Lawsons Yucatan

Waking up early just to stand in line with 30 other morning-challenged individuals was not Walter’s idea of a good time, but it was one of those necessary evils required for any foreigner that wanted to live in Merida or Mexico in general. It was just before opening hours at the Immigration office in Merida and Walter was renewing his visa.

Ahead of him, Walter tried, in an effort to make the wait a little more interesting, to guess at the different types of nationalities and occupations of the various people ahead of him in the lineup. There were several what appeared to be Cubans judging from their complexion and who spoke in the rapid fire Spanish unique to them, almost unintelligible to Walter seeing as his Spanish was at the primary-school level and the fact that these people had an aversion to clear pronunciation and zero tolerance for the letter “s”. It’s as if they have marbles in their mouth when they talk, thought Walter bemusedly.

Several older couples, probably Americans or Canadians like him, waiting patiently and with a slightly amused expression on their faces, exchanged glances and soft greetings, unlike their more rambunctious Latino counterparts who either spoke loudly or not at all, the latter not making even the slightest eye contact with those around them. A young Chinese – or perhaps Korean, Walter couldn’t tell – woman stood out among the other nationalities, poking at her smart phone.

It was 8 AM and the office was about to open.

A scruffy young security guard with a LavaGuard uniform finally came out to where the lineup began and opened the gate of what was once a stately colonial home on the Avenida Colon, now a government office. Most of the houses in the area were now offices or banks; none or at least very few, had regular citizens living in them anymore, what with property taxes being what they were and the fact that corporations and wealthy folks from other parts of the country and world were snapping up anything that looked remotely colonial. Sensually round arches, colorful plaster tile floors, hammock hooks in the walls, stately columns; these were all selling points for smooth-talking real estate agents who breathlessly described even the lowliest of the old homes as dream homes for their hopelessly romantic and innocent newly arrived victims.

The line moved abruptly into the driveway and up the stairs to the entrance of the immigration office where each person proceeded to sign in and was then given a number, written in felt pen on a little square of what had once been a more dignified manila folder; the number indicated that persons’ position in the process to follow. A single digit number meant you were first up and was your reward for skipping that second cup of coffee at home. Everyone shuffled off to a place in the driveway area: the bird excrement-splashed broken plastic chairs under a giant ramon tree were the first choice for those who wanted to sit, followed by standing room only in any place that offered shade from the morning sun. Those people with small children succumbed to the persistent urgings of their offspring who insisted that they were hungry and the only thing that would make them happy was a processed food snack from the vending machine conveniently placed at the foot of the stairs of the former residence.

While waiting, one could admire the large fenced in area near the back of the property, complete with a security guard and barbed wire, where it was rumored that an illegal Cuban was being held in true Guantanamo style. However, unlike his Arab Guantanamo counterparts, this Cuban was waiting for deportation, and not being held indefinitely in a hellish limbo that held no predictable future, indicating that Mexico was, at least in this particular case, more concerned with a semblance of lawful procedure than its neighbor to the north.

When Walters’ number was called, he again climbed the stairs and gave the receptionist a quick overview of what he was doing, which was then confirmed on the computer and a second, colored bit of paper was handed to him and he was waved inside. There, another waiting room, already packed with the people that had been ahead of him in the morning lineup, awaited him complete with the relief of cool air conditioning and a television showing the most inane of Televisas’ programming. Walter gritted his teeth and found an empty spot next to the Asian woman, who didn’t look up as he sat next to her, completely absorbed as she was in her phone, paper-filled folder and backpack at her feet.

Every few minutes, an official in khaki pants and navy blue polo shirt with the white embroidered logo of the INM (Instituto Nacional de Migracion) would come in through a second door and everyone would look up hopefully like a group of puppies in a pet store kennel. A number was called and another foreigner disappeared with the official into an interior office.

Walter watched the television, frustrated that he didn’t have his iPhone or at least something to read with him. Televisa’s morning show was on and several European looking Barbie & Ken-like television hosts played off each other and did silly dance moves to some norteño music, while a secondary character, dark-skinned, dressed in mismatched clothing, sporting several blacked out teeth and unkempt hair provided the humor quotient – he represented the indigenous Mexican man on the street. His ridiculous slang and apparent ignorance made him the butt of any and all jokes from the rest of the cast.

