the wrong shores, leaving behind things they never meant to—love affairs, war wounds, recipes. And nowhere is that truer than in Mexico, a country built on borrowed gods, stolen spices, and the leftovers of a thousand shipwrecks.

Take, for example, the fact that samurai once walked the streets of Acapulco.

It was the early 1600s, and Spain was still riding high on the whole we-own-half-the-world thing. Their golden goose was the Manila-Acapulco Galleon trade, a nearly 250-year-long parade of silver, silk, and spices that turned Mexico into the central hub of a global empire.

This was globalization before anyone had a word for it—a nonstop conveyor belt of goods, people, and ideas moving between Asia, the Americas, and Europe. Centuries before transatlantic flights and supply chain headaches, these galleons made Mexico the world’s first true crossroads. And they didn’t just bring luxury goods. They carried people—Filipino sailors, Chinese traders, South Asian workers, and, on at least one occasion, an actual delegation of Japanese samurai, fresh off the boat from Sendai, probably wondering what the hell they were doing in New Spain.

The Samurai and the Ronin of New Spain

The leader of this unlikely diplomatic mission was Hasekura Tsunenaga, a samurai-turned-ambassador sent to forge a trade deal between Japan and Spain. His journey took him from Acapulco to Mexico City, then across the Atlantic to Madrid and Rome, where he met the Pope. But by the time he returned home, Japan had shut itself off from the world, outlawing foreign influence. His mission, and whatever trade deals he hoped to secure, had already been buried.

But here’s the thing—he wasn’t the first, or the last, Japanese warrior to set foot in Mexico.

Long before Hasekura arrived, some of his countrymen had already settled in Mexico. The Spanish Crown, ever the opportunist, had begun hiring Japanese ronin (masterless samurai) as mercenaries, enlisting them in their colonial expansion. Meanwhile, Manila had already become home to a growing Japanese community—many of whom ended up in Mexico, voluntarily or otherwise.

Then there were the thousands of Filipino, Chinese, and South Asian sailors working the galleons, many of whom never made the return trip. They stayed. They married into local families. And they left a mark in ways that couldn’t be measured in silver or silk.

One of the biggest? Food.

Camarón Seco & the Secret Asian Influence

If you’ve ever eaten in Mexico during Cuaresma (Lent), you’ve probably had tortitas de camarón—golden-brown shrimp fritters doused in a fiery red sauce. It’s a dish so deeply ingrained in tradition that no one stops to ask where the hell dried shrimp even came from.

Or how it became essential to Mexican holiday feasts.

Because camarón seco doesn’t just show up in Lent. Come Christmas, it takes center stage in romeritos con tortitas de camarón—where seepweed (romeritos) and shrimp patties get drenched in a rich mole sauce. The shrimp isn’t fresh; it’s ground into a powder, whipped into eggs, fried until golden, and then bathed in one of Mexico’s most iconic sauces.

Or at least that’s how it’s supposed to be done. Ask around my family, and you’ll hear that no one makes romeritos quite like my tía Kiki. Hers are the kind that make you forget you ever questioned the idea of mixing mole and shrimp. Perfectly fried tortitas, the romeritos never too bitter, the mole dark and rich enough to make you want to lick the plate. Every year, the debate is settled before it even begins—Tía Kiki’s romeritos reign supreme.

And that’s no accident. The drying and preserving techniques that made camarón seco a staple of Mexican cuisine? Those came across the Pacific with the galleons. Filipino and Chinese traders introduced dried seafood and fish preservation methods that stuck. The Spanish might have brought Catholicism, but it was Asian sailors who ensured that during Lent, when meat was off the table, shrimp cakes were front and center.

Other quiet contributions from the Manila-Acapulco trade:

• Fermented fish pastes: Early versions of fish sauces that influenced broths and stews.

• Soy sauces and vinegars: Making their way into local adaptations of escabeche and adobos.

• Rice cultivation: Brought by the Spanish, yes, but improved and expanded by Asian farmers in Mexico.

• Tamarind, coconut, sugarcane: Staple ingredients today, but originally smuggled across the Pacific.

The galleons stopped sailing in 1815, but the people they carried never left. And they left behind something even more permanent than food—their DNA.

Guerrero’s Hidden Asian Ancestry

If you walk through the state of Guerrero today, you’ll notice something: many locals look distinctly Asian. And that’s not just perception—genetic studies indicate that about a third of the people sampled from Guerrero have Asian ancestry, with genetic markers matching those of populations in the Philippines.

