Tag Archives: 2012

A Tourist Arrives in Cancun – Welcome To Mexico!

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Better Half and I, fresh off the plane in Cancun from a relaxing work-related week in eastern Canada, encountered what most tourists probably encounter upon leaving the confines of their Air Canada jet and stepping into the thankfully air conditioned Cancun airport terminal.

As an ardent fan of the great amounts of money being spent on promotion at foreign tourism fairs where our elected representatives spend our tax pesos on gourmet meals, fine wines and luxurious accommodation to “promote” tourism to our area, it was a great pleasure to experience Cancun from the tourists standpoint.

Not.

There was one flight and yet, several lineups for the always entertaining immigration procedure. In front of us, an elderly and apparently non-Semitic man was asked – no told – “JEW GLASSES” by a squat immigration agent who was obviously enamoured of her importance in the world. The tourist eventually got the idea – after a second and sterner “JEW GLASSES!!!” that he had to remove his dark prescription glasses (they were thick) so that SquatLady could carefully check his eye color against that in the passport photo.

When it was our turn we tried to make friendly small talk to no avail. Eyebrows raised and tongue pointing firmly inside one cheek to the point that it was pushed out (try it now you will get the idea), she was not to be deterred from her enormous responsibility and simply uttered one word: “passport” in spite of the fact that it was already laid out before her. She took it and carefully examined Better Halfs eye color before proceeding to stamp away. When examining my FM format and passport, she again did the eye check and asked if I spoke Spanish. “Yes” I answered. She proceeded to ask what I did, where I lived etc. etc. and finally sent us on our way. It’s not that she was rude, but if this is your first contact with a Mexican, it is less than welcoming. She also warned me that my passport was just one bended corner away from being unacceptable to the fastidious Mexican authorities who have no qualms about being anally-retentive about such things – when they feel like it.

Then to the luggage carousel where we waited for our bags. You would think Cancun would have a lot of these carousels but no, there are only a few. I popped into the bathroom while Better Half waited.

In the bathroom the tourist is greeted with a cleaning person who has obviously moved in, claimed the area as his own and is now in complete command of this portion of the airport. With a one-handed flourish reminiscent of El Zorro, he motions you to the urinal. When you are done, another extravagant flourish directs your gaze to the sink area where you are shown how to turn on the water, in case you haven’t been in an airport bathroom in the last 20 years. Before you know it, paper towels are thrust towards you to save you the extra three steps to the dispenser. You dry your hands and throw the towels in the garbage whereupon the little man turns into one of those monkeys that dances to an accordion-wielding bearded eastern European on a street in Hungary somewhere and bows his head, turning both hands palms up towards you. In one hand there is a coin. In other words, he awaits a tip for his tremendous and indispensable “service”. The coin, by the way, is Canadian. The man has done his homework and knows that this flight came from Toronto.

Welcome to Mexico.

All the Mexican clichés are coming true for the tourist as he exits the bathroom and proceeds to the streamlined and Swiss-modern customs area, where you must take all your luggage AND HOIST IT YOURSELF ONTO A CONVEYOR BELT SO IT CAN BE SCANNED. Yes, you read that right. And there is only one belt/scanner working. An employee sits, slouchily watching a screen and moving the luggage along on the belt with her on/off switch. If someone is slow in retrieving their luggage, he or she will get yelled at. Something like “PEEK APP JEWER LAGGAGE” (go ahead, say it out loud) emerges from her mouth as she angrily turns from the screen to the collisions ocurring on the other side of the scanner. Other employees, some customs, others from the SAGARPA which is a government agency in charge of controlling plant and animal entry to the country, stand around – dead eyed – like sopilotes waiting for roadkill.

The lady is struggling with her suitcase to get it on the belt? Whatever.

We’ll just stand here and watch.

Welcome to Mexico.

Why are they even scanning the luggage? What is it that is so delicate and special that the TSA people in the US and Canada are not picking up? Your bags have just come off a plane from an international destination and they have been scanned and checked by people far more professional and efficient than any of these poorly trained individuals. What exactly are they looking for? Aha! We found an AK-47 that somehow was missed by security in Canada! We are chingones!!

