Cristian Orozco’s Mazor: The Fine Art of Not Being Fancy
By Brenda Storch
When I last wrote about Cristian Orozco, he was fighting for Five O Four.
He had arrived as a consultant and stayed as an owner, pouring himself into a tiny restaurant in Glen Ellyn. He grew some of his own ingredients and cooked with an ambition far greater than the size of the room.
And then it was gone.
Five O Four ended painfully, leaving Cristian without his livelihood and with some difficult lessons about partnerships and the business behind the kitchen.
Luckily for those of us in the city, Mazor is what came next.
The name comes from mazorca, an ear of corn, and masa is at the center of this tiny restaurant. The tight menu features a selection of masa-centric handhelds, including tacos, a tuna tostada and tetelas. Here, the food is approachable without ever being ordinary.
And that’s an important distinction. Mexican cooking has always understood that simplicity can be demanding. A tortilla has only a few ingredients, but making a great one takes great skill.
Even then, Cristian’s attention extended beyond the kitchen. Herbs and edible flowers found their way onto his plates, often with remarkable beauty.
Guacamole at Mazor. Photo: Brenda Storch I still remember his tetela. The triangular pocket of masa held an entire universe: Oaxacan cheese, avocado, beans and a nasturtium Cristian had grown himself. Its placement felt like a deliberate act of poetry.
“I like cooking with flowers,” he told me then. “It reminds me of the gardens of my childhood.”
The tetela has followed him to Mazor. But it belongs to a different restaurant now. And, perhaps, to a different Cristian.
When I first met him, Cristian reminded me of those young singers who sing with an emotion beyond their years. He cooks that way, too.
He honed his chops at Acadia, Tzuco and North Pond, where precision matters and a sauce, a garnish or the placement of a single ingredient can transform a plate.
But Mazor doesn’t feel like a chef trying to show you everything he knows.
Instead, you taste that experience in a bluefin tuna tostada with avocado and salsa macha; a rib-eye taco with grilled onions, cheese and crispy potatoes; chicken tinga tucked into blue corn masa; and a hibiscus flan with toasted white chocolate.
Bluefin tuna tostada at Mazor. Photo: Brenda Storch There is sophistication here, but it doesn’t ask you to dress up for it. Perhaps that is what I like most about this tiny place.
And then there are the things that aren’t on the menu.
If you’re lucky, you might find a remarkable carne en su jugo, the kind of food the staff cooks for themselves and doesn’t mind sharing. There is something particularly welcoming and genuine about being handed a bowl of what the kitchen made for the staff.
Cristian’s cooking has always reminded me of the cooks who patronize the chinamperos of Mexico — people whose understanding of food begins before the kitchen, with the land and what it gives us.
Those ingredients are sacred– they carry memory, just as the recipes handed down to us carry the hands and histories of those who came before.
None of it needs to be expensive to be extraordinary.
It already is.
It just needs someone to pay attention.
MAZOR
485 N. Milwaukee Ave.
Chicago, IL 60654
Phone: 312-238-9792
Hours: Monday-Thursday, 11 a.m.-9 p.m.; Friday-Saturday, 11 a.m.-midnight; closed Sunday.NAIA: A Riverfront Restaurant That Doesn’t Coast on the View
Photo © La Vitamina T By: Brenda Storch. Photos: © La Vitamina T
When it comes to waterfront dining, if the setting is exceptional enough, the kitchen doesn’t usually try quite as hard. NAIA, the new Greek-Levantine restaurant that opened this summer along the Chicago Riverwalk, proves the view doesn’t have to do the heavy lifting.
Stretching from LaSalle Street to Wells Street, NAIA occupies nearly an entire city block along the river: 12,000 square feet of indoor-outdoor dining, pergola-covered seating, and a dramatic dining room designed to open toward the water. The project comes from DineAmic Hospitality, the group behind Prime & Provisions and Siena Tavern. Beyond the scale of the restaurant, NAIA represents a small but meaningful piece of downtown’s recovery, transforming a pandemic-era casualty into one of the riverfront’s most ambitious new dining destinations.