Centuries of migration, intermarriage, and assimilation shaped the people of Mexico’s Pacific coast in ways that official history largely ignores. The galleons may have been Spain’s ticket to global wealth, but the people who traveled on them—voluntarily or otherwise—ended up changing Mexico at a molecular level.

The Forgotten Legacy of the Galleons

By the time the Manila Galleons stopped sailing, the trade had already reshaped Mexico in ways that history books barely acknowledge. This wasn’t just a silver-for-silk exchange—it was the quiet, messy business of migration, where food was the first thing to blend long before cultures officially did.

The Spanish might have stamped their name on Mexico, but the country’s food tells a different story: one of Filipino sailors, Chinese merchants, Japanese swordsmen, and Indigenous cooks, all throwing ingredients into the same pot.

So if you ever bite into a tortita de camarón, take a moment to appreciate the absurdity of history. Somewhere in the lineage of that dish, there’s a samurai in Acapulco, wondering how he ended up here.

And if that’s not the most Mexican story ever, I don’t know what is.

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The Michelin Guide is a weird, secretive little club, and every time they expand to a new country, the food world watches like it’s some kind of sacred ceremony. Will the taco gods be pleased? Will the right chefs be anointed? Will some absolute bullshit get through the cracks? (Spoiler: Yes.)

I was in Mexico City recently, and I did what I always do—ate like a maniac. Esquina Común? Fine. Nothing to write home about. El Califa, the now-infamous taquería that holds a Michelin star? Decent tacos, sure. But great? Life-changing? No chance. The thing about tacos in CDMX is that the bar is so damn high, a Michelin star should mean you’re serving divinity on a tortilla. If your taco stand has one of those shiny red stars hanging by the door, it should punch me in the face with flavor and make me rethink everything I thought I knew about tacos. Instead, I took a bite and thought: Yeah. Pretty good. Which isn’t the reaction you want from a "world-class" place.

Maybe El Califa got its star because of consistency—always the same, always solid. Maybe it’s the simplicity, the way the gaoneras (thinly sliced beef tacos) don’t rely on a mountain of toppings or salsa to sing. But if that’s the case, explain to me how the absolute insanity of Michelin ignoring Kyōten in Chicago makes sense.

Kyōten: The Sushi Genius That Michelin Ignored

Otto Phan is a madman, and I mean that as a compliment. The guy hunts down the best fish in Japan like a samurai on a quest for the perfect blade. His sushi at Kyōten is aggressively vinegary, unapologetic, sharp as hell. The rice alone should come with a warning label—strong umami, high acidity, riding the edge of balance. Chef Phan always compares the right acidity in sushi to playing blackjack, “you want to hit 21, but one step over and you crash”. Phan plays that game better than anyone.

And yet… Kyōten has no Michelin star. Worse: it’s not even in the damn guide. But you know what is? Kyōten Next Door—his more casual, toned-down omakase spot. It’s like giving an award to a director’s student film instead of their masterpiece. Meanwhile, Mako—the only Michelin-starred omakase in Chicago—gets the nod. And look, Mako is good. But it’s not Kyōten. Not even close.

If you needed more proof that Michelin’s system sometimes makes no damn sense, there you have it.

Michelin Knows What They’re Doing—And That’s the Problem

When I asked chef Phan about Kyoten’s snub, he didn’t sugarcoat it.

"Honestly, I don’t know. Michelin didn’t like it when I came to town and said Chicago sushi was bad. But I wasn’t wrong, and I’m still here. So there’s obviously some tension there. And I won’t reach out. But I’m an obvious name, so it’s not like they missed something. They know what they’re doing."

That last part hit me. They know what they’re doing. This wasn’t an oversight. It was a choice.

Phan also pointed out that Sushi Yoshizumi in San Mateo, CA lost its star, which, in his words, is "huge… Yoshizumi is the best in the West. Ridiculous."

So Michelin didn’t just ignore one of the best sushi spots in America—they also actively downgraded another one. If that doesn’t make you question their logic, nothing will.

No Star for Lorea? That’s a Crime.

Let’s be real: Lorea not having a Michelin star is absolute nonsense.

Oswaldo Oliva didn’t just stumble into fine dining—he spent a decade at Mugaritz under Andoni Luis Aduriz, mastering the kind of boundary-pushing creativity that should make Michelin take notice. Instead, they put Lorea on the list, but without a star—like giving a standing ovation but refusing to hand over the trophy.

Every night, the menu changes, yet Oliva delivers precision, vision, and dishes that punch way above what Michelin seems to recognize. This isn’t just fine dining in Mexico City—it’s world-class.