Once through the scanners, the luggage must be replaced on the cart you hopefully secured beforehand and now comes the Las Vegas part. A random push-the-button system is presented to you. You give the uniformed individual your customs form and they indicate that you must push a button to see if you will get checked to see if you are lying or not. A green light means you are free to go, unless of course the SAGARPA man decides you can’t and he wants to check your luggage for trees or live chickens. A red light means HA! Go over to the tables and a rubber-gloved individual will go through all your luggage to see if you are bringing in any contraband Barbie dolls or porno mags or anything else that might be deemed detrimental to the fragile moral health of the nation. The nation that features beheadings on a regular basis, where porn is available steps from the cathedral in the former white city of Merida and where … ah yes, so many contradictions.

Welcome to Mexico.

Once out of the small ring immigration and customs circus, you enter the big tent aka the gauntlet, where yelling uniformed “tourism” representatives are vying for your transportation dollar. Taxi? Taxi? TAXI?

There is no place that is obvious to the tourist arriving in Cancun for taking a taxi. Most airports have signs and such that lead one to a place where there is a lineup of taxis. Not in Cancun, where unions rule, taxis have apparently been banned and each and every visitor is a potential victim to be exploited. You will be led by a person claiming to be able to procure for you a cab and will find yourself waiting for a van in the van and private transportation area, filled with all manner of dubious subjects all out to get as much money as quickly as possible from their marks. The fact that the person was writing out a transportation order was an indication that we were not getting a cab, but a van which in fact arrived a moment or two later in the form of a 12-passenger Chevrolet Express van for the two of us which indicates to me anyway that the environment is also high on their priority list here in sunny Cancun. The price? $65 according to a laminated color chart presented to us. No problem, I give him a $200 peso bill.

“No señor” says Mr. ChartHolder “Ees sisty fie dolla”

“Are you f’ing kidding me” I think to myself but hey we are already in the van and what are you going to do. Our Cancun economics teacher informs us that cabs from downtown to the airport are cheaper, but from the airport to downtown, it is more expensive. No kidding – it’s double what paid to get here last week. We pay.

“Jew can tip dee driver” says ChartHolder/Economics Teacher and we are off to our downtown destination. Maybe Jew can, but I am not going to.

Welcome to Mexico.

What’s With the Masks on the Ham and Cheese People?

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Is it just me or does anyone else out there think that the ham and cheese folks in the super markets look absolutely ridiculous with their mouth and nose covering masks? I mean, I don’t see this in the US and Canada where presumably people are also salivating on the merchandise before wrapping it and handing it to the customer. Or is it that the authorities have identified Mexicans as carriers of some rare disease that can be spread by breathing on ham? Perhaps the supermarkets are hiring people that are inadvertently discovering they are allergic to the smell of nitrates and since it is a pain to fire them, the mouth and nose coverings are the solution. Or the powers that be have discovered that people are eating too much of the ham and cheese and therefore profits are being affected and so…. a physical barrier to mid-shift Serrano ham snacking.

De veras, this country gets more and more ridiculous every day, trying to emulate other more advanced nations with policies that are completely and ludicrously out of touch with reality. What a ridiculous measure by the so-called health “authorities” who spend their time screwing over the established businesses; easy marks for the rules they invent in some office where they download health manuals from Swedish websites and decide that these will be perfect for Mexico.

Meanwhile, there are potentially hepatitis-infused tacos on the street,  partially-cooked grilled chicken sold out of a garage, the eggs covered in chicken excrement and transported in open pickup trucks in the hot Yucatan sun with their potential for salmonella poisoning, the slices of bistek laid out on tables in the middle of the supermarkets (because the air conditioning is cool and so that keeps the meat fresh and e-coli free RIGHT?) and the tamales sold street side in filthy aluminum pots filled with dubiously sanitized ingredients in someones hygiene-challenged kitchen are permitted. No problema!

We can’t really go after all those people because there are simply too many and if we hit the supermarkets and mall stores people will think we are really becoming a first world nation.

Know what? People will not think that and what you are doing is a ridiculous waste of time and money and manpower.

This is yet another shining example of government waste in a country that claims it has no money, implementing and enforcing stupid rules on one captive sector of the economy.