The name evokes the Naiads of Greek mythology (freshwater nymphs associated with rivers, springs, and streams) a fitting reference for a restaurant perched along one of Chicago’s most defining waterways. At the helm is chef Athinagoras Kostakos, winner of Top Chef Greece and a culinary partner behind Lyra, Violi, and La Serre. The menu feels less like an interpretation of Mediterranean cuisine, and more like a mother tongue.
The design lets the setting take center stage. Muted tones and natural materials frame the view, and nearly every seat seems oriented toward the water. As daylight fades and the city lights begin to shimmer across the surface, the view becomes as much a part of the experience as the food. For a moment, the city feels far away, and the scene could belong to some distant coast.
Then, a train rattles across the bridge overhead, a distinctly Chicago postcard that pulls you back to shore.
I arrived for a preview and lingered long after it ended, watching the room fill. As the crowd grew glossier and the glitterati began to arrive, NAIA settled into its natural role, a place to see and be seen, embracing the social theater that’s part of superior waterfront dining.
What to try: The dinner menu devotes a section to spreads, anchored by a tableside hummus. A truffle honey labneh adds a touch of sweetness, while crisp lavash gives you something to do with every swipe. From the mezze, order the potato fritters topped with caviar, a combination that sounds good on paper and tastes even better in practice. Don´t miss the spicy tuna crispy rice, finished with harissa aioli, cilantro, and lemon zest. The plate is memorable, delivering crunch, brightness, and layers of texture.
For a larger plate, the lamb chops are a standout: deeply flavorful and cooked with the kind of confidence that makes great technique feel effortless. But the dish we kept coming back to was the Turkish dumplings. Filled with Yukon Gold potato and finished with chili oil and Parmesan crisps, these delightful cousins of cacio e pepe are impossible to get enough of.
The cocktail program follows the same philosophy as the food: Mediterranean at its core, but interpreted through a modern lens. The menu plays with herbs, spice, and citrus, creating cocktails that feel distinctly Mediterranean while remaining approachable enough for an afternoon on the river.
Two standouts showcase that balance particularly well. The Smoke on the Water combines mezcal, Aleppo pepper, torched thyme, and lime in a cocktail that is smoky and savory.
The Apricot Limoncello Spritz reflects a broader shift happening in cocktail culture: a move beyond the classic lemon-only expression of limoncello toward something more layered, seasonal, and playful. By bringing apricot into the mix, NAIA embraces a more expansive Mediterranean sensibility, trading strict tradition for something softer and more contemporary. It’s a fitting choice for a restaurant built around the idea of transport. Bright with citrus, softened by stone fruit, and perfectly suited to a long afternoon by the water, it feels like a vacation in a glass.
Who is this for? NAIA works equally well for a summer date night, a celebration dinner, or an evening with guests you want to impress with the city as much as the meal.
Why go? For a Mediterranean dining experience with a view, anchored by a kitchen that delivers. Most restaurants with this kind of location coast on it. This one doesn’t.
Pro tip: Through a partnership with Downtown Docks, NAIA offers a true dock-and-dine experience, guests can arrive by boat and dock steps from the restaurant, making it one of the rare Chicago restaurants where the water is not just scenery but a legitimate mode of arrival. Reservations at naiarestaurant.com are currently nearly impossible to get but try walking in at happy hour.
📍 Chicago Riverwalk | 300 N. LaSalle St., Chicago
In Edison Park, a Steakhouse Finds Its Own Language
Westso’s Sergio Gamboa Westso Mexican Steakhouse, speaks charcoal, chuletón and chiles
By: Brenda Storch
Chicago’s steakhouse boom shows no signs of slowing down. From polished newcomers in the West Loop to restaurants reinterpreting the format through specific culinary traditions, the city continues to reinvent one of its most traditional dining experiences.
And in Edison Park, a neighborhood that rarely enters the current dining conversation, a Mexican steakhouse has been quietly doing something similar for a couple of years, blending classic steakhouse structure with the flavors and hospitality of Mexican cooking.