The fact that Michelin ignored Lorea while handing out stars to safer, less daring spots? A joke. A bad one.

Even Michelin’s Own Legends Aren’t Safe

If you think Michelin’s randomness only affects places like Kyoten or Lorea, ask Marc Veyrat—a chef so respected he once earned a perfect 20/20 from Gault & Millau. His restaurant, La Maison des Bois, held three Michelin stars—until one mysteriously disappeared in 2018.

Veyrat demanded an explanation. Michelin refused. He took them to court—and lost.

One of his theories? The inspectors thought his soufflé had cheddar in it.

"They thought I used cheddar! In the Alps, where we have the best cheese in the world!" he raged.

Fed up, Veyrat told Michelin to go to hell—calling their inspectors “impostors” and “profoundly incompetent.”

If Michelin can’t even explain itself to one of France’s greatest chefs, what hope does anyone else have?

The Michelin Guide: A Red Book With a History of Bullshit

Here’s the thing: Michelin wasn’t even about food when it started. It was a tire company. The whole thing was a marketing stunt—a travel guide to get people to drive more, burn through their tires, and buy new ones. Over a century later, it’s somehow become the holy book of fine dining, but the question remains: Why do they pick some places and ignore others?

Michelin claims it’s all about food on the plate—not service, not ambiance, just the cooking. But if that were true, why do so many of their choices feel random as hell? Why do powerful restaurant groups and big-name chefs seem to have a much easier time getting stars?

Then there’s The World’s 50 Best Restaurants, Michelin’s biggest rival. Unlike Michelin, 50 Best isn’t about anonymous inspections—it’s a popularity contest. Chefs vote. Writers vote. Critics vote. That means it rewards hype, influence, and innovation, rather than pure consistency. And honestly? That’s probably closer to how food actually works today. People chase experiences, not just technical perfection.

Michelin? They’re still pretending to be some kind of secret food Illuminati, handing out stars with an air of divine authority, when in reality, they miss as often as they hit.

My First Michelin Experience.

I remember my first Michelin-starred meal. It was 2005, London, Pied à Terre. One of those small, serious fine-dining spots with soft lighting and a quiet hum of reverence. The service was perfect but not fussy, and the food? Precision on a plate. The kind of meal where you realize every single technique has been executed a thousand times before service even starts. I had dishes that were so finely tuned they felt engineered, and for 2005 me, that was next-level magic. It was my first real glimpse into the Michelin world, and at the time, it felt like a rite of passage.

But that was before I traveled more, before I saw how much amazing food existed in places Michelin never sets foot in. Before I learned that technique alone isn’t everything.

So What’s the Lesson? Michelin Is Still Magic, But Trust Your Own Damn Palate.

Look, I still get a thrill walking into a Michelin-starred restaurant. It’s like being a kid at Disneyland—you know Mickey Mouse isn’t real, but damned if you don’t get giddy when you see a guy in the suit. There’s a ritual to it, a sense of occasion, that little flutter of excitement when you sit down and think, Alright, impress me.

And sometimes, they do. When Michelin gets it right, it’s magic. When they get it wrong, it’s maddening. But at the end of the day, stars don’t dictate great meals—your palate does.

Some of the best meals of my life weren’t dictated by a red book—they happened in places where the food, the setting, and the sheer joy of eating came together perfectly.

I don’t need some tire company’s approval to know when a meal is great. Neither do you. Michelin is just one map, but the world of food is bigger than that. Trust your own damn palate. The stars don’t always align—but that doesn’t mean the meal wasn’t worth the journey.

My dad wasn’t what you’d call a “foodie” by today’s standards. He didn’t obsess over trendy fusion dishes or chef-driven pop-ups, but the man had an educated palate. A classic one. French cuisine was his benchmark for greatness. Lobster thermidor, escargot, chateaubriand, steak tartare. Can you blame him? He was born into a wealthy household, carted off to Europe every summer as a kid, where eating well wasn’t optional—it was expected. The man knew how to eat.

But raw meat? That was strictly his thing. As a kid, I couldn’t even look at it. At the Lebanese restaurants we frequented in Mexico City, he was the only one at the table who touched the kibbe charola (tray kibbeh). He’d spread it on bread like butter, all while I happily avoided it, sticking to the fried kibbe balls—crispy, golden, and cooked. The raw stuff just didn’t sit right with me.

