Your Final Meal
No, you're not facing the electric chair. But you are facing a trip home on an airplane, train, or car—which, frankly, can feel like the same thing.
It always begs the question: What's your last meal?
Should it be special? Or should it be a quick and cheap meal since you've blown all your money and just want to go home? Perhaps a mixture of both?
Often while traveling, I've found myself in places where food options aren't particularly appealing. Maybe I've just stepped off a cruise and am staying near an airport. Or perhaps I've eaten so many high-end meals during the week that I can't stomach another "experience." Usually, I just want a good, comforting meal.
This scenario has happened to me twice—and surprisingly, these have become some of my most memorable food experiences.
Just a few weeks ago, I spent another wonderful week in Mexico City but took a quick jaunt to Merida and back. Coming back to CDMX, I found myself staying near the airport for an early flight. If you know CDMX, you know the area around the airport isn't a terribly touristy part of town. I knew I'd have to choose between a Toks (Mexican Applebee's), Sanborns (don't get me wrong, I LOVE Sanborns), or maybe even some street food (which I did enjoy!).
As it turned out, there was a well-reviewed casual neighborhood seafood restaurant just a few blocks from my drab hotel. It was called La Antigua Veracruz Restaurante.
I didn't check the hours but assumed they'd be open for dinner at 6 pm, so off I went, feeling a bit out of place in this non-tourist area.
I found the restaurant, and oddly enough, a security guard invited me in. The restaurant was completely empty. I wondered if it was too early for dinner or if I'd made a horrible mistake. The staff seemed to be either cleaning up or preparing for a busy dinner service. I wasn't sure.
Nevertheless, I ordered from a sweet abuela who efficiently took my order without the usual tourist pampering.
I started with a standard Mexican shrimp cocktail—fresh, bright, tart, and lovely. So far, so good.
But when she brought out a wildly sizzling platter of fish (a grilled variety called ******) surrounded by onions and peppers, served with tortillas and multiple sauces (by sizzling, I mean you could hear the dish over the roar of the nearby airport planes) it was clear this would be special. Smoke poured up into the rafters. You could smell the grilled fish from far across the the massive restaurant. I knew I was in for some truly good food.
I wasn't wrong—it was exactly what I was looking for. Obviously prepared with care, simple, and ridiculously scrumptious. The fish was so tender, flavorful, and simple that I couldn't get enough. Whether wrapped in tortillas or eaten alone with those beautiful grilled pearl onions, it was, without a doubt, the perfect meal for my final night in the city I love. I devoured every single bite, leaving not even a scrap of tortilla on my plates.
But beyond the food, it was the warmth. A REAL warmth. The kind you don't get in tourist areas where staff sometimes perform their duties with care, but it's still just a job. And dealing with American tourists all day can't be easy.
No, this was a neighborhood restaurant. These were people who had been there for years, serving the same families every week.
Remember when I mentioned the place was empty? Well, it turned out they were getting ready to close so the employees could go home to their families. They closed the gates at the entrance, and in my broken Spanish, I asked my abuela if they were closing already. She smiled, said "Sí," and without further explanation, made me realize it was time for me to go home so THEY could go home. I felt so lucky to be able so slip in before closing. It was fate!
As I walked back, heart and belly content, I realized how important this experience was. To be forced out of your comfort zone. The significance of choosing between "easy" and "memorable."
This has happened another time in Rome—see that story here—but for now, I'll cherish this heartwarming experience for years to come.