In any case, even with the inane television, it was a good thing to be in this air conditioned waiting room and not out in the heat of a Merida summer looking for yet another comprobante of some sort. On a previous attempt the week before, Walter had shown up at the office with all the papers requested on the photocopied list given to him by the receptionist, only to be told that there was a document missing.

“But it’s not even on the list” said Walter in his best Tarzan Spanish, trying somewhat successfully to control his frustration and knowing he was utterly powerless before the whims of Mexican officialdom.

“Si, pero es necesario que lo tenga” replied the receptionist curtly and, with a shrug and a dismissive wave, motioned for the next person in line to come forward, an indication to Walter that the discussion had come to an end.

So he endured the pseudo-comedy on the television and was grateful for the air conditioning. It could be worse. The oficina de migracion had been in a building downtown before, which was a pain as far as parking went and there certainly was no air-conditioned room with a TV to distract him as he waited.

Again the door to the interior office opened and an older, resigned-looking female immigration official stood there, looking at a number in her hand.

“Treinta y cuatro” she called out, and looked up to see who would be next.

Walter looked at his number – 41. “Just a little bit longer” he thought. The Asian woman next to him gathered her things from the floor and stood up, giving Walter a quick smile before heading into the office behind the blue-clad woman.

******************************************

Will Walter get his paperwork sorted out? Will the Asian woman show up in a future installment?  Will that colonial ever get sold and the immigration office moved somewhere with actual parking and a real filing system? Stay tuned!

Not from Veracruz but from the nearby state of Tabasco, the sweet pineapples have arrived and are for sale at a truck near you here in sunny Merida!

This truck is downtown, in the vicinity of 64 and 75 streets, near La Hermita and one of these giant suckers will cost you a whopping 20 pesos (about 1.50 USD if you are comparing)

If you love pineapple, as I do, these will make your day.

After the last gushing review, the Critic and his Better Half had the persistent urge to revisit SOMA – for brunch. With the Mini-Critic along for extra chowing down power, the trio sat down for breakfast/lunch aka brunch.

The Critic was a little surprised to see that it was a buffet, all you can eat, kind of brunch which was unexpected but of course, the ingredients were all fresh as fresh can be and delicious. Fluffy scrambled eggs (real eggs, not instant) zesty chichen wings, puntas de filete beef, fish in a mustard sauce (extra good), plenty of crispy bacon, tasty ham and fresh fruit and even salad ingredients – all one could eat for a reasonable price.

But the Critic wanted something from the talented chef, so he ordered an omelette from the chalkboard menu. There were plenty of optional fillings to go with the cheddar cheese omelette.

“Would you like something else in that omelette” Linde asked.

The Critic replied “Yes, everything on that list”

And so, moments later the Critic got a gourmet cheddar cheese omelette with bacon, spinach, goat cheese, mushrooms and a few other goodies in there and it was fantastic. Served with some pastry bread and tiny fried potato cubes, the dish was both pretty to look at and tasty. Not to mention filling, but then the Critic had already had seconds on the buffet before the omelette arrived. (It’s a tough life, but someone has to try all this food for the 13 readers of this blog, right?)

To be completely objective, the Critic would have liked to see some interesting creations from the kitchen for the brunch menu a la Remixto, which wouldn’t be a stretch for the talented Chef and perhaps a little later cutoff time for the brunch but perhaps these items are on the regular breakfast menu, which the Critic hopes to try on another occasion.

Real coffee and delicious fresh squeezed orange juice rounded out the breakfast and the Critic, Better Half and MiniCritic rolled themselves out to their car and headed back home to Merida in groaningly satisfied silence.

You all know and love (or hate) Starbucks so there is not going to be much new here for you, dear reader.

After a morning visit for coffee at the Montejo location, the Critic has noticed however, that the Merida Starbucks, no matter if it is the Gran Plaza, Montejo, Altabrisa or Chapur location, are all really slooooooooooow in getting those coffees out.  Also, it would be nice if they looked up and acknowledged your presence as you came in, like they do in OXXO – have you noticed that?