Traveling to Chetumal? The Restaurant Critic Recommends…

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There’s not a whole lot to motivate you to want to go to Chetumal, the capital city of the neighboring state of Quintana Roo unless you have business with the state government there or are enroute to points further south via Belize. As a city, it has a somewhat provincial feel completely unbecoming a state capital. Everything there revolves around government jobs, real and imagined and the economy is based on the circulation of  government money. Also, as part of the now historic so-called zona libre, exempt from taxes levied against consumers back in the day, Chetumal became synonymous with cheap imported stuff that folks from Merida would drive hours for to buy and smuggle back into the Yucatan. Smuggle, because there was an actual border checkpoint on the Chetumal and Cancun highways where these entered the state of Yucatan. Cheeses from Holland, candies from all over, cookies from Denmark and butter in blue cans from New Zealand all became staples in the Yucatecan diet in the 60’s and 70’s, long before Costco, Sams and Walmart. Or Pacsadeli.

Enough with the history already!

Nowadays Chetumal will remind those who have lived here for some time, of a late 70’s, early 80’s Merida. There is nothing historical to look at really, except for the occasional wooden house, a tradition that made the place charming but wiped out by a hurricane in the 1950’s and never rebuilt. Everything is modern, square, unimaginative concrete with garish paint and horrific signage everywhere. There seems to be a problem with providing folks with garbage containers and so garbage can be seen most everywhere, including among the mangroves at waters edge. Chetumal is a popular place for folks from Merida to go when they head over the border into Belize to buy inexpensive Chinese junk and for Beliceños who want to step up and out from their border area to see something more modern. Granted, the state of Quintana Roo is one of the newest states in the United Mexican States (official name of Mexico did you know) but still, and for the same reason, you would think a somewhat more dignified city would carry the label of state capital.

On that 70’s-80’s theme, the fancy restaurant described a continuacion, is very much like what the Critic recalls from fancy restaurant experiences in Merida 30 years ago. The formal service, the elegant table-side dessert and salad preparation, the hygiene-challenged, poorly lit and charmless bathrooms completely at odds with what is happening out front, is a throwback to an earlier, less sophisticated time at least in terms of restaurants.

El Faro

El Faro, which means The Lighthouse, is undoubtedly one of Chetumals’ better restaurants. Ask a local which place is the best and the name will come up. Featuring formal service, lots of glassware and cutlery, real tablecloths and the stuffy feel of a tropical restaurant gone formal, the food is presented in a way suggesting that the chef or whoever is in charge of the kitchen has seen a few magazines and websites. It is good without being great and combined with the attentive yet cool service, the experience is decent enough.

Bucaneros

Bucaneros surprised the Critic because not only was the food great, but also the service was the friendliest experienced at any commercial establishment in Chetumal. Highly recommended for fun ambience and tasty, generously-portioned seafood creations including seafood-stuffed queso relleno!

New Restaurant Ku’uk Muscles in on the High End of Merida’s Restaurant Scene

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Picture this: A cool, subdued and yet warmly lit environment, sparsely furnished and discretely lit. Innovative, creative, strikingly beautiful dishes presented before you in a dazzling succession of colors and flavors (and sensory experiences) that amaze, tantalize and delight your senses. Three and a half hours of celebrating food, glorious food, in ways you could not have imagined, enjoying a chef’s menu where each magical creation leaves you gasping and wondering “what can possibly be next?” or “how did they do that!”

A newcomer to the Merida restaurant scene, definitely at the higher end of the spectrum and not for the quantity-conscious (the “es mucho, so it must be good” crowd) has arrived in the form of Ku’uk and this may just be a valid a reason to come to Merida as the city’s colonial mansions and Mayan relics.

Ku’uk is not an abomination of the English ‘cook’ but rather the Mayan term for sprouts or shoots, as in all things organic that start with a sprout from a seed, and the concept is all molecular gastronomy featuring local ingredients presented to you in ways your abuela never dreamed of (more on molecular gastronomy here). In addition to the restaurant itself, Ku’uk will feature a market where one can purchase delicacies and also a culinary workshop featuring classes for food aficionados. There is an herb garden out back and the entire place is visitable, so do make sure you get the full tour. The kitchen is equipped with the usual grills, ovens and mixers, but also with equipment straight out of a mad scientists laboratory, from nitrogen-based fast-freezing to humidity extractors that remove all water from foods leaving only intensely flavored concentrated flakes to other strange (and most definitely expensive) pieces of equipment that help chef Mario Espinosa and his team perform their magic. The wine “cellar” is a spectacular room that can be reserved for a special dinner and must be seen to be appreciated.

