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In the last few years, the brightest minds of the government of Mexico City decided to give the metropolis a motto. They chose Capital en Movimiento (Capital in Motion), although never explained just what that was supposed to mean. This buzzing bright sign with the blazing slogan is located on one of the inner-city freeways in the north of town. The photo was taken during rush hour, at about six in the evening, when traffic is so dense that "motion" is per centimenter.
Mexico City’s Chinatown, on Calle Dolores between Calles Independencia and Artículo 123, is all of one block long. I have eaten at several of the street’s restaurants, and the food was … edible. I practically grew up in New York’s Chinatown, so after moving here, missed Chinese food with great longing and nostalgia.
It took years, but I finally found an excellent Chinese restaurant in Mexico City. This is the signpost for Ka Won Seng. It is located at Calle Albino García #362, at the corner of Avenida Santa Anita in the Colonia Viaducto Piedad, not far from the Viaducto metro station.
Here, many of the customers are Chinese, who sit in groups of eight or ten at circular tables with Lazy Susans in the middle, gorging on a corresponding number of dishes. Among my favorites are the roast duck, the Singapore noodles, a spicy hot pot with tofu and eggplant, and the steamed pompano with ginger, scallions and soy sauce.
Unearthing this place is a story of blind luck. One afternoon I was in a taxi, stuck in traffic, and made conversation with the driver. He mentioned in passing that his sister had married a Chinese immigrant. I told him how much I loved Chinese food and how I hadn’t found a restaurant I liked in Mexico City. He suggested I go to Ka Won Seng – or at least I think he did, because he remembered neither the name nor the address of the place. He was only able to give me a vague idea of where it was located. I scoured the neighborhood on foot for an hour or two until I stumbled upon it.
In Mexico City -- as well as other parts of the country -- citizens are more accustomed to having what they think is Chinese food (chop suey and the like) in what are known as cafés de chinos (Chinese cafes). Some of these places date back to the 1920s, and were opened by Chinese who came to Mexico to build the railroads and stayed on. They tend to serve coffee, sweet rolls and enchiladas suizas as well as sloppy versions of ersatz Chinese cuisine. This sign, in the door of Ka Won Seng, warns all who would enter that there are no sweet rolls, coffee, or Mexican food available across its portals.
Centuries ago, when I first arrived in Mexico City, I asked my girlfriend at the time – she would later go on to be my wife and then my ex-wife – if she wanted anything from the corner store. She said, “Get me a Bubulubu.” Accent on the third "u." I thought she was putting me on; making fun of the gringo. I’d go to the corner, ask the guy for a Bubulubu and he’d look at me like I was from Mars. How could anything called a Bubulubu exist? O ye of little faith. In fact the Bubulubu, advertised here as “much more than a chocolate,” does exist. It is a chocolate-covered marshmallow with a layer of jelly. Should you be interested in my ex’s rants on sundry themes, click here.
Months ago I posted about the mannequins in the windows of Uniformes Oskar, a store that sells getups for anyone who labors as a chambermaid, waiter, nurse, maintenance man, doctor, gas-station attendant, et cetera (or for those who may simply fancy looking like one on the street or, um, in a more intimate moment).
Still, I don't think that the post even gives a hint of how great a part mannequins play in the everyday life in Mexico City. But not like in other cities. You see them in different states of dress or undress in many shop windows. There is at least a vague erotic suggestion. The ladies (and the gent) in the photo above are a great contrast to the middle-aged matron who confessed to another, in a TV commercial I remember from childhood: "My girdle is killing me."
In market stalls, they may or may not be clothed, and they may or may not have limbs. Or hair.
Sometimes one, or a part of one, simply serves as an ambiguous talisman.
Longtime readers of this blog may remember that last March I wrote about Pamela, a Venezuelan in Mexico City who, apart from being what is known around here as a bombón, not only sings, but plays incredible jazz trombone. (Those who missed the post, called "Bombshell from Caracas," can find it by using the blog's search engine.) She plays Wednesday nights at the seafood restaurant La Morena (Calle Michoacan #94, Colonia Condesa) and Thursday and Friday nights at La Taverna de Torcuato (Avenida Torcuato Tasso, almost at the Corner of Avenida President Masaryk, Colonia Polanco). After you catch her act, she will haunt your dreams. In any event, she does mine.