It wasn’t just kibbeh. Anytime we hit the beach, my dad would dive headfirst into cócteles—Mexico’s ceviche-adjacent seafood cocktails—filled with fish, conch, or oysters. Me? I stuck with shrimp, maybe octopus, boiled and “safe.” Raw oysters? Forget it. And sashimi? That took me until my early teens. When I finally tried it, I realized I’d been missing out.

The turning point came in high school, at my friend Carlos’s house. His mother, Rocío, had a way of feeding you that made you feel like royalty. Her enchiladas verdes were legendary, but her carne tártara (also known in Mexico as carne apache) was something else entirely. She’d drown raw beef in lemon juice, the acidity “cooking” it like ceviche. It was bold, fresh, tangy—and for years, I refused to touch it. But when I finally caved, it was like the floodgates opened. That dish still lingers in my memory, as much for how it tasted as for how it made me feel: cared for, part of something.

By my twenties, I’d grown out of my raw meat phobia. I wasn’t eating sashimi like candy or obsessing over ceviches, but I’d gladly eat them when they were on the table. Steak tartare, though—that became my ritual. Late-night dinners at Pied de Cochon, whether during my stint in Paris or in Mexico City, weren’t complete without tartare and pont neuf fries. There’s something magical about the combination: perfectly seasoned raw beef alongside fries so crisp and golden they seemed engineered to steal the spotlight.

Steak tartare didn’t start as the refined plate you see in fancy brasseries today. Back in the early 20th century, it was steak à l’Américaine, a raw beef dish often served with tartar sauce—a strange pairing that somehow stuck around long enough to inspire the name. By the 1930s, the sauce was ditched, and the dish evolved into what we know now: raw beef, seasoned to perfection, and crowned with a raw egg yolk. Over time, “tartare” became shorthand for raw indulgence, expanding its territory to include tuna tartare, dreamed up in the 1970s at Le Duc in Paris, and even beet tartare for the plant-based crowd. Whether it’s beef, fish, or vegetables, tartare is about the thrill of raw ingredients at their best—clean, unpretentious, and demanding your full trust in the chef behind it.

And then there’s Negitoro, a Japanese marvel that takes raw indulgence to a whole new level. Made from finely minced fatty tuna belly (toro) mixed with chopped green onions (negi), it’s silky, rich, and impossibly fresh. Many itamae (sushi chefs) choose to finish the savory omakase feast with a Negitoro hand roll before moving into dessert—a final, perfect bite that lingers on the palate. I’ve had so many good ones over the years, each bite a balance of melt-in-your-mouth decadence and the sharp, refreshing kick of scallion. Whether served atop sushi rice or tucked into a crisp seaweed wrap, Negitoro reminds me why raw food can be so damn addictive.

Before mankind tamed fire, we ate raw food out of necessity. But the moment we put protein to flame, something extraordinary happened. It wasn’t just survival anymore—we were seeking flavor, pleasure, hedonism. Tartare, in all its forms, feels like a tribute to that time before fire, a reminder of the boldness it takes to let the ingredients speak for themselves.

Over the years, I’ve eaten my fair share of tartare, but three dishes stand out. Call it my “trilogy of raw.”

The Tartare Trilogy

1. Steak Tartare with Roasted Bone Marrow and Soufflé Potatoes

Suculent, Barcelona | Chef Toni Romero

Suculent doesn’t mess around. Their steak tartare isn’t just a dish; it’s a flex. Perfectly seasoned raw beef, paired with roasted bone marrow (tuétano a la brasa) so rich it should come with a warning, and soufflé potatoes (patatas suflés) that are equal parts crispy and magical.

There’s no pretension here—just bold, unapologetic flavors that hit you square in the face. It’s the kind of dish that makes you stop mid-conversation because your brain can’t process anything but how good it is.

2. Kibbeh Nayyeh

Em Sherif, Cairo | Chef Yasmina Hayek

I’ve been to the Cairo location of Em Sherif twice now, and each time, the kibbeh nayyeh pulls me back in. The flagship restaurant, much revered, is in Beirut—a city I visited back in 2019 and have been longing to return to. Kibbeh nayyeh isn’t just food—it’s history on a plate. It connects you to something ancient and timeless, a reminder that raw food has been celebrated long before it was trendy.

3. Carne Tártara Tacos

Taquería El Jarocho, Mexico City

El Jarocho isn’t just a taquería—it’s a legend. A place that has been serving a great variety of tacos de guisado for over 70 years, this spot has become a staple for locals who know exactly where to go for honest, unpretentious flavors. Their carne tártara tacos are the stuff of dreams. Fresh, tangy raw beef marinated in lime juice, spiced just enough to make you sit up and take notice, all wrapped in a soft tortilla. It’s everything you love about tartare, but stripped of its formality. It’s raw, it’s bold, and it’s distinctly Mexican. Every bite reminds me of Rocío’s carne tártara, but with an edge.