The Critic won’t comment here on the Starbucks bashers who proclaim that Starbucks is killing the local coffee culture since this is so ridiculous that it doesn’t warrant more than a passing mention. There was NO coffee culture in Merida before Kukis by Maru and later, Italian Coffee started offering real espresso and capuccino. Before all that, there was Nescafé if you were lucky and a melamine plastic cup of hot water. Powdered milk was offered along with the instant if you wanted café con leche. Also, there was Mario in Plaza Fiesta selling what he called a capuccino, which was hot Carnation evaporated milk with some hot coffee mixed up in a blender and topped with ground tree bark posing as cinnamon.

So if that is what Starbucks has killed, ¡¡que bueno!!

The Critic is very happy that Starbucks has arrived in Merida, thank you very much, as apparently are thousands of Merida residents who are fine with adopting the whole Starbucks culture.

A quick internet search for SOMA will result in websites for lingerie, drugs, a record company and a magazine, among others but to find SOMA the restaurant you will have to go to Chelem. Yes, Chelem, right here in the Yucatan.

The Casual Restaurant Critic had heard about this restaurant from some food-loving NYC refugees who now make their home in Chuburna and so, in the company of his lovely Better Half visited SOMA after a day of lying around the beach in Chuburna.

Located discretely in Chelem, just a block or two from the TacoMaya and Bullpen restaurants behind the baseball field towards town (how is THAT for an almost address-like description) the SOMA restaurant is one of those really weird experiences, very similar to when the Casual Restaurant Critic first found real Thai food in the tiny village of Baca, about 40 minutes outside of Merida. “What the hell is this!” thought the Critic while relishing a curry; “this is the best Thai food I have had in a long time and it’s in BACA?”

This same feeling came back last night, when the Critic and Better Half received a bread basket with crunchy/chewy real bread, heated and served with a pat of fresh butter in a colorful little dish, followed by the appetizers.

Appetizer one was a salad – what a miserably sparse word for the work of art that appeared on the plate. An assortment of lettuce(s), some baby/cherry tomatoes, a touch of cheese and a rasher of pork belly fried bacon-crisp on top not only looked beautiful but each mouthful was an experience.  Appetizer two was grits. Now, to a former Canadian who is not accustomed to such delicacies, the thought of grits was less than appealing, especially after having seen pans of unappetizing-looking grits in Houston restaurant buffets , but thanks to the mention of this particular appie by a certain New Yorker, the Critic said what the hell. And these are not bland, gunky grits. They come with a sprinkle of smoky chorizo and a quintet of perfectly grilled shrimp lying suggestively on top of those grits. The combination is remarkable as the  creamy texture below combine with the chorizo and the shrimp. Thumbs up for the grits!

The Critic and Better Half looked at each other and thought – are we in CHELEM?

The main courses were as good or better than the appetizers. Better Half ordered a grilled chicken which, when ordered anywhere else could have been a dry lump of white meat, charred to the point of dried boredom, was instead perfectly seasoned, crispy on the outside and juicy on the inside, and accompanied by a little pot of home made macaroni and cheese, which would make Kraft blush in embarrassment. The Critic ordered the fish (esmedregal en español) filet, perfectly cooked atop steamed fresh asparagus and served with crunchy baby potato halves. Scrumptious.

At this point, there was no going back and the Better Half and Critic decided that of the two dessert items on the menu… both had to be tried. The chocolate chip cookie is unbelievably perfect: crunchy and chewy and hot as in fresh baked right then and served with a little bowl of Haagen Dazs vanilla ice cream. The other option was a cheese-cake with cherries – in a glass! Delicious as well and washed down with a real cup of coffee and a cup of hot chai latte.

As it was Saturday, the restaurant was full and there was live music to entertain diners – a guitarist accompanying a husky voiced woman singing romantic songs in a parse, jazzy style that made the evening perfect.

So how was the service, you ask? Excellent. Lindy, the gracious owner personally looked after her guests with help from a pleasant young man and young lady while her husband/artist Alberto worked his magic in the kitchen.

There is no liquor license and yet, the other tables were enjoying glasses of wine from bottles that mysteriously appeared from knapsacks and coolers they had brought along.

Ladies and gentlemen of the readership, you must try this new restaurant, and pronto. You will not be disappointed! Highly recommended. Hours vary, please check with Lindy and the restaurant at their Facebook page (link here) and for those of you always moaning about a lack of addresses, here you go:

SOMA Restaurant
Calle 17 No. 77A
Chelem Puerto
(at Yeyo’s Hotel)

Phone: 999-348-0985

The TV. Perfect for sports events and not thinking about the service.

