aguamiel cocina rustica

I feel we need to stop this eating and drinking routine, but the noon bell tolls and reminds us that lunch is just around another unexplored corner. We find ourselves once again without a map, following our noses down unfamiliar paths as we search for a street in the San Antonio district of San Miguel, taking what we think is a shortcut, only to find in the end it is a long way around. Exercise is a good thing; at the rate we are eating, we need to walk back to Wimberley.

We finally find Calle Pipila, a back street where grass grows between the cobblestones. This street seems too tiny, too untrodden, to have a restaurant somewhere on its short length, but we walk up the hill, Michael leading the way.  Since I seem to invariably lead us on a wild goose chase when it comes to lunchtime restaurants, I know his thoughts—Charlotte has done it again.

Suddenly he stops and disappears into a doorway.

The Food

I read that aguamiel cocina rustic is one of the top restaurants in San Miguel. Still, with over 300 restaurants in this small town and only gringos to support most of them, we once again find ourselves lone diners.  But the staff is friendly, the margaritas good. We start with a shared appetizer, a trio of sopecitos pachis, small rounds of a tamale-type base topped with meat or potatoes or beans, each topped with shredded lettuce, finely chopped tomatoes, and a shaving of cheese.  I could probably make a meal out of these tiny sopes, but there are only three, and we quickly decide on our next course.

 

Michael orders an unlikely pork-bone-meat-stew with tomatillo sauce and fresh purselane.  I have a bite; the meat is so tender it falls off the bone, and the spicy sauce is delicious.  My healthy order of grilled scallops, roasted carrots, and pine nuts, topping a bed of linguine and fresh arugula, pales in comparison. Dessert is a silky flan encased in a cage of caramelized sugar.

A Quick Stop by the Instituto Allende

We trudge home for a nap, stopping by the Instituto Allende on our way. The Instituto is where Michael took Spanish for several weeks ten years ago. It is the place where I first heard La Llorona.  The place where I didn’t take art classes. For some reason, even the instructor didn’t know, the Instituto was not offering art classes during the three months we stayed in San Miguel in 2005. I had to find Sam Seaman, the former art instructor, on my own.  But that is another story.

Music at the Biblioteca

The afternoon wiled away, we leave for the Maria Ferrina concert at 6:40, arriving ten minutes early. We sit in the alcove café of the Biblioteca, waiting for the theater doors to open. We are seated at 7 pm and watch as musicians and helpers scurry around the stage doing their final prep.  A slide show plays in the background.  A pelican soars over the ocean; a tiger stalks hidden prey in a forest.

A singer of Mexican renown, Maria Ferrina, arrives on stage in the dark and stays in the dark for the first two songs while beautiful slides of nature flash in the background.  It is a dramatic effect—listen to me—what I say through my music is important. The music is mystical, haunting, and very often full of rhythm—and I don’t understand a word. However, I am the minority. When Maria asks who in the audience speaks Spanish, almost everyone holds up their hands.  She grins and says, “Todo!”  We are entertained non-stop for over an hour and then released into the night.

Music in the Jardin

Michael is looking for a special restaurant Benito told us about yesterday. But—reaching the Jardin, we are waylaid by more music and dance.  The Ballet Folklorica is in town and performing in front of the Parroquia. We find a corner in which to stand and watch. The girls are lovely—the guys are great.

Suddenly we hear more music, loud music off to our left. Two giant puppets are among the fray, dressed as bride and groom.  The new arrivals stop and are stunned—for a while. They turn and talk to one another. No one told them they would have competition this cool July night. After much deliberation, they realize there are only two courses of action—back the way they came or a quick right turn. They push through the crowd, turning right. And then they stop once again, waiting for their followers to catch up.  Where did the bride go?

Diverted long enough, we head for the restaurant for a late-night snack.  Walking up and down Jesus, looking carefully, we finally find the restaurant, only to be confronted with locked doors. We tarried too long at the fair—ten minutes too long, to be exact.

Continuing down Jesus, we turn right on Tenerias and unlock the door to our casa.

We cook. We eat—bacon and eggs; we drink—orange juice.

Update aguamiel cocina rustica

The tiny restaurant, a true gem, and truly hidden closed its doors in 2017, only two years after we discovered it.  This makes me very sad.

“Ferrina …

…loves the fusion of her culture that blends diverse rhythms, this is why she mixes regional music from the state of Oaxaca with flamenco, guajira, and her very personal way of interpreting including myth and legend on stage; stories she enthusiastically personifies with joy and dignity, as a true cultural ambassador of her people.”