Annie Arrives in Merida

Life in the Yucatan, Ti'ho Tales

Annie arrived at 9:13 PM in the middle of Merida’s rainy season on a Continental flight from Houston, the only direct flight into Merida from the U.S. She had not wanted to stop in the United States as she did not support that country’s politics, but had discovered that she had to in order to fly into Merida and not nearby Cancun. Annie was about to enter the University of Calgary to begin a career in international politics and because of her interest in Latin American studies, learning Spanish seemed like a smart idea. She had taken some beginners classes and so had a very basic grasp of the language, but the reason for this trip was to polish her language skills to get a leg up on the courses that would be coming at her in the fall.

Annie could not believe the heat once she left the somewhat air conditioned airport building. It was a sticky, warm mass of humidity that enveloped her, got into and under her clothes and made her hand, holding the handle of her carry-on bag, slippery with condensation as her body – and the luggage – warmed through, from the outside in. And this was 10:30 PM. She wondered how bad it would be the next day.

Her host Mom, who told her “Just call me Rebecca” when they had first talked on the phone after several weeks of emailing back and forth, had been there at the airport to greet her. Standing beside her was her 10 year-old daughter – Rebequita – who had stared up at her with an expression of cautious suspicion, as if to size up this new -although certainly not permanent – member of the family.

Rebeca (the Mom) now led her through the dimly lit parking lot to an older model silver mini-van. “Aqui estamos! Que calor, verdad!” she said with a grin and opened the rear first, before opening the other doors. The luggage man, perspiration staining his light blue shirt, lifted the one large suitcase from his dolly and placed it in the back of the van. Annie had wanted to drag her luggage out herself but Rebeca wouldn’t hear of it. Rebeca gave him some coins and a “gracias, joven” and he was off, half walking, half running to get inside and perhaps have a shot at another customer before the passengers dispersed.

As he ran, huffing and puffing and pushing the dolly in front of him, he made a little sign of the cross in grateful thanks for the tips received just now. It was only 10 pesos and probably one of the most miserable tips he had received in a while but he tried to concentrate on the positive and  on getting back into the luggage pickup area where he might find some more passengers who needed help. The Continental Airlines flight was the only international flight at that hour and there was only one opportunity to get a few services in and make some tip money. The worst was when you had all their luggage piled up on a dolly, 10-12 suitcases and were ready to get out to the car, get the tip and hustle back in, they would decide to chat and catch up. And you had to stand there like some kind of living statue while you were completely ignored or, if someone should catch your eye, you had to smile politely and then look away, so as not to let them know you were itching to get on with it already.

The van moved slowly, in a line of several cars, until they reached the parking lot exit. Fortunately Rebeca had remembered to pay her parking ticket inside. On a previous airport visit, she had forgotten and after reaching the exit realized her mistake and had to leave the lineup of cars, park again and head back inside to pay the damn thing. The airport had installed machines that replaced the humans who used to work at the airport parking lot exit, making the process entirely automatic for about a week, when it was discovered that the new machines did not accept some larger bills and that they ran out of change rather quickly. The previously dismissed employees were now back at work in an office behind the machines, dispensing change and small bills for customers and occasionally charging the old fashioned way – by hand. Rebeca shook her head as she thought of the embarrassment of having to leave the lineup that day. She pulled out of the parking lot and merged into traffic on Avenida Itzes, towards Merida.

Annie sat in the front seat as Rebeca drove the three of them home, Rebequita in the back seat watching, on a screen strapped to the headrest of the seat, a DVD of what sounded to Annie like The Little Mermaid in Spanish. As Ariel chattered unintelligibly with her fishy friends, Annie suddenly felt tired from the long travel day, but she knew she had to stay awake just a little longer to meet the rest of the family.  She was glad to see flashing lights ahead, blue and red and noticed the traffic slowing. Something to keep her awake.

“What it is?” she asked Rebeca, who was putting on her seat belt as she slowed the van down. Her agreement with her host Mom had been that she could speak in English only the first week and from then on, todo en español. Her host Mom would not speak English to her at all, unless it was an emergency of course.

