The evening had barely begun, and yet something within shifted.

 

We arrived at Quintonil, my mother, my sisters and I rushing through Polanco’s tree-lined streets, a little tense from the pace of the day. But as the first plates arrived delicate, unexpected, whispering of milpas, memory and invention, we softened. Our conversation melted into laughter. Our breath slowed. Something new and ancient stirred.

 

Food has that kind of power. At Quintonil, the flavors themselves were speaking. Telling stories older than language, stories that need no words, stories of warmth, experimentation, gathering, land, and generations.