The Critic won’t go into the hows, whys, or pros and cons of molecular cooking and will instead stick to a short review of the experience:

Breathtakingly sublime.

There, that was it.

Better Half and the Critic enjoyed 3 and a half hours of culinary bliss, enjoying the chef’s menu which featured a total of 14 dishes, each more spectacular than its predecessor. The idea was to go through the different dishes but the Critic thinks you will be better served trying them yourself and coming to your own conclusions. Besides the full tasting menu, there is a shorter menu of about 7-8 dishes and there are also some items available a la carte. The photos (below) will speak for themselves.

Service is formal, a little stiff and there is some confidence lacking when presenting dishes but if you are as enthusiastic about the food as Better Half and the Critic were, they warm right up and the experience from the service perspective becomes more fluid and relaxed and one can even elicit a smile from some of the servers, who are mostly young foodie students.

The restaurant is currently in “soft opening” mode, so you can go, and avoid any semblance of a crowd and help them get on their feet before the official presentation to society at the end of the month.

Definitely put Ku’uk on your restaurant “to-die-and-go-to-foodie-heaven-at” list!

The Ku’uk website is here for more info on reservations and location. Or call  999-315-5825

Enjoy the photos!

The Casual Restaurant Critic – Luciano’s Ristorante Italiano

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Lucianos Interior

A Gaggle of Teens

The Casual Restaurant Critic – hungry and celebrating with Better Half the recuperation of a lost item which will be explained at some point but not right now – decided on lunch at the new Italian restaurant called Lucianos, located in that bastion of fashionable Merida mall-ness, Plaza Altabrisa.

There was only a table of young kids celebrating a birthday or something with pizzas and giggles in the entire restaurant which is huge, covering the corner second level of the mall, directly over Chili’s restaurant. About a hundred waiters abound and one is immediately struck with the thought that it is a lot like Italianni’s (Gran Plaza) and the now defunct Contenti’s (remember that one adjacent to and a part of Friday’s?). A hostess takes a name and leads you inside.

The noise level will probably be too high for many of my readers, who often prefer something a little more tranquilo, but on this occasion at least, a Ricky Martin concert on all the restaurants video screens accompanied by the ‘music’ on the sound system drowned out the possibility of any conversation but a word to the waiter changed that. Actually, the exchange went something like this:

Better Half  – “Excuse me, but I think we are not going to stay because we really can’t talk here”

Waiter – *grin*

Better Half – “Is that OK then, if we leave?”

Waiter – *grinning* “um, OK”

As Better Half turned to the Critic incredulously, Waiter disappeared and magically, a moment later, the volume went down to a more normal level. Loud enough to make the place seem more exciting than it actually is, but low enough that you can actually talk to the person sitting across from you.

The Critic and Better Half both ordered pizzas; 4 cheese with anchovies and pepperoni. Both were fine, but it was not an OMG moment featuring groaning and mouthgasms. No, it was a decent pizza, but you can do better at Rafaello’s downtown or Boston around the corner or Bella Roma out in the sticks.

All in all, the Critic might be back to try the pastas, but for the time being, is not in any rush to do so.

 

 

Casual Restaurant Critic vs. McDonalds Montejo

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It would, at first glance, seem almost sacrilegious; putting those two terms in the title together (Montejo and McDonalds) but then again maybe not. The Montejos and their ilk rolled over the native population like a steamroller and imposed their supposedly superior catholic customs on their ‘subjects’ and so it is only fitting that several generations later, the McDonalds (and the KFC’s and the Sam’s Clubs) of the world impose their materialistic and money-driven worldview on the mixed bag of white and brown Yucatecans that inhabit the area today.