These three dishes aren’t just food—they’re connections to something primal. Suculent’s tartare is indulgent and daring, Em Sherif’s kibbeh is elegant and steeped in tradition, and El Jarocho’s tacos are pure nostalgia.

Raw food isn’t just about flavor; it’s a leap of faith, a connection to who we were before fire changed us forever. And when you embrace it, the rewards are endless.

A few days ago, I was at my aunt Kiki's house, eating homemade green enchiladas, the kind that make you nostalgic for childhood. She topped them with perfectly sliced avocado, and for a moment, I was in heaven. No fancy toast, no overanalyzed Instagram post—just simple, real food, the way it has always been meant to be. And with the Super Bowl just around the corner, I couldn’t help but think about how avocados have become such a cultural force in the U.S.

It’s Super Bowl weekend, and that means one thing: America is about to inhale an unholy amount of guacamole. Bowls of it, buckets of it, oceans of mashed green gold scooped up by millions of tortilla chips between commercial breaks. According to the Hass Avocado Board, Americans will consume around 105 million pounds of avocados on Super Bowl Sunday alone. That’s about 53 million avocados sacrificed in the name of football and gluttony. But while the U.S. has turned guacamole into the MVP of game day snacks, for Mexicans, it’s never been a trend, never been a fad, and definitely never been just a dip.

Avocados Have Ancient Roots

Avocados originated in what is now Mexico and have been cultivated for thousands of years. The word “avocado” itself comes from the Nahuatl word āhuacatl, which, yes, translates to “testicle.” The name wasn’t just a random linguistic quirk—the shape of the fruit and its supposed aphrodisiac properties likely played a role in the name’s origin. Indigenous Mesoamerican civilizations like the Aztecs and Maya revered the avocado for its rich, nourishing qualities and incorporated it into their diets long before it became a global phenomenon.

Avocados Weren't Always This Cool

I grew up in Mexico City, where avocado wasn't some hipster affectation smeared onto overpriced sourdough. It was a way of life. It went on tacos, tortas, and tostadas. It showed up in breakfast, lunch, and dinner, unceremoniously sliced, mashed, or eaten straight with a spoon and a pinch of salt. It wasn’t something you thought about; it was just there — as essential as tortillas or lime. No one made a big deal about it. No one was out here tattooing avocados on their forearms or paying $18 for a slice of bread with "artisanal" guac. It was sustenance, part of the natural rhythm of eating in Mexico.

Then, at some point in the early 2000s, avocados became cool. They transcended their humble taco stand roots and entered the American consciousness like some exotic superfood. Avocado toast became a cultural phenomenon, adopted by wellness influencers, brunch warriors, and Silicon Valley types who used it as a metaphor for why millennials couldn’t afford houses. Suddenly, this thing that had been a staple of my childhood was being fetishized, and I was sitting there wondering: Where the hell were you people when I was bringing sandwiches with avocado to school?

The Avocado Empire of Michoacán

But let's get one thing straight: the world’s insatiable avocado appetite is no joke. The U.S. alone imports over 2.5 billion pounds of avocados a year, and Mexico supplies nearly 90% of them. And where do most of those come from? Michoacán.

Michoacán is not only the birthplace of carnitas, it’s also the avocado Mecca, the land where the best Hass avocados grow under the perfect combination of volcanic soil, climate, and altitude. If you've ever had a truly great avocado, chances are it came from there. But that demand has consequences. The avocado boom has made some people very rich and some people very dead. Entire forests have been razed to make way for more avocado orchards. Cartels, always on the lookout for a profitable venture, have muscled into the trade, extorting farmers and controlling the lucrative business like a green gold rush. It’s not all sunshine and toast.

I know this problem firsthand. My friend Luis Fernando’s family was a witness to the cartel’s grip on the avocado trade. It’s a dangerous business, and for many families in Michoacán, growing avocados isn’t just a livelihood—it’s a gamble with life itself.

Not All Avocados Are Created Equal

I’ve tried avocados from other parts of the world, and let me tell you—it’s not even close. When I lived in Spain, I bought Peruvian avocados, and every time, I was disappointed. The texture was off, half ripe, too fibrous. The flavor? Nonexistent. Bland, sad, like an avocado that had given up on life. It made me miss home. Mexican avocados are richer, creamier, with that perfect buttery consistency that melts into whatever you pair it with. There’s a reason the world wants them so badly. They’re simply the best.