“Es la policia” answered her host Mom, “un reten. Tienes tu cinturon puesto?”  Rebeca looked at Annie’s seat belt and nodded approvingly. Of course Annie, conditioned like any good Canadian to strict seat belt laws, had put on her seat belt as soon as she got in the car and didn’t really understand the question, but did not have the interest or the energy to get into a discussion on seat belt regulations in Mexico.

Rebeca rolled down her window as they approached the police checkpoint. The three lanes from the airport were becoming one and Annie noticed how all the cars jostled for position, horns blaring, to get into the only lane that was open. No one seemed to want to give an inch. She wondered if her host Mom would let the little car to the left of them with the family in it get in front of her, but no way. Rebeca stared straight ahead, oblivious to the traffic around her and satisfied that she was now in the correct lane. Traffic was now moving at a snails pace.

They arrived at the checkpoint. Annie saw a black and gold police pickup truck with a black canopy on the back, a second smaller black police car – both with blue and red lights flashing – several dozen traffic cones with lights inside them marking the lane they were in, and a large, bright light hanging from a tree that shined directly into their faces. Policemen wearing black on black uniforms topped with black bullet proof and carrying menacing machine guns. Across the street, for traffic coming in the opposite direction, the scene was the same. Some of the policemen wore ski-masks. Annie felt nervous excitement at this blatant display of law and order.

“Porque…hacen…” she gave up trying “why are they doing this?” she asked Rebeca.

Rebeca said nothing and concentrated on the policeman now approaching her drivers side window. The officer wordlessly pointed a flashlight into the interior of the van through the open window, pausing briefly on each of the three faces.

Annie was annoyed by the light in her eyes but she sensed it was not a good moment to voice her objections.

Rebeca said nothing and looked back at the officer.

“Adelante” he said, waving his hand.

Rebeca rolled up her window, looked at Annie and gave her a tired smile. Annie smiled back.

Carls Jr and Lucia Mendez

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

So, you ask, what the heck are the terms Carls Jr. and Lucia Mendez doing in the same sentence?

Well, as luck would have it, or happenstance or just plain old hunger, I left my office in Chuburna with the firm intention of finally trying the fish and chips at Giannis that I had read good things about.

Unfortunately  Giannis, on calle 60, was about as closed as an argument about whether or not a glorieta on the Prolongacion de Montejo would go ahead or not.

Still hungry, I decided that because of the odd hour (6-ish) nothing normal and yummy (like a cocina economica)  would be open and my options were limited to fast food which I then proceeded to find in Carls Jr. on Montejo. In hindsight I should have eaten at El Pez Gordo but I had a hankering for a hamburger.

Inside Carls Jr. the air conditioning was fantastic, the place was more or less empty except for the thankfully glassed in kids section where children caroused and screamed and the burger was… just alright. A bit disappointing but whatever.

On the many wall mounted televisions sprinkled around the restaurant, I could enjoy some telenovela and the accompanying commercials obviously dedicated to a female audience with absolutely nothing better to do. I had forgotten, as I don’t have the pleasure of  being able to enjoy Mexican television at home, how truly awful it is!

Lucia Mendez is still doing telenovelas which is probably the only thing she knows how to do and her acting skills are amazing. So convincing was she in the part I saw that I am sure she really is a telenovela actress. She also had had major work done on her face which really doesn’t move much when she talks. Her perky Michael Jackson nose, cheekbones and lips all show signs of an overhaul. Poor thing, desperately clinging to her fading beauty, fingers slipping one at a time off the precipice of youth and about to tumble into the chasm of obsoletion. Is that a word?

The men are cartoons of course as well. Many a furrowed brow; an angry outburst alone in an office. How many men in real life talk to themselves like this? All angry and banging their fist on the desk while the camera closes in on their face, all covered with makeup.

And the sets, the fabulous sets!

