Are You Going to Pujol?

Walking into Pujol was this rare feeling of stepping into something, but I wasn’t quite sure what. Quite literally, the restaurant itself created this. Clean, elegant lines across different dining tables, a chef’s table at the bar, open vestibules collecting sets of two tops and four tops in still, intimate settings brushed with crisp, cool lighting. Trickling water, lush tropical plants, a hint of mole. I hadn’t even been seated yet, but it felt as if the first course had been served, a full plate sitting before me. But something more. Something that held me hungry. And sated at the same time.

I savor these moments. That space in-between that has me in two modes at once. Somewhere between reality disguised as expectation and just before reality itself slips in. Like, is it going to rain now? Should I take that new job? Will my boyfriend take me to dinner tonight? And then it begins to happen. And I’m right where I should be.

A friend and part-time CDMX resident recommended Pujol a few months before our trip saying, “make a reservation now; it might be too late already.” So, we did. And after that, wow. I would talk up my Mexico City trip, and Pujol just kept showing up. Over and over, first and foremost. My stylist during a haircut, “are you going to Pujol’s?” A board member from work—who I didn’t know—during a dinner, “are you going to Pujol’s?” My husband’s stylist who, ok, has a chef for a husband, but what an affirmation. My husband’s pediatrist. Same question.

Not Frida Kahlo. Not Casa Estudio Diego Rivera. Not the pyramids at Teotihuacan. But this, “Are you going to Pujol?”

Pujol | Photo: Mark Kinzie

Our Saturday evening Pujol reservation was some four days into the trip. So, our food journey began earlier. First was Bulla Condessa, with its bold tapas and an extraordinarily gracious waitstaff, who moved our table twice during a rainstorm. Then Botánico, our visit also during some rain, but the courtyard’s lush vegetation and giant cacti soaked it up alongside a vibrant, urban evening crowd at very dry and very busy tables of twos and tens. An open kitchen sat in the background. I didn’t want to leave. At Feral, an afternoon bistro stop in the Hippodrome on the Parque Mexico between the Condessa and Roma Norte, we learned that Mezcalita was a thing—not just a margarita with a mezcal-tequila swap—and that lunch really begins at 2pm.

To be sure, we had stumbled into Mexico City’s world-class food scene, and it had heightened our expectations. These were the taquerias that hand-made tortillas from local masa stuffed with peppers, beef, or grilled chicken, and quiet outdoor tables for breakfast—el desayuno—at Café Toscano and Motin. Right then, I could have left happy, having set foot into these places, diving into their offerings. But Pujol was still naked, waiting, sitting on the horizon.

Local CDMX-ers have mixed thoughts about Pujol. Some think of it as traditional Mexican food at expensive tourist prices. Some don’t. But Pujol is finding its way. It originally opened as contemporary eastern Asian and American cuisine in 2000, then later reoriented its menu toward traditional Mexican. Pujol landed at its current location in the Polanco of Mexico City by 2017 and had earned two Michelin stars by 2024. Indeed, the place is living its present by allowing the past to shape it. But not define it.

Pujol | Photo: Mark Kinzie

Even after being seated, the place was quietly jumping. From my table, I could see the chefs plating dishes. We easily had five different waitstaff during our 3-hour dinner, two of which teased us relentlessly after we set the tortilla basket on fire. (Its napkin got too close to the live candle on the table.) This brought about an ongoing conversation with the two neighboring tables, also guests on their first visit, also eager with expectations. We talked travel and hotels and dogs and kids and mole. And the wine kept coming. And so did the courses.

It was a full five-course dinner, each with a full plate. Pujol does have a tasting menu, and its chefs are directly involved in serving those. But this dinner was full food-forward. I ordered a cold starter, a warm starter, as well as an entrée.

Then the surprise—just before dessert—a mole-dedicated course. Served in the center was mole nuevo, that day’s preparation, which was quite alive, quite vibrant with distinct flavors, each of which could be called out. It made me think of our new friends sitting at adjacent tables. Served in an outer ring surrounding that center was mole madre, which Pujol had been continuously cooking for better than 4100 days. It was deep, blended and Indigenous, balanced in a way that only time could have gifted. Here was Pujol the establishment, literally being shaped by its past, but, overall, only one part of our evening.

Pujol | Photo: Mark Kinzie

A place like Pujol can feel right. It comes recommended. It has been around awhile. But you still don’t know. It might not fit the evening. It might not fit the palate. We don’t know what’s happening inside. But it could be perfect. Are you going to Pujol?

Here, Pujol was the next step in my CDMX food journey. I’ve had this feeling only a few other times, at once both undefined and overwhelming but placing me exactly where I should be. Indeed, it was brimming with potential, capable of exceeding expectations, nearing excellence. Yet, ultimately, one that would go in its own direction, a pathway as distinct as it was unexpected. One that I had to figure out for myself.

Are you going to Pujol?

Are you going to start that new job? Are you going to date that new guy? Are you going to live with him? Are you going to come out to your friends? To your parents? Are you going to buy that new house?

Tell me about it when you do.

Travel with Mark

Mexico rewards the traveler who lingers — a week in the capital’s neighborhoods, then the coast, or Oaxaca, at whatever pace suits you. Mark builds those trips one at a time. Tell him what you have in mind, even roughly, and he’ll take it from there.