If you have lived in Merida for any length of time and have had the misfortune to have to listen to a local radio station, you may have heard the ads for this restaurant, which have not changed in the last 5 or more years, where two males with fake northern Mexico accents make the smooth transition from talking about how difficult life is to deciding to go to the Tio Ricardo restaurant, “un rincon de Monterrey en Merida”

Yesterday the Critic and a supplier of shirts who we shall call Mr. Shirt went for lunch at this restaurant, located at the corner of 8 and 23 streets in Itzimná in the formerly white city. Not because life is particularly difficult but because Mr. Shirt thought that it would be a good place for lunch and that the guacamole there was the best in town.

The Critic hadn’t been at Tio Ricardo for at least 20 years and was surprised to hear it was still around. It was, although how they manage that is a mystery.

The tables and chairs are real (not plastic) which is always a plus in the Critics book, and the walls feature a lot of wood paneling and photographs in black and white of things from northern Mexico. The waiter who the Critic saw upon entering the place with Mr. Shirt was busily stuffing something into his mouth, half hidden behind a wall. The place is essentially a house, with the different rooms turned into dark, woody caves that would be ideal if you were planning on a secret meetup with someone and needed discretion, perhaps.

When the waiter – and here the term is used loosely to describe an individual who has the task of taking food orders and bringing them to clients tables – came and asked what would be the order. Mr. Shirt began by asking about a “package” for two people that had an assortment of meats and so on.

“We don’t do packages” was the curt reply from the unsmiling, unwelcoming and evidently uninterested individual brandishing his little notepad and pen.

Mr. Shirt, unfazed, continued “but I am pretty sure there was a parrillada (grilled platter) or something for two, no?”

Curt was equally unfazed. “No, we don’t have that” No mention of anything that might please his client or a suggestion perhaps. No additional information came out of his unsmiling mouth as he impatiently waited, pen poised at the ready over his notebook.

Finally, a pair of steaks were ordered, along with the entradas, apparently a “package” but for one person at a time. “What appetizers do you want to repeat?” asked Curt, since each steak plate came with two appetizers and there were only three on the menu – melted/baked cheese, guacamole, and grilled sausages. Since Mr. Shirt had mentioned the great guacamole, the Critic said “bring us two guacamoles” and Curt left without further comment.

Curt returned with the drinks and eventually the appetizers. The guacamole was good, served in the form of a block on a side plate like it had been prepared in a tub, refrigerated and then sliced off like a huge swath of green banana bread. The chips were crunchy and they have the giant flour tostadas that one could find in Monterrey restaurants. Tortillas too. The sausage was, in the Critics opinion, the cheap fatty kind and not great, while the melted/baked cheese was pretty tasty.

The steaks finally arrived, while Mr. Shirt and the Critic were treated to an episode of SmokeJumpers with Spanish dialogue on the large flat screen TV on the wall, being watched by another table and two waiters who occasionally glanced down at their cell phones to update their Facebook accounts or whatever they were doing. The steaks, one rib eye and one New York, can be ordered medium rare or medium, blue rare or tres cuartos but however you decide you want your meat done, it matters not and the steaks will be (and were) well done. OK. The Critic was not going to fight with Curt on this occasion, and especially not since Mr. Shirt had picked the restaurant. But, really?

Other things the Critic noticed included the fact that there were other waiters in the restaurant, none of whom seemed particularly pleased to be there and perhaps were only filling in time on a prison work release program. The men’s bathroom, thoughtfully and overwhelmingly perfumed with Pinol floor cleaner has no door, and there is no evident ventilation system so if you do have to eat here, I would suggest a table as far away from the mens’ room as possible, as the possibility of bathroom smell interfering with the enjoyment of your well done steak might be less than pleasant.

The Critic always enjoys a lousy restaurant and this one is not worth the time or the calories or the money – not much, the bill came to $250 pesos per person with a 10% tip and no alcohol – and there are SO many new and infinitely better options in Merida now. While the food is not horrible, the “service” certainly matches that description perfectly. How this place survives is one of those mysteries that Gordon Ramsey might enjoy.

You have been warned.

On the plus side: real chairs.