Most scenes look like they have been filmed in a Liverpool home furnishings section, or maybe the set designers are ex-decorators from the Palacio de Hierro or Liverpool? Who knows. One scene featured lunch, and a pristine white table setting was offset by the bright orange drink in a glass pitcher. No one was drinking anything and Mom finally got around to serving a rice noodle broth. It looked delicious, but no one was paying attention.

Finally, the highlight of my very- late-lunch television viewing experience: a fabulous commercial, right out of a Saturday Night Live sketch, for “UpLift” cream which will make your bum pop right out and your boobs stand up at attention. A rather suggestive video – considering the kids in the glass and plastic cage a few feet away – shows a woman rubbing “UpLift” cream on her breasts (the nipples are blurred out) and then another hot female in a tank top rubbing her bum while wearing a thong. Then, magic! An animation morphs her “unflattering” flat bum into a true rappers delight, “it’s like, out there Becky” (from Baby Got Back). You get to watch this creaming and morphing several times during the several-minute long commercial. I tried to imagine this commercial in a non-latin culture. Couldn’t do it.

That’s it. The end.

Next time I am going to OneBurger. Maybe they will have something better on TV.

Doña Juany – A Long Day

Inspired, Life in the Yucatan, Ti'ho Tales, , , , , , , , ,

The plastic Coca Cola-red chair scraped along the colorful tile floor as Doña Juany dragged it through the sala and out the front door, setting it down on the sidewalk just outside the entrance to her old house. She glanced back inside for a moment, making sure she had turned off any lights she wasn’t using and then sat, wearily, in the cool, late afternoon air.

It had been a long day, washing day that it was, and she had spent an inordinate amount of time washing the clothes as she had always washed them – by hand – in the large batea behind her kitchen.  Of course now with her mother and father gone, there was not much to wash except for her underclothes and some house dresses she wore around the house and to the market when she went to buy the day’s provisions and yet, it had still taken what seemed to be longer than usual. Then she had painstakingly pinned the washed clothing to the lines strung criss-cross just beyond the batea only to have to rush out an hour later when it started to rain. It rained long enough to get all the clothing wet and of course everything had to be rinsed again to prevent it from smelling bad when it finally dried. The clothes were now hanging in one of the empty bedrooms, drying slowly on nylon lines tied to hammock hooks.

All this washing and hanging, combined with a three-block walk to the corner grocery store and back to buy some detergente and a jar of instant Nescafe for her morning coffee, had left her tired. She recalled Maria Ines, the owner of the shop, mentioning something about the weather and how the rainy season had finally come and what a relief it was, especially for the campesinos who were waiting to plant their corn as this year the dry season had lasted so long and what if the rains didn’t come and the seeds would dry and so they were waiting expectantly and… Maria Ines talked a lot, and this morning Doña Juany had not felt like engaging in much conversation, so she just nodded or shook her head depending on what Maria Ines was saying. Finally she managed to pay and left, leaving Maria Ines talking to another, more interested customer who had just walked into the store. He was one of those older gringos that had recently moved in, spent what must have been a fortune on renovating an old house and now spent his days strolling the streets smiling at everyone and drawling out “buenos dias” in a thick American accent without a care in the world.

“How do they do it?” she thought “they just start speaking Spanish without knowing even basic grammar or tense and they could care less how it sounds”

Doña Juany, when she was much younger, had met some American exchange students who were studying at the Rogers Hall school under the supervision of those crazy American nuns – they wore shorts for their sports classes; what kind of nuns did that – and when an opportunity had presented itself to talk to them, Juany had remained silent, afraid to utter anything in English because she was positive her pronunciation was so bad that she would not be understood or worse, laughed at. The girls were nice and had spoken to her in Spanish – such as it was – and she would answer them in Spanish, yearning for the courage to try out her English but that courage never presented itself and the opportunity was lost. Since then she had forgotten most of it and had only recently started to think about English when the neighborhood began to repopulate with the recently arrived Americans.