The Super Bowl Guacamole Ritual

So as you dip your chip into that overpriced tub of guacamole this Sunday, just know: this isn’t some fleeting food trend. It’s not some quirky millennial obsession. It’s history, it’s culture, and it’s serious business. The avocado has gone from an unassuming Mexican staple to a global powerhouse, shaping economies, fueling criminal enterprises, and defining modern food culture in ways no one could have predicted.

But for those of us who grew up with it, guacamole isn’t just a Super Bowl snack. It’s home.

Pass the chips güey.

Let me be clear: this isn’t a political outlet, and I don’t intend to turn it into one. But some topics refuse to stay out of the conversation. Immigration is one of them. It’s divisive, sure, but it’s also the lifeblood of the US—especially when it comes to food.

I’m a product of immigration. My grandparents escaped fascist Spain, stepping onto a boat with no idea where in the Americas they’d end up. They landed in Mexico, where they, like so many Spanish immigrants, established themselves and flourished. My mother-in-law is English; she migrated to the U.S., carving out her own life. Immigration isn’t just good—it’s vital. It mixes ideas, ingredients, and people. It connects us. Without immigration, there’d be no tacos al pastor in Mexico, no bagels in the States or Canada.

America is a country that has always borrowed, taken, and remixed. Hamburgers? German. Barbecue? German immigrants brought their smoking and meat-curing traditions here in the 19th century (yes, thank them for that brisket). French fries? Not French. American soldiers tasted pommes frites in Belgium during World War I and brought the appetite for them back home, sparking a fried potato craze that never left. Pizza? Italians brought it over, but America made it famous with our movies, TV shows, and fast-food chains. Sushi? It came with Japanese immigrants, and now California rolls and spicy tuna are as mainstream as apple pie.

And let’s not even get started on Mexican food. Tacos, burritos, guacamole—these are not just staples of the American diet; they’ve become part of our identity. Jalapeños are more popular than ketchup now. There’s even a weekly holiday dedicated to tacos. If that’s not assimilation, I don’t know what is.

The truth is, immigration has shaped the American palate in ways most people never even think about. Chinese food, Thai curries, Vietnamese pho—these dishes were brought over by immigrants who wanted to feed their own communities. The rest of America just happened to fall in love with them along the way.

But here’s the thing: while immigration has fed this country in every sense of the word, it’s also a weapon used to divide it. Is entering a country without the right documents wrong? Sure. Should people be sent back for it? Maybe. But calling another human being “illegal” is absurd. No human is illegal. That’s the kind of language we use to dehumanize people, to strip away their dignity. And it’s bullshit.

Especially when you look at the food industry. You think the system could survive without undocumented workers? Take a closer look at your favorite restaurants and the food on your table. The line cooks, dishwashers, busboys—many of them are undocumented. The farm workers breaking their backs to grow your fruit, nuts, and vegetables? Undocumented. The ones harvesting your berries in 100-degree heat? Undocumented. These are the people propping up America’s insatiable appetite.

Some numbers: about 23% of workers in the agricultural sector are undocumented, according to the U.S. Department of Agriculture. In the restaurant industry, it’s estimated that 10% of workers are undocumented, with the number climbing much higher in certain cities. These aren’t cushy jobs. They’re hard, brutal, often thankless. And the majority, if not all, of the Americans don’t want them.

Sure, some people love to trot out the argument that we should just “pay better wages” to attract legal citizens. That’s cute. But these are hardship jobs, plain and simple. There’s a labor shortage, and there’s a need for this workforce. Immigration reform isn’t just an idealistic goal—it’s a necessity.

If you’re looking to explore the impact of immigration in a thought-provoking, albeit imperfect way, I recommend the movie A Day Without a Mexican (Un Día Sin Mexicanos) by Sergio Arau. The premise is simple: one day, all immigrants mysteriously vanish from California, and the state descends into chaos. The movie isn’t a cinematic masterpiece, but it raises compelling questions about the often invisible contributions of migrants to the economy, culture, and daily life. It’s the kind of film that doesn’t give you all the answers but enriches the conversation—much like the food immigrants have brought to the American table.

No matter what colors you support or where your political leanings fall, immigration reform has to happen. This isn’t a red or blue issue; it’s about keeping the engine running. The food industry—hell, the entire economy—depends on it. Pretending otherwise is just willful ignorance.