At Westso Mexican Steakhouse (a name that echoes hueso, the Spanish word for bone), Sergio Gamboa has put together a menu that blends familiar Mexican staples with steakhouse indulgence. Prime cuts of beef anchor the offerings, but the flavors and side dishes reflect Mexican culinary traditions. The menu keeps the Spanish names of cuts, think arrachera (flank steak) or chuletón (ribeye). Steaks are grilled over charcoal, then served with bright salsas, roasted chiles, sal de gusano and tortillas, instead of the usual creamed spinach or baked potatoes. The result is a meal that satisfies a carnivore’s craving while bringing a different set of flavors and traditions to the table.
What to try: You’ll find classics like guacamole, ceviche, and queso fundido, alongside a standout take on corn ribs, roasted corn on the cob, cleverly cut to make each piece easy to pick up and eat. Do not miss the bone marrow topped with bacon jam, served with a shot of mezcal meant to cut through the richness. A cochinita pibil taco rounds things out, delivering tender, slow-cooked pork with bright, tangy notes from pickled onion and a measured habanero-induced kick.
Who is this best suited for?
Not overly formal, the eatery leans more bar than a traditional steakhouse, with an easy energy that makes it equally suited for a date night, a small celebration, or a full table of friends. Service is warm and accommodating.
Why go?
For a steakhouse experience that feels familiar but is defined by charcoal, chiles, and a brighter, more dynamic range of flavors.Pro tip:
The bar offers several cocktails. We tried one that combines sake, hibiscus tea, and mezcal, finished with a touch of tableside theatrics. There’s also a $20 tasting flight. We parked right outside, and parking is free. There’s live music too, including dueling pianos once a month.📍 6699 N Northwest Hwy, Chicago, IL 60631
📞 (773) 729-1100Hours:
Mon–Thurs: 5–10 PM
Fri–Sat: 5–11 PM
Sun: 4–9 PMBrunch:
Sat: 11 AM–3 PM
Sun: 10 AM–3 PMAn Affogato in a Cup, and the Line That’s Part of the Ritual at Jeni’s Ice Cream
A shift in the weather might be all it takes to reset the city’s collective mindset. Suddenly, ice cream feels less like a treat and more like a necessity. And the line at Jeni’s Splendid Ice Creams is all the confirmation I needed that we’re all sharing one same thought.
Even if true ice cream weather hasn’t quite settled in, I’ve already made my way through a few flavors, including Sponge Cake from the shop’s limited-edition Bridgerton-inspired collection. This flavor is layered with honey sponge cake and raspberry rose jam. There’s also an earl grey tea ice cream in the lineup, which is already on my sampling horizon.
But the highlight of my visit was the House Coffee flavor. This is an affogato translated into ice cream: rich, but not overly sweet, with notes of cocoa, toasted nuts, and espresso layered throughout. Bold, balanced, and coffee-forward.
And getting that photo? A journey!
The first time I went, I waited in line for a while, only to find out they were out of cone cups, so no good picture of that. But the ice cream was still worth it.
Bad picture, good ice cream at Jeni’s. So of course… take two. Another line (because there are always lines), and this time I was looking forward to my “affogato in a cup.” I made sure waffle cones were available! Mission accomplished. And yes, it was just as good as I hoped. I should have splurged and gone for four scoops, though.
And as of 3/26, there are also new flavors on deck: Key Lime Pie, Basque Cheesecake with blueberry jam, and Black Tie Tiramisu. I haven’t tried them yet, but they read like a strong argument for getting back in line.
If you’re looking for a location near you, you can find all the Chicagoland shops here. You can also skip the line and find Jeni’s at several local retailers.
I Went to Modena for Food and Came Home With a Balsamic Vinegar Habit
A Modena awakening, a Chicago tasting, and one very unexpected obsession
By: Brenda Storch
Al Gatto Verde in Casa Maria Luigia, Modena We sort of slipped into Casa Maria Luigia like we had wandered behind the velvet rope of someone else’s dream. Massimo Bottura and his wife, Lara Gilmore, have built a place that is half country estate, half art installation and entirely its own universe. After a small trip through winding roads, we were welcomed at the gates and escorted in through a patio. We saw celebrated chef Jessica Rosval cooking. She waved at us! Someone pinch me, please, and tell me I am not watching a cool travel show on Netflix. Then we were inside Al Gatto Verde, standing in a space that manages to feel both curated and lived in.
