We rebounded the next day by opting for a larger lunch at El Pesquero, which on a late Sunday afternoon was packed with locals enjoying expansive family meals. I took this as a good sign, and indeed the ramshackle outdoor space boasted the best food we ate in town. The Tostada de Atun, served raw, ceviche-style with tomatoes, peppers and pickled red onions, was outstanding, a reminder of how easy it is to get great seafood in places where fresh catch still pours in daily. The highlight of the meal, not just for novelty’s sake, were the Pescadillas (labelled on the menu merely as “fish tacos”), instead a hash of flavored dogfish (leavings from the Pan de Cazon?) with a small strip of Oaxaca cheese melted on top. I wouldn’t at all feel qualified to judge the cheese employed here, had I not seen a woman selling the stuff freshly made from containers outside of a nearby Chedraui, which is something I wish would catch on in America. I was informed by a local that there are a healthy number of Oaxacan migrants in the Yucatan, which may have something to do with this, although the cheese (also known as quesillo) is popular enough that it could have easily traveled on its own.
The problem with beach towns, beyond the usual issues endemic to places with such a high volume of sandal-clad, towel-toting visitors, is that everyone goes home early. This is obviously not the case in larger maritime colonies, in which the nighttime population simply shifts, leaving behind ghost-town agglomerations near the shore but pockets of activity inland or wherever the hotels tend to be. In a place like Puerto Morelos, prized by visitors for its quiet, fishing-village vibe (in addition to some choice snorkeling opportunities) sunset signals an atmosphere of peaceful calm that, on certain quieter avenues, doubles as outright desolation. I did not come to Puerto Morelos to snorkel, restricted by an inherent distrust of seacraft and guided tour activities in general, although I did enjoy a few pleasant spots of offshore fish-spotting (including a ray the size of a medium-range coffee table). I did come to eat however, which creates a less-than-favorable situation upon attempting dinner at 8:30 and discovering everything is closed. This unfortunate incident ended up serving as my introduction to the vagaries of the classic Mexican meal structure, which I otherwise grew to love and respect. In this traditional system, the first meal is a small, often bread-based nibble (Desayuno) taken very early, followed by a kicker of tacos or street snacks (Almuerzo) around 11 am. The main repast is a massive lunch (Comida) around two, with another tea-time-esque morsel (Merienda) penciled in around 4, and finally a light dinner (Cena) in the evening. Not everyone still sticks to this format, but it remains the foundation for the Yucatan’s general meal configuration. It’s also likely how tacos were invented in the first place. Imagine leftovers from a big mid-day meal, spanning a scattering of unconsumed tortillas to several bowls of stewed meats, vegetables and beans, scraps which are then in turn arranged within a scarfable package intended to toss them all together, obviating the need to store leftovers overnight. These seminal tacos of yore were likely a far cry from those at Tacos.com, where we ended up eating our first meal in the country, mostly because it was the only thing still open by the time we finally set down to obtaining dinner. I don't want to make it seem like I’m impugning the place, only stating that it’s offerings, which reminded me of my own freewheeling childhood concoctions and were all layered heavily with cheese, didn’t exactly highlight the finer points of local cuisine. To be fair, they also seemed less cravenly geared toward the base palates of American visitors than in service of a patently maximalist approach, which I can respect. Like other locales visited on this trip, Puerto Morelos didn’t seem to attract a huge number of Americans, with far more Mexicans and a few Europeans making up the tourist mix. Leaning in to the non-traditional nature of Tacos.com (a truly unbeatable moniker), I ordered the Taco Hawaiiano, a stir-fry of garlic, shrimp and pineapple. It was perfectly acceptable, and produced my first ember of interest about the infusion of Hawaiian-by-way-of-Canada flavors into a quiet Mexican beach town; “Hawaiiano” in fact seems like a common thing around these parts, seen also in tamales in town square and in big empanadas sold at the bus station, with the other versions scrapping shrimp for a more sensible ham filling. Just another reminder that authenticity is largely a sham, that experimentation with core ingredients occurs everywhere, and that flux is universal. We rebounded the next day by opting for a larger lunch at El Pesquero, which on a late Sunday afternoon was packed with locals enjoying expansive family meals. I took this as a good sign, and indeed the ramshackle outdoor space boasted the best food we ate in town. The Tostada de Atun, served raw, ceviche-style with tomatoes, peppers and pickled red onions, was outstanding, a reminder of how easy it is to get great seafood in places where fresh catch still pours in daily. The highlight of the meal, not just for novelty’s sake, were the Pescadillas (labelled on the menu merely as “fish tacos”), instead a hash of flavored dogfish (leavings from the Pan de Cazon?) with a small strip of Oaxaca cheese melted on top. I wouldn’t at all feel qualified to judge the cheese employed here, had I not seen a woman selling the stuff freshly made from containers outside of a nearby Chedraui, which is something I wish would catch on in America. I was informed by a local that there are a healthy number of Oaxacan migrants in the Yucatan, which may have something to do with this, although the cheese (also known as quesillo) is popular enough that it could have easily traveled on its own. As for the Pescadillas themselves, there seems to be some debate as to whether they originate in nearby Veracruz or in further-off Guerrero (specifically Acapulco or thereabouts). I think Guerrero has the more solid claim, one cemented by the intermittent local presence of another west-coast specialty from even further afield: the Sinaloense Tacos de Gobernador. Further speculation, fostered by a vintage Chowhound thread, suggests that even famed Baja fish tacos themselves spring from an older Acapulco concoction. In this origin story, they emerge as a Northwestern spin on Pescadillas, spurred by immigration from the latter to the former in the 1940s to ‘60s. This might wrap everything up in a neat little package, but I”m not entirely sure I buy into the idea that Mexican Californians needed any outside inspiration to come up with something as straightforward as the fish taco. Whatever the case, Puerto Morelos abounded with other plainly-prepared wonders of the sea. At La Playita we ordered the much-recommended whole fried fish (in this case a delectable, full-snouted hogfish), with rice and beans, which arrived expertly cooked, its huge head full of delicious gooey parts. Other meals yielded the requisite local coctels, although none stood out as spectacular, and some good complimentary breakfast fare at Amar Inn, from whipped potato Tacos Dorados, their fillings reminiscent of mashed taters, to fresh tortillas served with pureed black beans and a nice hash of corn, squash and zucchini, topped with thick sticks of panela cheese. Repeatedly crossing the main zocalo, I spotted some interesting tamales, both during the day and also at an evening Dia de los Muertos performance, but failed to take advantage of this opportunity. This sadly became a trend, and my overall failure to adequately sample the many offerings of this land of abundant tamales was frankly appalling. I also missed out on beachfront kibbe, tempted but not won over by vendor’s gregarious bird-like cries, although we did score a nice bag of salted fruits and vegetables (jicama, pineapple, coconut and cucumber), possibly a variant of the local fruit blend “xek”. All these foods seemed to be emanating from some central source, judging by their identical box containers and uniform appearance, imbuing the wandering men hawking them with the jaunty communal bonhomie of ballpark vendors. On the snack front, I was able to secure a bag of Coctel-flavored Ruffles, which tasted strongly of the “Salsa Inglesa” touted on their label. This turned out to be Worcestershire, which in my mind is not the best companion to ridged potato slices, its husky flavoring overwhelming the simple taste of the crunchy vessel. I also spent a good amount of time roaming dusty backstreets in search of several restaurants that I never managed to reach, due to a lack of proper planning and nonexistence cell service. Luckily, better things awaited in Mérida.
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