America has always taken from other cultures and made it its own. Bagels from Poland, fried chicken from Scotland and West Africa. Even bourbon has roots in immigrant distilling traditions. But it seems we’re fine celebrating the food while demonizing the people who make it. That needs to change.

So the next time you bite into a taco or pick up your chopsticks to dive into a plate of General Tso’s chicken, take a moment to think about the hands that brought it to your plate. This country wasn’t built on isolation or purity. It was built on hard work, collaboration, and yes, immigration. Let’s stop pretending otherwise.

—

Sources:

- U.S. Department of Agriculture (USDA), "Profile of Hired Farmworkers, A 2018 Update," Economic Research Service.

- Pew Research Center, "U.S. Unauthorized Immigrant Population Estimates."

- Market research reports, including data from Nielsen and Statista, indicate the growing popularity of jalapeños, surpassing ketchup in recent years due to changing American palates.

- Krampner, Jon. Creamy and Crunchy: An Informal History of Peanut Butter, the All-American Food.

- U.S. Bureau of Labor Statistics (BLS), "Labor Force Characteristics of Foreign-Born Workers," annual reports.

Welcome to Taco About Life!

Hi, I’m Mike Palafox, a filmmaker obsessed with food. Eating it, filming it, chasing it halfway across the globe. I grew up in Mexico City, spending my best moments in my Spanish grandmother’s kitchen, where life always made sense. Later, I went to film school in London, where I swapped a chef’s knife for a camera, but food never stopped being my anchor.

These days, I’m living in Cairo, thanks to my wife’s job as a diplomat, and working wherever the next project, or the next great meal, takes me. As a director specializing in food commercials, I’ve spent years making dishes look irresistible on screen. But what I love most is the story behind the food—the people, the culture, the chaos that makes it worth eating.

This newsletter is my way of sharing those stories:

- Food essays: Not just about what’s on the plate, but the people and places that make it meaningful.

- Behind-the-scenes tales: The art (and madness) of making food commercials that make you hungry.

- Travel highlights: The meals, markets, and moments that remind me why I love this work.

I’m not a professional writer. Just someone who needs to get these stories out of my head and onto the page. For me, food isn’t just sustenance, it’s a gateway to understanding the world, one bite at a time.

What’s Ahead

In the future, I’ll roll out extras like:

- "Extra Sauce": Raw, unfiltered stories and behind-the-scenes moments.

- "Travel Bites": A monthly roundup of the best dishes, restaurants, and markets I’ve discovered.

- “Community Threads”: A space to swap stories, argue over tacos, and connect with fellow food obsessives.

Why Taco About Life? Because tacos, like life, are messy, layered, and real, just like the best stories (and the best meals).

Thanks for joining me. Whether you’re here for the food, the stories, or just by chance, I’m glad to have you along for the ride.

Cheers,

Mike

Hi, I’m Mike Palafox, a filmmaker obsessed with food. Eating it, filming it, chasing it halfway across the globe. I grew up in Mexico City, spending my best moments in my Spanish grandmother’s kitchen, where life always made sense. Later, I went to film school in London, where I swapped a chef’s knife for a camera, but food never stopped being my anchor.

These days, I’m living in Cairo, thanks to my wife’s job as a diplomat, and working wherever the next project, or the next great meal takes me. As a director specializing in food commercials, I’ve spent years making dishes look irresistible on screen. But what I love most is the story behind the food, the people, the culture, the chaos that makes it worth eating.

This newsletter is my way of sharing those stories:

• Food essays: Not just about what’s on the plate, but the people and places that make it meaningful.

• Behind-the-scenes tales: The art (and madness) of making food commercials that make you hungry.

• Travel highlights: The meals, markets, and moments that remind me why I love this work.

I’m not a professional writer, just someone who needs to get these stories out of my head and onto the page. For me, food isn’t just sustenance, it’s a gateway to understanding the world, one bite at a time.

What’s Ahead

In the future, I’ll roll out paid subscriptions with extras like:

• "Extra Sauce": Raw, unfiltered stories and behind-the-scenes moments.

• "Travel Bites": A monthly roundup of the best dishes, restaurants, and markets I’ve discovered.

• Community Threads: A space to swap stories, argue over tacos, and connect with fellow food obsessives.

Why Taco ‘bout Life? Because tacos, like life, are messy, layered, and unapologetically real, just like the best stories (and the best meals).

Thanks for joining me. Whether you’re here for the food, the stories, or just the chaos, I’m glad to have you along for the ride.

Cheers,
Mike

As a commercial director specializing in food, I’ve had the pleasure of capturing some delicious dishes through the lens. Recently, I had the chance to experience Tuscany firsthand, where food, wine, and a deep love for meat are seamlessly intertwined.