Across the street, Doña Juany could see Arsenio, the neighbor with the bad leg, moving about inside his living room. His windows onto the street were open to take advantage of the cool air and she could make out a television in the corner of the room. It looked like some sort of telenovela was on and Arsenio was settling down in a rocking chair in front of the TV to watch it.

Besides her neighbor Doña Betty who seemed to live alone with her adopted malix, there was another house a few doors down that had been fixed up and was now owned by two men who spent a lot of time away from Merida. They would be gone for weeks and then, suddenly, be back and then there would be dinner parties with lots of other gringos. Unlike the typical Mexican party, however, Doña Juany noticed that these parties usually started – and ended – early and by midnight the whole affair would be over. One of them was called George, or Jorge as he like to call himself, who seemed friendly enough on the few occasions she had crossed paths with him but the other one she didn’t know because he didn’t seem to get out much. She suspected they were gay. Why else would two grown men live together without any women around? Around the corner was another couple, probably in their 50’s and she had heard they were from Washington but these people did not throw parties or go out late. They mostly stayed home venturing out only to visit el mercado on Thursday mornings when it seemed they did all their grocery shopping for the week. Normally they left on foot, but most times returned by taxi on account of their many sabucanes full of fruits and vegetables.

A few other houses in the area had “Se Vende” or “Se Renta” signs on them with local phone numbers and foreign sounding names and occasionally a gringo in one of those fancy cars would pull up in front of them, step out onto the sidewalk along with a foreign couple – the wife emerging from the back seat, husband from the passenger front – and they would go inside. After a while they would come back out, get into the fancy car and drive away. So far, no one had bought anything for some time. This was another reason D0ña Juany was convinced that her house would never be sold. If those places, many of  which were still in decent shape were not selling, there was really no hope for the crumbling family home that she had taken care of all these years.

With a sigh of resignation, Doña Juany got up and took the red plastic chair back into the house, closing the door to the street behind her. An hour or more had passed and it was time for her novela. She didn’t much care for the earlier soap opera, the one that Arsenio was watching across the street, it was just too melodramatic and the protagonist was far too old for the part of the galan. The actress playing the part of the novia could have been his daughter for crying out loud.

She turned on a table lamp and the television and found the right channel. Then she went to the kitchen to prepare a cup of te de manzanilla and found a package of Canelitas cinnamon cookies and returned to the sala with her cookies and tea to watch her novela.

As the violins and crashingly symphonic music started, accompanied by flowery script and images of flowing haired actresses atop shining horses and men with creased foreheads turning dramatically towards the camera, Doña Juany sipped her tea and swallowed a bite of cookie.

She swallowed again, but somehow the cookie was not moving. Another swallow, nothing. She suddenly felt the urge to take a deep breath and knew she couldn’t because her windpipe was blocked. Thunderous orchestral music came from the television as Doña Juany dropped her cup of tea on the tile floor – it smashed into a thousand porcelain pieces – and the package of Canelitas slipped from her lap as she made an effort to get up, clutching at her throat. She made a croaking sound as she tried to cry for help staggering towards the front door. Flinging it open she felt herself becoming dizzy, sparkling lights in her peripheral vision and she sank to her knees and onto the sidewalk.

Behind her on the small television in the dimly lit sala of the tired old house, a sensual female voice was announcing an exciting new body spray.

Everything went suddenly very black.

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What the Heck is a Beachstro Anyway?

Casual Restaurant Critic, , , , , , , , , , , ,

It’s a cross between a bistro and a beach, that’s what!

So, as the Casual Restaurant Critic had far too much time on his hands and while surfing the internet for food porn he stopped by Facebook and read about a Beachstro and then read about homemade Rocky Road Ice Cream.

Rocky Road Ice Cream!

“Gotta have me some of that” thought the Critic and away he went.

Turns out this here beachstro is not really a bistro but it is on the beach (between Chuburna and Chelem to be exact) and by golly they have pizzas too so the Critic got hisself some of that as well. They bake ’em fresh right there in a big old pizza oven right there in their kitchen too! And the Critic did taste it and found it to be good. The Rocky Road Ice Cream was tasted and it too, passed the test with flying colors.