Driving along Montejo, the part that is still the Paseo and not the Prolongación that borrows shamelessly from it’s Paseo counterpart to give it underserved prestige, the Casual Restaurant Critic, stomach growling in hunger, saw the orange and yellow epileptic fit inducing logo of McDonalds and, judgement clouded by said hunger, stopped to have a bite to eat.

McDonalds on Montejo is located in that awful shopping center by the Monumento a la Patria; the latter a monumental labor of love created over 14 years by a Colombian artist for the city of Merida and the former a monument also, to hideous architecture, neglect, crass commercialism and the pursuit of money at any aesthetic cost. What was once a stately colonial mansion has been converted into a garish McDonalds complete with plastic playroom while the mansions former gardens are now concrete covered, housing businesses that no one wants to visit.

But the Critic digresses. Again.

The immediate reaction that comes to mind upon climbing the steps to the entrance is one of “oops, this place needs a paint job”. The doors are missing paint in the usual places where many hands have been and the effect is not good. Inside, there is no welcoming blast of cold air to greet you. In fact, there is no greeting at all. The place is warm; too warm for a Merida afternoon and the employees are positively glowing (with sweat) and look as though they are suffering from heat exhaustion. As the Critic approaches the counter, occupied only by one other couple who obviously made the same mistake as the Critic, one saggy-eyed young female employee who will not win the coveted Employee of the Month distinction any time soon and unable to utter a sound, motions with one weary arm movement and pointed finger to a cash register down the counter.

The Critic orders his Big Mac and the clerk mumbles something in her heat-induced stupor, which the Critic needs to hear again before understanding. Oh, they will bring it to the table. OK.

The Critic finds the air conditioning working in only one part of the restaurant; the enclosed glass box that is the children’s play area, complete with plastic jungle gym and thankfully free of small screaming human offspring. The chairs are red, orange and yellow and extremely uncomfortable as they are expected to be to get you in and out quickly. Although here it is a moot point as there are no lineups to get into this fine dining establishment. The Critic, waiting patiently for his food, then notices the tinny music blaring through the hi-fidelity sound system; all ponchis ponchis with screaming DJs in between “songs”. This McDonalds really wants you out of there, and fast!

Finally, the food arrives and the fries are fine, the Coke is cold and the burger literally falls to pieces about 1/3 of the way through. Although they bring you the burger, the straws, the napkins and so forth are not included in the “service”.

At last, hands greasy and sticky from the special sauce and now cardboard-like french fries, the Critic abandons this abomination of a restaurant, hopefully never to return.

The Funky Exhibits at the Manuel Crescencio Rejon Airport in Merida

Life in the Yucatan, , , , , , , , , , , , , ,

Every once in a while, yet another friend shows up in Merida and I have to make the trek out to the airport to pick them up when they arrive on the flight from Continental which is now called United. In spite of the tone of the last sentence, I actually enjoy these little outings, what with the people watching opportunities, passenger and family member bingo (the gringo, 50 points, a mestiza, for 100 points etc.) and the expensive and consistently horrendous coffee at that little place next to Burger King which is always closing as we all wait for the flight to arrive.

On this last occasion, just about a month ago now, there was a new exhibit in the airport called Tesoros de Mexico (Treasures of Mexico) and so I had to check it out. As much as I wanted to, I couldn’t figure out what in the hell this exhibit was about. There was a fancy chair, some coats of arms, a series of mini-pyramid sculptures but for the life of me I could not find a theme or even a reason for all this junk to be here. If you can figure this out and wish to enlighten me, please do. In my humble and always correct opinion, the exhibit should have been called “Shit I had lying around the back of the Museum” which would have been much more self-explanatory and then the items on display would have made some sense.

Look at the pyramids for example. In the absence of a sign or something, what are we looking at? Are the models to scale and the idea is to show how they stand up to each other in the great scheme of things archeological? Is it someone’s Lego set? There’s Mayan and Aztec stuff there. Why?

The fancy chair with the coat of arms of the state of Yucatan is there. Why? Did it belong to someone famous? Who? Does it belong to the governor? So why is it here at the airport then?

Here are most of the items you can enjoy while sipping that 700 peso coffee:

Dispatches from the Gym

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It has been a while since I last commented on my progress at the gym, the one with all the fancy cars outside and the impossibly fit personal trainer.

