Jardines Miraflores Subdivision 1974
At eight years old, no one is aware of the socio-anthropological importance of what they eat. Dishes are enjoyed naturally. In my case, the family’s evening outings often ended at the Santiago market with some good panuchos and a hearty turkey broth from “La Reina Itzalana,” or at the “Lechería San Juan” with delicious espelón steamers and the usual glass of chocolate milk.
Who could have imagined that this unchanging culinary world was about to change?
Pizza. It was 1974, and some Yucatecan migrants returning from Los Angeles with plenty of money and excessive entrepreneurial enthusiasm decided they had found the formula for success in California. Except for those who traveled abroad frequently, the vast majority of Merida residents only knew about this Italian dish so popular in the United States through Archie, the red-haired, freckled teenager who was the protagonist of the comic strip set in the imaginary town of Riverdale.
That’s how “Romanos” emerged in the Jardines Miraflores neighborhood, east of the city.
“That’s the bad thing about getting carried away by comics,” Mom would later say, seeing our disappointment, that distant afternoon in ’74 when, after getting a ride, Dad stopped the car in front of a house in whose yard he had set up a dozen Coca-Cola tables.
“We’ll have to wait at least an hour,” Dad commented, after speaking to the skinny guy who was running around carrying plates and drinks to the customers who were crowding the tables.
“Do we have to wait anyway? Let’s go to the Impala for some flying saucers and milkshakes,” suggested Mom, who was probably starving because of her pregnancy.
We threw a tantrum. Our school friends had told us so much about this place that we didn’t want to leave without trying the pizzas.
They gave in.
After half an hour, more families joined the waiting group. It felt like a party. There were people standing around, kids sitting on the cliff, and couples huddled on the hoods of their cars. Some people were smoking, others were drinking soda or just chatting. Occasionally, drivers would cross in front of the business and slow down to look around. I’m not exaggerating when I say that, at times, there were more people outside than inside the restaurant.
And when a table finally became free and we were about to cross the gate that separated us from glory, the manager suddenly arrived bearing terrible news: the dough was gone.
“Sorry, come back tomorrow,” he said loudly.
Tomorrow?
What can you imagine?
We’ve had to put up with so much for them to come up with this!
The shouts and complaints escalated. Someone tried to force their way in, but the guy stopped him dead in his tracks, pushing him out. The owner himself, a Mr. Vallejos, had to come in to calm the waters and offer discounts so things wouldn’t get any worse.
Later in the “Impala,” flying saucer in hand, Mom promised we’d come back the next day to try the pizzas. But it took a couple of years for us to finally enjoy that famous dish in Mérida at “Messinas,” a restaurant located on Itzáes Avenue. It’s a shame. Many years later, I learned that Mr. Vallejos, thanks to the success of his restaurant in the Miraflores neighborhood, emulating something he saw in Los Angeles, opened an elegant branch of “Romanos” on Pérez Ponce Avenue where the stained-glass ceiling, with the help of a sophisticated mechanism, could be opened to admire the stars and dine al fresco. Very few appreciated it, and the restaurant went bankrupt.
Historic Center 2007
“We don’t serve ketchup, Worcestershire sauce, or Maggi sauce here. Please refrain from ordering them,” warns the note taped to the door. My wife and I are about to enter “Rafaello’s,” a pizzeria that just opened on 60th Street.
“The pizzas are amazing.” The owner is an Italian, married to a Yucatecan woman—a friend confided in me that he’s always looking for new places to eat in our city.
Dozens of foreign cuisine establishments have recently opened in the historic center. Peruvian, Spanish, Brazilian. But above all, Italian. They come from Playa del Carmen, a Caribbean paradise that welcomed hundreds of foreigners dedicated to gastronomy in the 1980s and 1990s, but which now, in the third millennium, drug trafficking has taken it upon itself to expel. And in the Yucatecan capital, reputed to be the safest city in the country, they seem to have found the ideal place to peacefully continue their productive life in Mexico.