Now, Cil (or Sil) and Michael said their crust didn’t work out that well that day but you know what, the Critic’s gonna say it was pretty darn good. It’s hard to eat pizza and drive especially with all the new regulations about what y’all are supposed to and not supposed to be doing while you’re driving, but the Critic did pull it off. Also ice cream eatin’ is a challenge, but he’s got that down as well. It’s getting a Tweet in there between bites that’s real hard.

Here’s their Facebook info:

http://www.facebook.com/profile.php?id=100002413601305

Now there ain’t nowhere to set down and eat right there, but you can get it all to go. So if you are gettin’ just a little tired of eatin’ fried fish for the Nth time on your summer vacation at the beach, well you just go and order yourself some pizza and ice cream.

You can buy the house too, if you want. Ice cream not included.

Pat and Betty Visit the Pharmacist

Inspired, Life in the Yucatan, Ti'ho Tales, , , , , , ,

Pat stared up at the ceiling fan, spinning lazily above the bed just enough to move the air around a little. It was not hot; rather, it was pleasant in the mornings in Merida, always cooler than when she went to bed the night before. She thought about her latest sculpture, the one with the forks she had mentioned to Betty at the cafe the other day when they talked about Seidy. She still had to do something about her muchacha. That’s how Pats mind worked – as does everyone’s she presumed – moving from one subject to the next, linking along like a series of clicks on the internet that take you from one idea to the next in a few seconds in a never-ending barrage of images and information.

Thinking of the internet reminded her that she had wanted to update her Facebook profile picture which still showed her standing, smiling then, next to a man she thought she had once loved. She got up, slipped on an old extra large t-shirt with a faded University of Maryland logo and made her way through the silent house to the kitchen to make herself a cup of tea. Seidy had not yet arrived. Good.

The click click click of the gas stove top annoyed her and she made a mental note to have someone come and check the burners or whatever it was that made the thing take so long to light. When it finally did, she put some water on to boil and looked through her collection of teas to see what exotic infusion was going to inspire her this morning. She settled on a black tea called Lemon Lift – what was it with those names – which was from a selection in a welcome basket that Betty had shown up with when she moved into her new home in Merida.

Betty had been a real godsend, a friend when Pat most needed one. The separation from Matthew had been the most difficult thing Pat had ever faced and the realization that she was not getting any younger as she moved into single-ness again – as well as a whole new country – made her feel uncertain and insecure in addition to being severely depressed.

She had met Betty one afternoon at Merida’s main square; two extranjeras sitting at adjacent tables having a sorbete and watching people go about their lives. Pat was still staying at a nearby hotel while her house was being readied; Betty was having a pre-comida sherbet as was her custom after a morning of dog walking and a swim in her backyard pool.

“Isn’t this sherbet the best?” asked Betty; she was having mamey. “Betty” she continued extending a hand between the two tables.

“Yes, it’s fantastic” said Pat, who had been overwhelmed by the strange flavors and had finally settled on safe and familiar strawberry. “I’m Pat” she replied and took the offered hand.

From there they had talked like old friends for what seemed like hours and when Pat finally peeked at her watch discretely, so as not to offend her new companion, she realized with some embarrassment that she had probably kept Betty from her mid-day meal, although there was no complaint from her new friend.

In the time since, Betty had adopted Pat and shown her around Centro, telling her which restaurants were good and which ones to stay away from; where she could get a cheap (and clean) manicure and pedicure – “they keep their scissors and things clean, so you don’t have to worry about an infection” she had said – and the little laundry place just around the corner where they do such a good job. Once Betty had been apprised of Pat’s emotional situation and they had come to the conclusion that most men were cursed with a defective chip that caused them to spin out of control after reaching a certain mileage, Betty also told Pat about ‘her’ pharmacist, a quiet and very serious middle-aged man in spectacles and the obligatory lab coat who worked in an hole in the wall pharmacy next to a small clinic on 57, who could discretely and without a doctors prescription, procure all sorts of medicines to combat all manner of ills.