I have progressed beyond the exhaustion/vomiting in the parking lot point and have come to enjoy my workouts, actually missing them if I go for more than a day without sweating it out. My physique is slowly but surely changing; there are bulges now where there was only flab or nothing at all and my joints ache, but in a good way, a way that says ‘you are alive, you are getting stronger’ and also ‘don’t push it, you old fart’.

My favorite moments, though, are still those involving the locker room. There is something I find hilarious about all that loud, boisterous male on male banter and the imaginative and creative uses of the hair dryers provided by the gym presumable for us menfolk to dry their hair.

Just yesterday I watched in amazement as a towel clad individual, freshly returned from the showers, blow dried a basket of toiletries.

Two thoughts immediately came to mind: 1) what kind of man is it that has a plastic tray with his shower toiletries? and 2) what kind of man finds it necessary to blow dry this item before returning it to a locker? Presumably his locker is full of moisture-sensitive materials that would desintegrate upon making contact with said moisture?

I don’t know.

Enlighten me?

In Case You Missed This – The Truth About The Drug War in Mexico

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Written by Don Winslow, for the Huffington Post

Mexico’s drug problem isn’t.

Mexico’s drug problem, that is.

It’s America’s drug problem.

And our looking at it backwards is a huge part of the problem itself.

We sit and blame Mexico for smuggling drugs across our border as if we were innocent in all this. As if the evil (and they are) Mexican drug cartels are forcing Americans at gunpoint to consume illicit drugs.

(The proposition is not as far-fetched as its sounds. In 1842, Great Britain forced China to accept opium importation, and took the island of Hong Kong to use as a staging base.)

We condemn Mexico for exporting drugs while ignoring the inverse dynamic — we are importing the drugs. We are the ones bringing in 20 tons of heroin, 110 tons of methamphetamine, 330 tons of cocaine and literally countless tons of marijuana annually.

The cartels could stack up drugs on this side of the border until California tilted into the ocean, and if we weren’t using them, it wouldn’t matter. The drugs would be worthless, instead of the multi-billion dollar product that we have made them.

Mexico has every right to be furious.

We insist that the Mexican government ‘crack down’ on the drug cartels, while at the same time we maintain the world’s largest drug market just across its border. We condemn Mexico for its corruption while ignoring the societal rot in our own culture. We act appalled at the (appalling) level of violence in Mexico without ever acknowledging our own share of the responsibility for perpetuating it.

Just for the sake of getting a different perspective, turn the map upside down for a second. Just to get a fresh look, put Mexico to our north and consider the situation.

What if we had highly-armed, wealthy and immensely powerful criminal organizations thriving in the United States — ‘cartels’ whose combined power rivaled the national government. Let’s say that they had enough money to bribe politicians, judges, police, even the military. Let’s suppose that they felt so insulated from consequences that they assassinated police chiefs, mayors and journalists. That they were responsible for an average of ten thousand violent deaths or disappearances a year. That they conducted unspeakably grisly tortures by way of vengeance and intimidation. In the streets of New York, Chicago and L.A.

Now let’s say that Mexico funded them.

To the tune of $25 billion annually.

Go just a little further and say that Mexican entrepreneurs supplied them with the guns they use to kill.

How long would the U.S. tolerate that situation?

Months? Weeks? Days?

What if Mexican drug consumers were funding, let’s say, terrorist organizations inside the United States? How long would it be before the tanks started rolling?

But that’s exactly what we do to Mexico. Our drug money goes south (along with our guns), perpetuating the power of the violent cartels, creating untold misery and suffering for the Mexican people, destabilizing their society, government and economy.

(It is estimated that fully 10% of Mexico’s economy is built on drug proceeds.)

At the same time, we commit more billions ($10 billion in 2011, twice what we spent of treatment and prevention) to try to interdict the drug traffic, money that only drives up the price and gives more profit and power to the cartels that control the prime smuggling turf. We increase the violence in Mexico both by buying the drugs and then by trying to stop them from coming in.

And then we call it the ‘Mexican drug problem.’

We’re Mexico’s drug problem.

by Don Winslow, Huffington Post, 20 July 2012

http://www.huffingtonpost.com/don-winslow/mexico-war-on-drugs_b_1688907.html