Tuscany. A place that, at first glance, seems made for postcard clichés, rolling hills, picturesque vineyards, and sunsets that belong in a Renaissance painting. But there’s something deeper. In the kitchens and on the grills, there’s an obsession. With meat. And, of course, with truffles.⁣

In Tuscany, they don’t just enjoy their beef—they revere it. The 𝘣𝘪𝘴𝘵𝘦𝘤𝘤𝘢 𝘢𝘭𝘭𝘢 𝘍𝘪𝘰𝘳𝘦𝘯𝘵𝘪𝘯𝘢 isn’t just a steak, it’s a statement. Then there’s wild boar, a dish steeped in the flavors of the forest. And if you know where to go, you’ll find yourself at 𝗗𝗮𝗿𝗶𝗼 𝗖𝗲𝗰𝗰𝗵𝗶𝗻𝗶’𝘀, a temple to all things carnivorous. The cuts keep coming, rich and indulgent, like a never-ending celebration of meat’s finest forms.⁣
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And just when you think you’ve had enough, truffles make an appearance. They’re everywhere, infused in pastas, shaved onto steaks, adding that unmistakable earthy depth. Maybe it’s because they’re easily found here, but truffles feel like part of the air in Tuscany. Rich, heady, and luxurious, they weave through the food as effortlessly as wine.⁣

Ah, the wine. Tuscany’s reds are mostly made from Sangiovese grapes, but the real story lies in the Super Tuscan blends wines created by rebellious winemakers who decided to break the rules. 𝗧𝗶𝗴𝗻𝗮𝗻𝗲𝗹𝗹𝗼, one of my favorites, delivers bold flavors of dark cherry, plum, and tobacco, its silky tannins a perfect match for these rich meals.⁣
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Tuscany isn’t just food, it’s an unapologetic celebration of flavor, history, and indulgence. Honest food, made without compromise.⁣
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So, what’s on your plate? 🥩 🇮🇹 🍷

Walking into Enigma, Albert Adrià's restaurant in Barcelona, doesn’t feel like entering a dining room, it’s more like slipping into a fever dream curated by a mad genius. The sleek, surreal interiors blur the line between modernist design and Salvador Dalí’s sketchbook, setting the tone for a meal that’s as much a mind game as it is a culinary journey.

Adrià, the other half of the legendary El Bulli empire, continues to push boundaries here, proving that the Adrià name isn’t just about nostalgia for the past, it’s about rewriting the rules, again and again. While every other chef with tweezers seems to be crafting conceptual tasting menus these days, Adrià’s brilliance lies in making every course tell a story. At Enigma, you don’t just eat, you think, you question, you marvel at how far food can be pushed without losing its soul.

The 25 course menu isn’t a guide, it’s a puzzle. You’re not meant to “get it” right away, you’re meant to let go and trust that each bite will make you see, or taste, something new. Seasonal ingredients are transformed into tiny moments of revelation: a dish might challenge your expectations, but it never feels like it’s trying too hard. Adrià’s gift isn’t just in the shock value, it’s in creating food that genuinely surprises, not with gimmicks, but with precision and heart.

Enigma isn’t just a restaurant, it’s a stage where Adrià plays storyteller, provocateur, and magician. It’s a meal that stays with you long after the last plate is cleared, not because it’s trendy, but because it reminds you what food, at its best, can do: transport, connect, and maybe even haunt you a little. Adrià isn’t resting on anyone’s laurels here. With Enigma, he proves he’s still playing chess while the most of the world is learning checkers.

𝘈 𝘣𝘢𝘯𝘢𝘯𝘢 𝘷𝘦𝘯𝘥𝘰𝘳 𝘐 𝘱𝘩𝘰𝘵𝘰𝘨𝘳𝘢𝘱𝘩𝘦𝘥 𝘪𝘯 𝘊𝘢𝘪𝘳𝘰, 𝘸𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘦 𝘢 𝘬𝘪𝘭𝘰 𝘤𝘰𝘴𝘵𝘴 𝘫𝘶𝘴𝘵 𝟻𝟶 𝘤𝘦𝘯𝘵𝘴 𝘜𝘚𝘋, 𝘢 𝘴𝘵𝘢𝘳𝘬 𝘳𝘦𝘮𝘪𝘯𝘥𝘦𝘳 𝘰𝘧 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘩𝘪𝘥𝘥𝘦𝘯 𝘤𝘰𝘴𝘵𝘴.