Over a Week in Mexico City: Mezcal, Rooftops & A City That Never Sleeps
It started with a fish taco.
After the long travel day, stepping off the plane into Mexico City’s electric, buzzing air, the only thing I cared about was getting something unforgettable onto a plate. The city sprawled before us, chaotic and beautiful, filled with the promise of late nights, slow mornings, and everything in between. At Páramo, that first bite—a taco so fresh, so perfectly balanced with crispy fish, bright citrus, and just enough heat—felt like the real start of the trip.
The first night passed in a dream of city lights flickering outside my hotel, Ignacia Guest House, a sanctuary in the middle of Roma Norte’s leafy streets. The kind of place that made you want to throw open the windows and let the city in. But there would be time for that later.
The next morning, I left the city behind picking Meesh up on the way. The air thickened as we drove, buildings fading into trees, the energy shifting from Mexico City’s relentless pulse to something slower, quieter, almost sacred. Our next home—a cabin designed by Ludwig Godefroy, where concrete met wood, where every shadow felt intentional, where stillness was built into the walls. It felt like stepping into a different world, one where time didn’t rush.
Nights in the cabin were filled with late conversations by candlelight, mezcal poured slowly, the stars spilling over the sky in a way they never could in the city and movie nights. It was a place to breathe differently. To let go of itineraries, of alarms, of anything that required structure. The silence was almost deafening at first, but soon, we melted into it.
Returning to Mexico City felt like waking up from a dream. The streets pulled us back in instantly—the hum of vendors calling out their daily specials, the smell of sizzling meat from roadside stands, the unexpected flash of street art between colonial buildings. The only real plan was no plan at all. We let the city guide us—popping into galleries where the art felt alive, weaving through markets thick with the scent of roasted corn, stopping for mezcal cocktails at whatever bar felt right.
Dinner that night was Maximo Bistrot, where every plate tasted like it had been crafted with equal parts precision and chaos—the best kind of magic. We ate slowly, letting flavors settle, letting the night stretch. But the night wasn’t done with us yet.
At Hanky Panky, the door was hidden, the entrance unmarked—a place that only existed if you knew where to find it. Inside, the air was thick with dim lighting and secrets, cocktails crafted like tiny works of art, the kind of place that made the city feel like a never-ending mystery. And it was.
The next morning, I chased the city’s architectural ghosts. The Organic Architecture Tour led us through by The Traveling Beetle amongst all others they offer.
By late afternoon, Pujol was waiting for us, a name whispered in every corner of the culinary world. A meal so intricate, so intentional, it felt less like dinner and more like a ritual. We savored every bite—the famous mole madre, aged over 2,500 days, the way flavors lingered and unfolded, the kind of meal that makes you rethink every meal that came before it.
From there, Handshake Speakeasy, where drinks felt like potions, mixed with theater and precision.The city pulsed outside, but in here, time folded in on itself.
Coyoacán was a world of its own—Frida Kahlo’s old haunts, tree-lined streets humming with a different kind of rhythm. We wandered without maps, without timelines, stopping only when we felt like it. Botánico welcomed me with open arms, a restaurant hidden behind plants and soft light, where the food tasted as wild and alive as the garden surrounding us. The night ended on a rooftop, Salon Palomilla,where the city stretched below us, golden and endless and what a rooftop bar to remember!
ZONA MACO felt like stepping into the future. The art buzzed with possibility that we saw all along our walks pieces that made us stop, stare, question. A city already bursting with creativity now felt like it was spilling over.
The nights blurred into each other. Tokyo Music Bar, a secret tucked away in a corner of the city, where vinyl spun and drinks disappeared too easily. Bars that had no names but held the best stories. Conversations with strangers that felt like they had always been waiting to happen.
One of the last days, we let the city fully take over. No plans, no reservations, just the pulse of Mexico City guiding us. We wandered into dive bars and vintage stores, stopped for street tacos at Orinoco, stumbled into cafés with no intention of leaving quickly. We drank at Madre Café, tucked into Félix Pizza, moved wherever the city pulled us.
At Ticuchi, I let the night wrap itself around me—a space that felt like it was built from shadows and fire, where mezcal burned in the best way. A slow farewell to a city that never really lets you leave.
And then, just like that, I was home.
Mexico City didn’t just pass through us—we passed through it, collecting moments like tiny treasures, leaving pieces of ourselves behind in return.
No city hums like this one.