A view of Casa Maria Luigia from the courtyard We came for the food. Of course we did. I mean, Bottura is Bottura. And we had already been to Osteria Francescana, so the bar was high. But the meals here were something else. We enjoyed this experience so deeply. I have not had a chance to fully download it, partly because when I approach it, the light of the memory is so bright the longing is a little blinding. Food aside, and there is a point to this preamble, I promise, this is where I fell in love with vinegar.
Not the supermarket drizzle-in-a-salad kind. That is heresy. Like the idea of a taco in a hard shell.
I am talking about aceto balsamico tradizionale di Modena, simultaneously a living time capsule, a work of art and a chemical feat. And someone tells you, almost offhand, “These lines? In Modena, they get passed down as heirlooms.”
I learned that in Modena, traditional families start a new battery of barrels when a child is born. The vinegar ages with the child, who in turn becomes the custodian of the line. The practice carries both family memory and local identity.
Maybe it was the realization that people had been tending to these lines for generations. They believed in the slow work, the invisible work, the kind of work that pays off only if you are willing to think beyond your own lifespan. It reminded me of the love and dedication that winemakers pour into wine. I was moved.
The best vinegar is given as gifts and brought out for special celebrations. It’s as if vinegar here is part of the family, it’s not produced, it’s raised.
At Casa Maria Luigia, the barrels in the attic, where they are kept to benefit from the weather shifts, resting in winter and breathing through the summer months, enjoy music and art. They get personal visits from Massimo Bottura as if he is checking in on old friends.
This is not a new obsession. Balsamico has been working its way through history with steady determination. The Romans were already cooking grape must down to syrup and drizzling it on anything that held still. By the Renaissance, it was an elixir, used for childbirth and treasured by the elites. Fast forward a few centuries and what we now call Balsamic Vinegar of Modena PGI is a global phenomenon. It moves through 130 countries and reaches nearly 95 million liters a year. It is a billion-euro heartbeat powered by grapes and time. A gift from Modena to the world.
Behind all of that is the Conzorsio Tutela Aceto Balsamico di Modena, which represents 83 percent of the producers in Modena. They protect the real thing, the PGI bottles with proper grapes, proper rules and a serious certification process. They keep the knockoffs out of your grocery cart and guard a tradition older than half the countries on modern maps.
So when they called, the Consortium, and asked if I wanted to taste balsamic across a handful of dishes, I said yes before they finished the sentence. We met at Avec in River North, landing a spot right next to none other than Cesare Mazzetti, the Consortium’s president, to learn first hand about the organization’s mission and the tests that aceto balsamico di Modena candidates are subjected to in order to acquire their certification seal.
Dish after dish landed perfectly and showcased the beauty and versatility of the product, elevating vegetables, fish, meat, even gelato with a slow, dark ribbon of balsamico. It was proof that this luxurious liquid is not only history in a bottle. It is a shape-shifter. A mood. A way of making ordinary things speak in ways that make you listen and remember.
Photo credit: Conzorsio Tutela Aceto Balsamico di Modena Dishes at Avec, all prepared with aceto balsamico di Modena:
From aperitivi to dessert, the versatility of Aceto Balsamico di Modena truly shone. Sweet peppers and eggplant tapenade Apple salad with aged goat cheese and pine nuts, with balsamico quietly winning Best Supporting Actor. Roasted black cod and endive Pork belly with honey nut squash and a incredible pumpkin seed sauce with lemon and garlic Manchego cheese ice cream with cheese! So yes, Casa Maria Luigia was spectacular. The food at Al Gatto Verde was unreal. The whole place felt like a secret garden that likes contemporary art and listens to vinyl. But in the end, it was all about the vinegar.
And honestly, I can’t wait to go back.