They are crunchy and that’s another positive.

A chipped salsa bowl that should have been thrown out years ago.

A guacamole brick. It is cold and tastes fresh.

The melted cheese is a highlight.

Skip these. Your arteries will thank you.

Order it anyway you want. It will likely be well done.

At the time of the year corresponding to the visit of the Easter Bunny and all that hype, many locals like to enjoy a seafood meal at the beach. If you are not able to get all the way out to Progreso or Celestun or some of the other popular Easter break destinations, there are plenty of seafood options in the city of Merida to satisfy your craving for something shrimpy; one of these is Puerta del Mar, located almost across from the Bancarios sports center, somewhere between Plaza Fiesta and Altabrisa, on that bumpy stretch of avenue called Avenida Correa Rachó after a well know and loved PAN party mayor of Merida.

It is a modest-looking palapa and inside, it continues to perpetuate that impression with plastic chairs and tables and the obligatory television showing some inane sports event.

But, the beer is cold and the seafood is fresh tasting and comes from the kitchen quickly. A nice touch is a complementary tiny plate of mixed seafood ceviche placed on your table as you sip your drink and wait for your lunch. Service ranges from the “I couldn’t be bothered to welcoming you to the restaurant” to extremely efficient and fast once you are seated.

The dishes pictured below, are, in order of appearance:

1) Complementary seafood ceviche mini platter. Tasty, a little too lemony for the Critics taste, but fine when you are hungry. To be eaten with their excellent corn chips. It’s hard to screw up corn chips, but VIP’s manages on a regular basis so it is nice to have these be crispy crunchy, and not all limp and gross.

2) Chilpachole de Camaron – a spicy shrimp soup that the Critic absolutely adores. Unfortunately, this one is not great; the broth is far too reminiscent of tomato paste and lacks real flavor. Mildly spicy and plenty of fresh shrimp in there though.

3) Pan de Cazon – dogfish or shark meat cooked in a tomato mixture and then served between layers of corn tortillas and black refried beans. Covered with more tomato sauce and that garnish is NOT a little bell pepper, it is an habanero and so don’t just scoop it up and toss it in your mouth. A Yucatan classic (or is it really a Campeche classic?) and the Critic thinks the version served at Colonos in the Colonia Mexico is better. Still, not bad.

4) Seafood Stuffed Shrimp –  Yes, that is what the menu said. Each of the shrimp is cut and stuffed with a minced seafood mixture that is borderline inedible. To make matters worse, the shrimp are bathed in a mysterious cream sauce that is both tasteless and yet somehow rather nauseating. Not recommended.

She is a scowling, short haired and overweight woman and she runs the parking lot on 58 street downtown, next to a hotel painted egg-yellow with a tourism van almost always parked out front.

Normally, I use the parking lot across the street, which charges double – a whopping 14 pesos an hour – what she does, but on this occasion the lot is closed for the holidays and necessity obliges me to use hers.

I park my car, and carry a large heavy box to the window/door entrance to her dark cave, where from whence she emerges with the usual bad humor I have come to expect from this sallow-faced human to glare at me. Previous attempts at light-hearted banter have been met with a cold expressionless stare, somewhat akin to that of a shark; this is why I prefer not to use this parking lot.

“Numero de placa” is her barked greeting as I attempt to balance the box on a small counter and free up one of my hands. Just to bother her, I answer “buenos dias” in as cheery a voice as I can muster with that dark cloud of misery masquerading as a person in front of me. Her response is unreceptive to any attempts at civility. “Numero de placa” she repeats. I decide to keep it simple. “42-26″ I reply, using the accepted method of skipping the letters on my license plate and using only the last four numbers.

As she writes this vital information on the parking ticket and hands me my stub, she again feels the need to communicate. “Estacionaste bien?” escapes her throat with a growl.

Did I park correctly? What a ridiculous question, I think to myself. “No” I answer. “estacioné mal” She is not amused and thinks, perhaps, that this smart ass gringo is serious. “Hay que estacionarse bien” she informs me – you have to park correctly.  Um, OK.

I take my parking ticket after assuring her that I did indeed park my car correctly, took my ticket stub and, reclaiming the box I had partially set on her filthy counter/desk, left to go about my business.

Her face an angry mask, she retreated to the darkness of her cave and awaited her next “customer”.