She smiled and popped a tea bag into a cup of hot water, remembering the first time she had visited Dr. Gustavo, which was the name on the glass door of the pharmacy, in a two-tone Gothic hand painted script. Responsable: Dr. Gustavo Fuentes Alcocer, UNAM. Betty had done most of the talking, introducing her new friend and explaining that she was a little down.

“Mi amiga tiene una depresion” said Betty to Dr. Gustavo seriously after exchanging the usual buenos dias and como esta usted formalities. Dr. Gustavo nodded gravely and Betty continued “necesito una medicina para ella“. Pat looked on, suitably nervous and looking the part without much effort. Betty patted her shoulder.

Dr. Gustavo turned back and looked briefly at the metal racks behind him, where little boxes and containers were neatly arranged in what appeared to be alphabetical order, then disappeared for a moment between the racks. With only the A section visible, Pat could make out a few familiar names and some not-so familiar ones. While Abilify and Afterbite sounded somewhat recognizable, there were some strange ones there like Acarbosa Tarbis and Aclasta. There were so many!

When Dr. Gustavo returned to the counter he presented Betty and Pat with a small box with the name Ludiomil. “Es como Prozac” said the doctor seriously and, after the briefest of interrogations regarding Pat’s health, handed Pat the box in a small plastic bag. Pat fished out her pesos and Betty helped sort out the colorful bills until they had the right amount. They paid and headed for the door, Betty shouting “Gracias doctor!” and Pat smiling sheepishly as they stepped out into the sunshine of Calle 57.

It seemed so long ago already. Pat shook her head and took her cup of Lemon Lift tea to the kitchen table, where her laptop was waiting obediently and clicked open her Facebook page. “15 new messages!” was the excited announcement at the top of the screen. She sat down and began to read.

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Will Pat get around to updating her Profile Pic? Will she set a date for her sit-down with Seidy? Will she spill lemon tea on her laptop? Stay tuned for another installment of Ti’ho Tales coming as soon as inspiration strikes again!

Frijol the Malix Gets a New Home

Inspired, Life in the Yucatan, Ti'ho Tales, , , , , , , , ,

He was born in the street, raised in the street and it was being in the street on a particularly fortuitous Thursday afternoon (not that he could have differentiated between a Thursday and any other day) that brought him to the attention of the bare-legged lady with the yellow hair who took one look at him and scooped his bony body up and threw him into the back of her car, making cooing sounds and speaking in a gentle tone that was new to him.

For most of his life, as long as he could remember at any rate, his life had consisted mainly of running, hiding, knocking over garbage cans and nearly getting killed by cars while running across streets. Food was scarce in a land where even the humans had to scramble to eat. Old tortillas, bits of chicken bone, plastic bags with rotting meat, these were his staples most days.

It was not rare to get a kick in the side from a passing human if he wasn’t paying attention or, feel the sting of rocks pelted from groups of curiously smaller humans who also chased him and made loud, aggressive noises.

Often there was no previous warning. The humans would be still one minute, and then smack, he would get clobbered. Brooms were often used against him as well, whenever he got too close to those places where the humans congregated and the smell of cooking was in the air, driving him to distraction while he scratched himself.

Ah yes, the scratching. At some point when you live in the street, you pick up some ticks and fleas and these just seem to multiply exponentially all over your body making it unbearably itchy and causing welts and bleeding which makes you feel even worse and seems to anger the humans even more because the beatings and rocks and brooms seem to be everywhere and more often.

In any case, the yellow haired lady had found him on the street and had literally and figuratively lifted him out of his misery.

He felt fantastic. Now obviously well-nourished, his coat was shiny and insect-free and his yellow-haired lady talked to him constantly in a soothing voice, patting his head gently and stroking his fur and if there was a thunderstorm or one of those extra-large, monstrous contraptions out on the street backfired, he would run, tail between his legs to his benefactor who would stop whatever she was doing and calm him down.