Wondering if your aceto balsamico is the real deal? Check out our guide!
Inside Casa Maria Luigi’s Al Gatto Verde there´s a gallery with fast cars and pop art. A nod to Italy’s Motown’s fast cars and slow food. 5 Steps to Know Your Balsamic Vinegar Is Good – A Quick Field Guide
Not all balsamic vinegar is created equal. Some bottles are history in liquid form, while others are simply salad dressing with a marketing budget. If you want to make sure you are bringing home the real thing, especially when it comes to aceto balsamico di Modena, this quick guide will help you spot quality with ease.
Think of it as a quick reference guide that makes sense of shelves, labels and help flag the occasional imposter.
Credit: Conzorsio Tutela Aceto Balsamico di Modena 1. Check for the PGI Mark
Look for: Aceto Balsamico di Modena IGP (Indicazione Geografica Protetta or IGP)
Confirms it was produced in Modena or Reggio Emilia
Follows strict European rules and certification
Protects the ingredients, methods, and quality
If there is no PGI designation on the label, it is not the authentic product.
2. Inspect the Bottle for Clues
Authentic PGI balsamic can be sold in glass, ceramic, or terracotta. What matters is the label. It must include:
PGI designation
Aging categories
Invecchiato for at least 3 years
Riserva for more than 5 years
These aging terms are legal categories that reflect real time spent in wood barrels.
3. Read the Ingredients Carefully
Here is what belongs on the ingredient list:
cooked or concentrated grape must
wine vinegar, including some aged at least 10 years
optional caramel, under 2 percent
If the label reads like the back of a shampoo bottle, it is not aligned with PGI standards. Put the bottle down and walk away slowly.
4. Swirl It
Tilt the bottle.
Quality balsamic should move with intention
Not watery
Not syrupy
A slow, confident glide that signals proper maturation
5. Taste for Balance
When tasting look for:
mild, pleasant acidity
gentle sweetness
a long, clean finish
subtle notes from woods such as oak, chestnut, or cherry
It should not taste like dessert, and it should not taste like punishment either.
Think balanced, bright, and beautifully integrated.
Find more information at:
www.consorziobalsamico.itMinyoli’s Tribute to Taiwan’s Vanishing Food Traditions
In the middle of Chicago’s ever-changing dining landscape, there’s a corner where memory simmers. Minyoli, a small Taiwanese restaurant in Andersonville, holds on to the stories of the culturally rich juàn cūn, or military dependents’ villages, that once dotted Taiwan and are now slowly disappearing along with their food.
Named after the juàn cūn where chef and owner Rich Wang’s family lived, Minyoli traces its roots to the settlements created after 1949, when Nationalist soldiers left mainland China with their families and whatever pieces of home they could carry with them. Though intended to be temporary, the refugee communities became permanent, growing into worlds of their own. What emerged was a cuisine shaped by resourcefulness, longing and the blending of regional traditions in communal kitchens.
Wang’s own path reflects that combination of old and new. Born in Taipei, he moved to the United States and trained in Chicago kitchens. He cooked at Fat Rice, traveled to Lanzhou to study hand-pulled noodles and earned an official noodle-maker certification, then cooked in Macau before returning to Chicago to open Minyoli. The restaurant is his way of keeping his home’s flavors alive. “Places can be controversial,” he said. “But food always brings people together.”
Minyoli offers a contemporary take on the juàn cūn noodle shops now fading amid rapid redevelopment and gentrification. The menu leans into comfort with hearty broths, handmade noodles, rice dishes and familiar street snacks. There’s also seasonal updates and a brunch menu, with a variety of different dishes.
Ganban noodles at Minyoli. We started with the fried chicken, perfectly crisp and almost addictive thanks to potato starch and a light coating of plum powder. The sesame ganban noodles arrived with a side of house-made chili oil and were so well executed that we are already planning a return trip for the spicy tallow noodles with braised beef shank. Even the vegetables, a celtuce and wood ear mushroom salad, delivered a pleasant surprise with clean, earthy, nutty flavors.