A quick stop at the local HSBC to make a withdrawal saw me in the lineup for a moment and then my turn was up. At the next teller window, a small obviously Yucatecan man – a diligenciero complete with a motorcycle helmet on and one pant leg tucked into his sock – was waiting for his cheques to be cashed.

A flurry of movement caught my eye and I turned to see several armed men from the security company that moves cash around, come in and take their positions. They deposited several large clear bags with several hundreds of thousands of pesos in them near the security door and asked one of the tellers if the encargado de la boveda - the vault supervisor – was there. “Ahi viene” was her laconic reply as she turned back to her helmeted client.

A few moments passed and nothing. The security men were getting restless and asked again for the supervisor to come and open the door. The teller got up, dialed a number, spoke briefly into the telephone and when she hung up, reassured them that he was almost there. “We can only stay 5 minutes” said the security man.

One of the other men, carrying what looked like a shotgun ad glancing continuously from side to side, asked the helmeted man to remove his helmet.

“Why?” he answered indignantly. “Do I look like I’m hot?”

“Bank security rules” replied the guard “no hats, caps or sunglasses”

“What if there’s shooting?” continued HelmetMan. “Wouldn’t I be safer with the helmet on?”

I noticed that no one was talking at this point and the other tellers were glancing up from their counting and stamping to observe the exchange.

“You need to take off the helmet”. Again, the security man.

“What are you? The owners of the bank now?” HelmetMan countered.

I could already envision a nervous security man accidentally getting riled up and squeezing the trigger on one of those guns and me catching a stray bullet. I wished my teller would move a little faster.

The security man, seeing he was getting no where with the uppity little Yucatecan who was proving to the world how defiantly he could stand up to 3 large men with guns, asked the bank manager to ask his client to remove his helmet. This seemed to work and HelmetMan took off his helmet not before remarking about the mafiosos with their guns and that they think they’re all that.

I finally got my money and left, wondering at the ridiculousness of some people and their insistence on trying to irritate others.

OK, it’s been a while. In fact, the Critic hasn’t written a review of Xcanatun since way back in 2008 when the food was delicious but the service was not up to the standards of the kitchen.

Things have changed. For the better.

Fresh Menu

The Better Half and the Critic had lunch at Xcanatun a few weeks ago and oh boy was it good.  A new chef in the kitchen; a talented young woman who came by later to say hello, has created some remarkable new menu items that will delight your tastebuds and leave you wanting to try them all.

As appetizers, the Critic and Better Half over-ordered once again and had a splendid selection of oysters, half Rockefeller and half Mayan. The Critic preferred the fresh, raw and zesty Mayan oysters over the semi raw Rockefeller version but both were great. Also, steamed mussels in a savory broth – the kind you have to sop up with toasty fresh bread. Waiter, get your hands off that bowl, we’re not quite done with it. The Better Half, a fan of all things raw, ordered Steak Tartare which is definitely not on the Critics bucket list but what the heck, he tried it and liked it. A lot. Ate half the plate in fact.

Mussels

Oysters Rockefeller

Steak Tartare Presentation

Steak Tartare Texture

With three appetizers down the main courses arrived. A pork barbeque dish for Better Half which she loved, proclaiming it “perfect” (the Critic loves more sauce on his ribs) while the Critic had the steak stuffed with cochinita pibil and smothered in cochinita pibil gravy. Yes, it sounds decadent and thoroughly artery-clogging, and it may have been, but it was also perfectly cooked and outrageously delicious.Finally, the Critic can never resist a lemon or lime pie, and Xcanatun did not disappoint. Fresh, tangy, light and a perfect end to a perfect meal.

Pork BBQ Ribs

Steak with Cochinita Pibil

Pay de Limon

By this time, dear reader, you are probably saying “yes, Mr. Critic, but what about that service you so bitterly complained about last time?” Well the Critic is happy to report that you will feel like you are experiencing a production that has been polished and polished again until each edge is absolutely smooth. From the moment the parking lot attendant opens your car door with a flourish and a smile to the welcome you receive from the security man in front of the restaurant to the open door and welcome  you get once at the restaurant, you will experience the comforting feeling that you are in good hands and can relax and enjoy a truly superb dining experience.

Highly recommended and one of Merida’s – if not the – best.