When In Puebla, Do as the Romans Do

Puebla is quite well known for its beautifully maintained colonial architecture, its enviable climate, its stunning volcanoes, its mole sauce and its… spaghetti Bolognese?

Odd as it seems, there is a long Italian history here, which adds a welcomed touch of Italia to regional fiestas and, in particular, food. Manhattan transfers from Mott St. wouldn’t have to search long in Puebla to find a marinara sauce or a plate of gnocchi that rivals that of their dear old nonna.

In one nearby town, not only is the pizza and pasta delizioso, the residents – mostly descendents of Italian dairy farmers – speak Spanish with a decidedly Italian accent. Like Argentines, without the attitude and anger.

Some restaurants here get jiggy with it, experimenting with Mexi-talian fusion – artfully incorporating smoky poblano chiles and other regional treats into dishes that originated in the Old Country. Of course, there is such a thing as too Mexi-talian. I could see some cooks going overboard with the likes of barbacoa al fredo or squingili tacos.

The most interesting Mexi-talian meld that Miranda and I have encountered isn’t food at all; it’s our new friend, Tony. We met Tony our first week here while dining in his restaurant, Laberinto -- a wonderful little spot across the street from our apartment building. We were very much enjoying our inspired and surprisingly affordable Mexican-Asian dishes, when out popped a barrel of a man who looked one part David Crosby and one part Don Corleone. He solicited our opinion on what we had ordered, and I enthusiastically responded with “Está buenisimo!” -- not only because it was true, but because I didn’t want to wake up with a horse head in my bed.

Tony had lived in Queens for several years, just long enough to become proficient in New York English. “Foged aboudit” and “Ey, you’re talking to Tony” are part of his regular discourse when conversing with Americans. I prefer to speak with Tony in his native Spanish because, first of all, we are in his country, and secondly because it is less frightening. In Spanish, I feel like I’m getting to know a charming local character; in English, I feel like there’s a distinct chance I will get whacked if I say the wrong thing or speak out of turn. On the other hand, Miranda -- still finding her feet when speaking Spanish -- is thrilled to have met somebody with whom she can speak American, somebody who understands her sense of humor, and whose bilingual sister appreciates her Sex and the City references.

While menacing in appearance, Tony is a big teddy bear once you pay him protection money and compliment his menu. In all seriousness, the guy is aces in our book. Smart, very well traveled, funny as hell, and exceedingly large-hearted. For instance, when we went to dine at Laberinto the second time (just two days after our first meal there), Tony came and sat at our table and, after chatting for about 20-30 minutes, invited us to have brunch the next day at his mother’s restaurant in historic Puebla. Miranda, being a big fan of brunch, and myself, being a big fan of not rejecting suspected mafiosos, eagerly accepted his invitation.

The next day, Tony, in atypical Mexican form, arrived to pick us up in his car right when he said he would. He was joined by his wife, Feli (short for Felizidad, which means “happiness”), who doesn’t speak a lick of English. So on the ride to Tony’s mother’s restaurant, I spoke with Feli and Tony in Spanish, Miranda spoke with Tony in English and with Feli in smiles, and Miranda and I didn’t speak to each other at all, as we’ve been married for over a year now.

Tony parked the car on the street across from what I assumed was an historic museum or the estate of some famous Poblano official. Thus, I was surprised when Tony directed us into the incredible colonial building upon which my gaze had been fixed from the moment we had turned onto the street. “This is my mother’s restaurant,” he said matter-of-factly, then led us through the main dining room into a dimly lit, private cave-like area. We were either about to experience the most special brunch of our lives, or had just been led into a lair where unsuspecting Americans get turned into chorizo.

The answer was soon evident, as Tony’s gracious mother popped her head into our private cavern to greet us seconds after we had taken our seat.

Over the next hour or two, we met practically every member of Tony's clan, who showed up sporadically throughout the meal: His two sisters, his niece and nephews, his mother’s close friend, et. al. It was a delightful and largely multi-lingual crew, with English, German, Italian and, naturally, Spanish well represented. Even the kids spoke at least two languages -- each child the obvious product of the finest private education Poblano money can buy. Of course, Tony did a nice job of keeping the refinement and sophistication at bay with his frequent New York-inspired profanities. ¨Fuck” and “cock-sucker” were his verbal weapons of choice, though were never used aggressively or derisively. A master of not the Queen’s English but rather of Queens English.

The whole experience at Tony’s mother’s restaurant epitomized a quote I once saw on a chef friend of mine’s refrigerator:

“When you dine alone, you feed the body; when you dine with friends, you nourish the soul.”

After the meal with Tony and family, Miranda’s soul and mine nearly vomited from overconsumption. Such regal treatment from near strangers was a wonderfully shocking contrast to the crazed drivers and crooked cops who greeted us when we first arrived in Puebla.

And there was still more warmth and kindness awaiting us. Following brunch, Tony issued a death threat when I tried to pay our bill, then took us on a tour of the establishment along with Feli and his sisters. Abstract paintings and lithographs produced by a personal friend of Tony’s peppered the impossibly thick stone walls of the restaurant -- creating a captivating marriage of traditional and modern. Exposed beams and ancient bricks bled a rich history all over the place. And just when we thought things couldn’t get better in terms of architecture and ambiance, we were led up a winding wrought iron staircase to an area that will soon be home to six spectacular guest rooms. I told Tony that I want Miranda and I to be the first guests -- paying guests -- once the upstairs inn is open for business. Tony just smiled, probably because he could see the unbridgeable gap between what a room would cost and -- based on my non-Italian shoes -- what I could afford.

During the tour, Tony’s sisters uttered several earnest “if you ever need anything”s to Miranda and me. I was beginning to wonder if maybe these people had mistaken us for a couple of Americans who actually mattered. But I soon came to accept the fact that Tony and his family simply take great pride in making everyone around them feel comfortable and welcomed. Just like real New Yorkers, only the opposite.

Our day with Tony ended with him taking us to the best grocery store in the city (earlier I had mentioned that I was looking for something other than a Walmart or Mega for my own culinary creations). He walked with us, pointing out the best produce, fish and poultry. He took us up and down aisles showcasing the finest gourmet items. If MySpace still mattered today, I would have hurried home, sent Tony a friend request and, upon his acceptance of said request, moved him to the forefront of my Top 10 list. Finally, I had met another heterosexual male who could become aroused over fresh basil, natural beef, whole red snapper, and imported canned tuna in olive oil.

Tony just gets me.

During the ride home, Miranda and I mentioned that we were looking forward to our first visit to Mexico City together. From the back seat, I could see Tony’s eyes open wide enough to fill the rear view mirror. “You have to let me show you Mexico City. Nobody knows it like I do.”

“That would be great,” I replied. “But would you be able to get away from the restaurant for an entire weekend?”

Tony laughed. “What are you, kiddin me? I’m the fucking boss!”

Nobody’s arguing that, mi amigo.