On weekends, the restaurant shifts into a gentler rhythm that nods to Taiwanese mornings. Egg crepes come with fillings like pork, vegetables or shrimp. Shao bing sandwiches are assembled on house-baked sesame bread. The beverages deepen the sense of nostalgia, with drinks like the sweet phoenix bean soy milk with a toasty, almost caramel warmth, and the house-made mi jiang, a thick roasted peanut and rice drink that falls somewhere between a drink and dessert.
Inside, details borrowed from Wang’s grandfather, including small heirlooms and midcentury textures, tie the space to juàn cūn domestic life and the quiet routines that shaped its food.
The drinks take a more playful path while staying connected to the restaurant’s foundation. A cocktail made with 10 yr. Shaoxing wine and shallots is complex and bright in a way that feels refreshing rather than sharp. Named She Sells Shallots by the Seashore the cocktail leans savory in a way that seems unexpected until the first sip reveals its balance. The drinks look ahead, yet they follow the same instincts as the food: curiosity, memory and craft.
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In a city full of crossings and influences, Minyoli offers not just a taste of Taiwan’s layered history but an entry point into it. What you eat here is the cuisine of people who were expected to leave and found ways to stay. It is hearty, creative, bold and deeply alive.
Minyoli is open Wednesday and Thursday from 11 a.m. to 2 p.m. and from 5 to 8:30 p.m.; Friday and Saturday from 11 a.m. to 2 p.m. and 5 to 9:30 p.m.; and Sunday from 11 a.m. to 2:30 p.m. for brunch and 5 to 8:30 p.m. for dinner. Reservations are available online.
Death is a Party: Día de Muertos
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“Mexicans are familiar with death; they joke about it, caress it, sleep with it, and celebrate it. It is one of their favorite playthings and their most steadfast love.”
-Octavio Paz
Photos: Lissette Storch – Puebla, Mexico
Death is a verb and a noun.
In Mexico, we’ve personified death, dressing her up and giving her endearing nicknames—le hablamos de tú*.
Death is a she.
Originally, sugar skulls were crafted as a reminder of death’s ever-present nature in the dimension of the living, lurking around every corner. They’re just one of many expressions of our inevitable encounter with “the lady of many names”: La Catrina (“the rich or elegant one”), La Tía de las Muchachas (“the girls’ aunt”), La Fría (“the cold one”), La Novia Blanca (“the white bride”).
Death roams among us.
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Death is life.
Like any Mexican holiday, food takes the spotlight on Día de Muertos. Alongside pan de muerto—”bread of the dead”—and cempasúchil flowers, sugar skulls are staples of the celebration. Everything about Día de Muertos has intention and weight: the bread symbolizes the circle of life and communion with the dead, while the flowers pay homage to the fleeting nature of existence.
In rural Mexico, this ritual blends form and meaning in a way that’s tangible and sacred.
Growing up in the city, I mostly watched from the sidelines. It wasn’t until my grandmother passed and my uncle and mother took on the responsibility of honoring this three-thousand-year-old tradition that I got pulled in, finding myself increasingly fascinated by it.
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Year after year, my family embarks on a journey to a small village on the outskirts of Puebla,
where we build an ofrenda in honor of my grandmother, great-grandmother, and other beloved relatives. These cherished souls are remembered with offerings of their favorite dishes. My grandmother, who had a passion for cooking, is honored not only with food but also with her favorite kitchen tools, carefully placed around her photograph.
Candles serve a dual role, symbolizing both hope and faith while lighting the way for the departed as they make their descent. Water, too, is placed to quench their thirst and symbolize purity. Through these ofrendas, we keep their memory close and call upon their spirits.
The celebration continues at the cemetery, where the living and the departed meet to share a meal, listen to music, and enjoy fireworks.
For a few days in November, in Mexico, death is a party.
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The cemetery of the little village of San Francisco Acatepec, where my grandmother is buried. * ‘‘Hablar de tú’ means to address someone informally, in contrast to the more respectful ‘usted,’ which is used for strangers or those who haven’t given permission for familiarity.