Decorated with plants and images of Italian landscapes, the place seems small. Barely half a dozen rustic wooden tables. The background music is Lucio Dalla ballads. It’s not even seven in the evening, but there are already quite a few people. We take the only free table, the one in the corner. From time to time, the seductive aromas of spices and bread baking in the oven reach us. A slim, smiling young woman with long curls serves us. I look over the menu: pizza, garlic bread, and lasagna, nothing else. They don’t even have a beer permit. I choose the “Fresquecita,” which, over time, will become my favorite.
Later, I learn that the waitress is the wife of the owner, a sullen Calabrian man I can see from a distance working by the oven. I’ve been told that for him, making pizzas is a ritual that must be learned from Italian experts. I wonder if he knows that the first pizzas arrived in Mérida directly from the United States, via migrants, in the 1970s.
I interrupt my thoughts; my wife stops checking her cell phone. The “Fresquecita” has arrived. The aroma it gives off is too tempting. It only takes one bite to realize that the reputation that precedes “Rafaello’s” is not unfounded. The dough is thin, crispy, and delicate. And the combination of ingredients chosen—mozzarella, arugula, and cherry tomatoes—is a fortunate one. Although, now that I think about it, Yucatecan pizzas also have their own charm. There are, for example, those from “Messinas.” They aren’t cooked over a slow fire or in a wood-fired oven, but their charm lies precisely in the ruggedness of their style, in the daring combinations their creators have used to seduce the regional palate. Perhaps that’s why they’ve positioned themselves as the most popular on the peninsula, with multiple locations.
We’ve finished eating. Without sauces, as the sign suggests. These, I think, are some of the best pizzas I’ve ever tasted. In the background, the owner is still busy by the oven, not looking at the diners. His wife is the one who pays attention to the public. I don’t know why, but as I leave the restaurant, the cochinita pizza, the queso de bola pizza, and the pizzanucho come to mind, ingenious combinations designed by the people from Mérida. Will they survive? Only time will tell.
Melitón Salazar 2025 Neighborhood
—No, young man, I never liked pizza. It’s no joke. I tried it at “Romanos” around ’78. That’s why I decided to create something more our own, something that would fit the tastes of the Yucatecans.
This is the voice of Don José Luis Marrero Bermejo, creator of pizzanucho, a fusion dish that combines Italian pizza and the Yucatecan panucho, which, more than forty-six years after its invention, survives among the city’s culinary diversity.
From the simple restaurant located across from the green park in the Melitón Salazar neighborhood, sitting next to the owner, I observe the pizzanucho, a round wheat flour bread covered with tomato sauce, refried beans, yellow cream cheese, slices of cooked ham, and strands of roasted turkey. On one side of the table rests the pizzanucho book, where diners learn how this creation came to be, and where they can also leave written comments after eating it.
Before I sink my teeth into it, Don José Luis warns me: everything is made right here, we only use fresh ingredients. Without refrigeration, it takes up to ten hours to decompose.
I detect a glimmer of pride in his eyes. And although he suffers from severe arthritis that forces him to walk with a cane, the man, at eighty-six, still takes care of his small business, which has been visited, he says, by countless notables: from the state’s first opposition governor to actress Ofelia Medina, and even a famous reporter from Televisión Azteca.
“Names are lost on me,” he adds. “But there”—he points with his index finger at the pizzanucho book—”you can see it. Every time an article about the restaurant appeared in newspapers or magazines, my wife cut them out. There must be about twenty or thirty of them.”
Perhaps because it’s Monday, there’s only one other table occupied. It’s a family enjoying their meal with a jug of “Marrecola,” a sweet hibiscus-based drink developed by Don José Luis so they wouldn’t owe anyone any favors.
“I never wanted to commit to any brand. They’re too demanding,” he confesses. “But don’t delay any longer, young man. Try it,” he orders. “I’ve ordered it special for you, with ham, turkey, and leg.”
At first bite, I think I recognize some of the aftertaste of the molletes my mother used to make for us on Saturday mornings. If Don José Luis is right about anything, it’s that his culinary invention recovers the original flavors of this land.
All of this leads me to reflect that, despite how dazzling and attractive some foreign foods may seem to us in childhood, over time, not even the most sophisticated hamburger, the most New York hot dog, or the most gourmet pizza can erase the devotion we Yucatecans feel for our own. We mustn’t forget that good food evokes, and is a pleasure, not only for the palate, but also for the spirit.
Source: milenio
