Ach du lieber

I've passed by this place for more than twenty years, since I first moved to Mexico City. Which isn't so strange, as it's been here since 1947.  I am referring to Fritz, a German restaurant on Calle Dr. Rio de la Loza 221, almost at the corner of Dr. Lucio, Colonia Doctores. But I didn't eat there until recently.

The place has always piqued my curiosity. The problem is that, in a temperate climate, one is not always in the mood for wiener schnitzel con spaetzle. But the day that you are, this is the place to go in Mexico City.

I went with two friends on a recent Saturday afternoon. Fritz has a rustic air, something like a country inn in Bavaria. (Well, at least in my imagination. I've never been to Bavaria.) The walls are decorated with photos of the Televisa soap-opera stars and newscasters who seem to have flocked to the place in the 1970s and 1980s. (It's around the corner from the Televisa studios on Avenida Chapultepec.)

They start you off with a bread basket and some ensalada rusa: a potato salad that is more Mexican than German (or Russian, as its name indicates). The list of beers, principally from Germany and Belgium, is impressive and enticing. Fritz also offers Mexican beer.

The three of us split a Plato Especial Fritz, which included bratwurst, frankfurters, turkey wurst, wiener schnitzel and a breaded hamburger. It was served with fried potatoes, sauerkraut and a cucumber salad. Plus three different kinds of mustard. This dish -- although advertised as for two people on the menu -- was plenty for the three of us. You'd only want more if you had a Wagnerian appetite.

I left Fritz a happy man. (Although I feel obliged to say that my friends, who split an apple strudel dessert, were not terribly impressed with it. Like me, I guess they should have stopped while we were ahead.)

According to the restaurant web site, Herr Fritz, the original owner, came to Mexico "around 1940," which perhaps would have made him someone who was trying to escape the Nazis, rather than a Nazi trying to escape. In any case, he died around 1970, and the place has been under the management of one Robert Hassey for the last 30 years.

Oles times

Photo by Everett McCourt

When I began as a journalist I remember someone proposed the idea that every writer, no matter what his subject, was secretly writing his autobiography. While I am sure there are some exceptions, I'm sympathetic to the idea; even the most basic forms of journalism are written by people at least temporarily consumed by their subjects.

James Oles, a curator and art historian who divides his time between Mexico City, where he lives, and Massachusetts, where he teaches one semester a year at Wellesley, is a case in point. His greatest expertise is in twentieth-century and contemporary Mexican art. Museo Expuesto (The Exposed Museum), the show he curated at the Centro Cultural Tlatelolco (Calle Ricardo Flores Magón 1, Colonia Nonoalco-Tlatelolco), is nominally an overview of important pieces of the UNAM's collection from 1950 to 1990. Among the artists exhibited are Gabriel Orozco, Diego Rivera, Helen Escobedo, Carlos Mérida and Melanie Smith

Apart from the exposition of great works, extensive text on the walls, written by Oles, takes the viewers inside the machinations of the museum and explains the various facets of a curator's work. There is even some viewer participation. For example, Oles asked eight different art-world people to write the wall text for this piece from the early 1970s, AutoGelsen, by Gelsen Gas. Museum visitors are asked to vote on which they like best, or to write an alternative. (If none of this is your cup of tea, of course you can see the show and ignore the texts. But I have never been to a museum show that so completely invited visitors "under the hood" or what it means to be a curator.) The show is up until November of 2014.

Meanwhile, Thames and Hudson just published Oles's Art and Architecture in Mexico, the first comprehensive overview on these themes in English since 1969. It's a monumental piece of work, profusely illustrated, and available here in Mexico City at the Educal bookstores. You can get it in the U.S. at bookstores or on Amazon. There will be a presentation for the book (in Spanish) this coming Wednesday, November 20, at 7 pm at the Palacio de Bellas Artes.

Now if Oles isn't writing his autobiography, then who is?

Where to get a love letter written

There are those who sneeringly lament that Mexico City has become hopelessly gringo-ized: witness the multiplying Wal-Marts and Starbucks around town. But I think that those people miss a crucial point, which is how stubbornly Mexico City remains a truly Mexican city. Take the Plaza Santo Domingo, for example: has this downtown square changed all that much from the days when the Spanish conquerors were rounding up infidels and prosecuting them here?

Underneath the plaza's arches are print shops, which have been here for centuries. People still come here to get business cards, wedding invitations, glasses with someone's name on them for their 40th birthday party, and -- according to word on the street -- all sorts of false forms of identification. Some of these places still use hot type, although if you are getting a massive number of cards or forms, chances are they've gone digital.

The man at the typewriter is what is called an escritor público -- for the not-quite-literate, he will fill out forms and even write cards, letters and assorted missives. Back in the day, they say they used to do a brisk business writing love letters.

Not everyone is happy about getting her picture taken around here. One block from the plaza is one of my favorite cantinas, which I posted about years ago.

Blast from the past

Every Sunday, the largest flea market in Mexico City converges on and around the corner of Reforma and Comonfort. This is the edge of La Lagunilla, a street market that sells new stuff every day, but blasts from the past only Sunday. One of my first posts in this blog was about people who sold Nazi paraphernalia at the flea market. I am happy to report that they are gone, although there are still people who sell the odd Nazi item among the rest of their stuff. See below.

It had been ages since my last visit to La Lagunilla, so I went a few Sundays ago. It was as much fun as ever. Here are some of the items that were for sale.

I was a little concerned about how few people were there. I wondered if it had anything to do with the fact that for the past couple of years each Sunday morning a huge swath of Paseo de la Reforma is closed to cars so that bicyclists can enjoy it. This may impede passage to La Lagunilla.

There was a woman on Reforma who was selling issues of a magazine called Agenda from the 1970s, which advertised the shows in restaurants and nightclubs of Mexico City in those golden days.

Nearly of the places on these pages are gone now, as is the whole style of variety entertainment they advertise.

I did manage to get to Las Catacumbas before it closed its doors in the early 1990s. It was on calle Dolores, near the Alameda. A guy dressed in a monk's robe greeted you at the door, and took you down a long hallway. At the end of it a skeleton popped out and scared the daylights out of you. Then you went inside the club and enjoyed the show.

At a dingy nightclub in the colonia San Rafael, Gabriela Rios, known as La Che, entertained at my bachelor party in 1992. Honey, if you're still out there, I got divorced ten years ago.

I bought these magazines from a woman who told me she appeared in their pages. Here she is, back in the day. Stupidly, I didn't think of taking her picture but I assure you that Mina Beltrán has hardly changed a bit.

Climb those stairs

Every tourist guide to Mexico City suggests a visit to the Casa de los Azulejos (the House of Tiles) on the corner of Madero and Callejón de la Condesa in the centro histórico. Constructed in the late 18th century, the facade is covered with blue and white tile from Puebla. It was a private house until the early 20th century, when the Sanborn brothers bought it and renovated it into one of their chain store/pharmacy/cafeterias.

Many tourists, frightened of what mysterious bugs they might pick up from eating at markets or at taco stands on the street, haunt the lunch counter and the restaurant, where the fare is allegedly safer. Middle-class Mexicans also congregate here. You can check out one of Orozco's earliest murals inside.

Almost no one, however, climbs the stairs to the bar on the upper floor. I don't know why -- it's a pleasant, old-school setting to have a drink.

From the bar there are balconies where you can step out for views of the surrounding streets of the centro.

And even these street "performers" putting on their cartoon-character costumes.

They make a hell of a Bloody Mary, too. The Sanborn's chain is owned by Carlos Slim. The bar is one of  the few unimpeachable parts of his empire.