Día de Muertos: Why the Right Name Matters
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Photo: Día de Muertos in Oaxaca, México. Photo provided by: Azucena Suárez As Día de Muertos draws near, the sights of sugar skulls, pan de muerto, cempasúchitl flowers, and towering altars honoring our loved ones, fill homes and restaurants. This tradition has crossed borders, bringing the heart of this Mexican celebration to communities far and wide.
In the past decade, I’ve watched as Día de Muertos has gained real traction in the U.S., becoming stronger each year. Schools, community centers, and even major brands have started hosting their own events. In fact, this year I was delighted to find an entire selection of ofrenda essentials in downtown Chicago.
Yet, some details are slipping through the cracks—like calling it “Día de los Muertos” instead of Día de Muertos. This isn’t just a linguistic slip. When we shift from Día de Muertos to Día de los Muertos, we lose a little of the celebration’s soul. It’s not just a day for honoring “the dead” in some distant, abstract way; it’s about the living honoring our dead side by side. Día de Muertos, in its simplicity, speaks directly to that connection.
Día de Muertos isn’t a spectacle meant to be admired from afar. It’s a day when the dead and the living gather around the same table. Families set out an extra glass of mezcal, get together to prepare plates of their loved ones’ favorite foods, and fill the air with music to host them. It’s also a time to cherish those around us, and to remember that this tradition belongs as much to the living as it does to the spirits we honor.
Interestingly, the influence of U.S. pop culture on Día de Muertos has even circled back to Mexico, shaping the celebration in new ways. In 2015, the James Bond movie “Spectre” inspired a new tradition, and as a result, Mexico City now hosts a parade. And while it’s natural for traditions to evolve, it’s essential to keep them grounded in their roots or at least try to understand them so that we know why they matter.
Perhaps that’s why it’s a little jarring to see big corporations, marketing campaigns, and even well-intentioned small businesses miss the mark with “Día de los Muertos.” Adding a “los” might seem like a harmless translation of “Day of the Dead,” but as it becomes more widespread, this subtle shift keeps the living out of the celebration, gradually stripping away the essence that makes it Día de Muertos in the first place.
If Día de Muertos teaches us anything, it’s that memory, like language, is alive. Getting the name right is about honoring a legacy and preserving a tradition. So let’s call it by its real name—Día de Muertos—and remember that, much like tradition itself, every name carries a story.
Chiles en Nogada: The Dish of a Revolution
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Foto: Bertha Herrera para La Vitamina T If you’re lucky enough to be in Mexico in late summer and early fall, you’ll probably catch chiles en nogada on menus everywhere. Literally “peppers in walnut sauce,” this seasonal showstopper hails from Puebla and first appeared in the 19th century as a tribute to Mexico’s independence from Spain.
Part recipe, part prayer, legend has it that Augustinian nuns in Atlixco scrambled to honor Agustín de Iturbide, the caudillo* turned emperor, when he passed through Puebla after sealing the deal on independence in Veracruz. They improvised a dish that, like waved the flag on the plate: green poblano peppers, white walnut sauce, and ruby-red pomegranate seeds.
Bite into one and it’s part warrior, part angel. The poblano is stuffed with a mix of meats and fruits (apples, pears, peaches, maybe even plantains) that somehow works. Then it’s finished with that silky walnut sauce and jeweled with pomegranate seeds, which only show up in Mexican markets through mid-September. Blink, and you’ll miss it.
And like any dish worth fighting over, chiles en nogada comes with its own rivalry: capeados (egg-battered and fried) vs. sin capear (left in their natural roasted state). Purists will die on their hill for one or the other, but both versions will knock you sideways.
This dish is part indigenous, part Spanish, and entirely Mexican: a culinary snapshot of a nation built on contrasts, complexity, and sheer poetry.
If you see it, order it.
You are welcome.
We recommend:
In Mexico City:
In Chicago:
A few years ago I wrote an article for Eater Chicago highlighting a few versions of this dish that are worth trying. Some of them are available year-round. I recently had a great one at Istmo.
*Military leader
Originally published on 8/11/2013. Updated 9/15/2025.
