Are You Going to Pujol?

I savor these moments. That place in-between that has me in two modes at once, right on the cusp of what’s next. 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 that new guy call me back?  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 barely knew, during dinner, “are you going to Pujol’s?” Then later, knowingly, “your first time?” My husband’s stylist who, ok, has a chef for a husband but what  an affirmation.   My husband’s podiatrist. Same question.

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

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. And doesn’t really end.

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 a Saturday night 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.

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 whom teased us relentlessly after we set fire to the tortilla basket. (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 full 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. And yet only one part of our evening.

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.