He learned to recognize her name when other humans stopped to say hello to her and pat his head; they called her Betty.

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Will Frijol the Malix live happily ever after or will he get run over by a bus? Will Betty’s hair remain yellow or will the black roots start showing? Will the gringos and their neutering campaign get to Frijol the Malix thereby affecting his virility?

Stay tuned for another exciting installment of Ti’ho Tales, coming soon (I hope)

A Merida Institution Turns 50 – La Susana Internacional

Casual Restaurant Critic, Life in the Yucatan, , , , , , , , , , , , , , ,

If you have spent any time in Merida, any time at all, you have been to La Susana Internacional in Kanasin for panuchos and salbutes and perhaps a delicious caldo. If you haven’t, well shame on you!

Last night, La Susana Internacional threw at party to celebrate their 50th birthday and the Casual Restaurant Critic was there to partake in the festivities and a chunk of tres leches birthday cake complete with fluorescent, super-sweet icing. Imagine! 50 years this place has been operating, not in its present format as it once was a trailer-type stand. This beats Elaines, which recently closed upon reaching 50 years – it seems that panuchos never go out of style!

The restaurant was packed with larger than large tables and it seemed that entire Yucatecan clans came out in full force to celebrate and ; there were at least 5 tables of 12 or more people, happily enjoying their dinner to the sounds of live trio music, and the waiters were scrambling to get the food out of the kitchen.

Here are just a few photos; enjoy!

The Casual Restaurant Critic in Muna – Lol-Pich Restaurant

Casual Restaurant Critic, , , , , , , ,

If you are in the Puuc region and are not as far out as Uxmal or Kabah and can’t visit the Pickled Onion in Santa Elena, you are probably wondering if there is another option for decent food someplace in between Uxmal and Merda that is not the San Pedro Ochil hacienda. The Casual Restaurant Critic wondered this as well and after visiting with Pedro in Muna, decided that a new restaurant had to be found to expand the database so to speak.

Two restaurants were recommended to him; the new La Finca restaurant just outside of Muna on the way back to Merida and Lol Pich, described as a more local, family oriented option just a little closer to town. The Critic and his guests settled on the latter for lunch.

Lol Pich (lol=flower, Pich=the giant Swiss Family Robinson tree just out front) does indeed appear to be a family run restaurant and as it was Fathers Day, was full of families celebrating except for one table which was where the Critic and guests sat. A young man, friendly enough, in an Alice in Wonderland tshirt acted as the waiter and several ladies could be seen in the kitchen working diligently. The menu is a one page affair that is not big on Yucatecan food and seems to be more of a general option for locals and visitors alike.

The table finally settled on Poc Chuc, beef fajitas and Yucatecan chicken. When the dishes arrived the chicken had been converted into beef but our Alice in Wonderland man noticed right away, muttered “era pollo verdad” and took the plate back to the kitchen. As this dish belonged to the only lady at the table, the Critic and guest politely waited. And waited some more. Finally, the Critic asked how much longer it would be for the chicken. “Ya casi” was the answer, which means a lot of things and usually is not particularly hopeful, so the Critic asked that the two dishes, now getting cold, be taken back to the kitchen to be kept warm while the chicken was being finished.

After what seemed like a long time during which the guests were able to enjoy the rather loud, heavy on the tuba music coming from some impressively large speakers, the Poc Chuc and beef fajitas again appeared in front of the diners. The chicken was still not forthcoming and it seemed that this was becoming a Groundhog Day moment. Eventually the chicken did arrive and all was well in the world.

The food was fine, but nothing to rave about or even consider writing home about. Total bill with a Michelada, a coke and two cervezas came to $280 pesos before tip.

The Critic will try La Finca next time; while not bad, the Lol Pich is not particularly great and for those looking for something more Yucatecan, not the best option. The restaurant at San Pedro Ochil is still much better for that.