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Huatulco, San Miguel de Allende

Editor’s Letter

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By Jane Bauer—

“Peace cannot exist without justice, justice cannot exist without fairness, fairness cannot exist without development, development cannot exist without democracy, democracy cannot exist without respect for the identity and worth of cultures and peoples.”
–Rigoberta Menchú Tum (Guatemalan
Indigenous Rights Activist, 1990 UNESCO Prize for Peace Education, 1992 Nobel Peace Prize Winner

Mexico is often misunderstood. For many outsiders, the country exists as a kind of postcard: bright colors, mariachis on every corner, sombreros, tequila, and fiesta. The image has become so exaggerated that it borders on parody. Mexico is reduced to a handful of clichés that flatten the depth and diversity of the country. The reality is much more layered.

One of the things that has struck me most during my years living here is how strongly people identify simply as Mexican. In Canada or the United States, identity is often expressed through hyphenated heritage; Italian-American, Chinese-Canadian, Irish-American. Cultural roots remain visible and frequently celebrated.

In Mexico, those histories are often quieter, woven into the fabric of everyday life rather than worn on the surface. The result is a national identity that feels cohesive, but it can also obscure just how many different cultures have helped shape the country.

Like many countries, Mexico wrestles with questions of identity, belonging, and prejudice. Conversations around gentrification, migration, and “foreigners” have become increasingly heated in recent years. At the same time, Mexico itself has been shaped by centuries of migration.

Indigenous civilizations laid the foundations of this culture long before the arrival of Europeans. Spanish colonization profoundly altered the landscape. Later came immigrants from France, Lebanon, Germany, China, and beyond. Each group left its mark—sometimes subtly, sometimes dramatically. We see these influences in architecture, food, language, music, fashion, and even urban planning.

This month, The Eye explores one of those threads: the French connection. From pastry techniques that transformed Mexican bakeries to artistic exchange, architecture, and politics, the relationship runs deeper than many people realize. Recognizing these influences does not diminish Mexico’s Indigenous heritage. One of the country’s greatest strengths is that Indigenous traditions are visible in daily life in ways that are rare in the rest of North America.

But culture is never static. It evolves, absorbs, adapts, and reinvents itself. Mexican culture, as we know it today, is the result of centuries of exchange layered together into something entirely its own. That complexity is not a weakness. It is one of Mexico’s greatest strengths.

Thanks for reading and see you next month!

 

Huatulco, San Miguel de Allende

Editor’s Letter

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By Jane Bauer—

“We are here to awaken from our illusion of separateness.”
Thích Nhat Hanh

When you rant or retort obnoxiously on social media, it is like holding a hot coal in your hand and expecting someone else to burn. Your comment affects everyone who reads it — including you. Cortisol rises. Stress follows.

I opened my phone this morning and within minutes my nervous system was lit up. News of a cartel shooting. Messages asking if I was okay. A fire in Xadani. Canadians ranting about Mexicans ripping them off. Mexicans ranting about Canadians being cheap and gentrifying their country.

Stress — the invisible toxin.
Every time we open our phones and consume outrage, our bodies release cortisol. Heart rate increases. Inflammation pathways activate. The nervous system does not distinguish well between physical danger and social conflict; it simply reacts. Living in a constant state of judgment is physiologically corrosive.

Yes, we are living longer than previous generations. Medicine has dramatically extended lifespan over the past century. But we are also surrounded by more environmental toxins than ever — pollutants in our water, plastics in our oceans, chemicals measurable in human blood. Chronic disease now dominates modern life. We have prolonged years, but have we protected vitality?

To be healthy is to be whole — regulated, connected, integrated. Healthcare, at its root, should mean caring for that wholeness.

We often talk about “coexisting,” as if we are separate entities sharing space. In reality, we are deeply interconnected. Like a tree that depends on the quality of the river from which it drinks, the tree and the river are one. Separation is an illusion.

Be more understanding. Be more open. Assume good intentions more often than not. Regulate your nervous system. Put the phone down. Cook something real. Hug a tree and a stranger. Sit across from someone different from you and listen.

Wholeness isn’t optional; it’s essential. And in a time like this, choosing calm may be one of the most radical health decisions we can make.

See you next month,

Jane

Huatulco

A French Touch in the Heart of Oaxaca: Chef Israel Loyola’s Culinary Dialogue

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By Jane Bauer

Culture is not static—it is always transforming. As much as we might wish to preserve certain traditions and claim them as part of our identity—especially in times of nationalism and cultural divide—food reminds us that nothing remains fixed. Many people take comfort in declaring a certain dish, ingredient, or way of living as “theirs,” drawing boundaries between themselves and others, whether based on class, religion, or geography. But cuisine has always been porous. Before colonization, the diet in North America centered around the “three sisters” of agriculture—corn, beans, and squash—foods still essential in many parts of Mexico today. And yet, what we now think of as Mexican cuisine has evolved through centuries of influence: German, Chinese, Lebanese—and perhaps most significantly, French.

One chef who embodies this interplay is Chef Israel Loyola. For him, cooking isn’t just about technique—it’s about people. “A cook can’t just be a cook,” he says. “A chef has to be the sum of everything—kitchen, service, dishwashing, even working the register. It includes the people who arrive early to prep before the restaurant opens. It’s a team effort, and that’s what we try to reflect in every dish.”

That spirit of collective craftsmanship lies at the heart of El Parián Atelier, Loyola’s restaurant in the center of Oaxaca City. Located just steps from the rhythm of daily life, the space feels both elegant and grounded, welcoming locals and visitors alike to experience thoughtful cuisine shaped by memory, migration, and collaboration.

The name Parián is more than a nod to historic Mexican markets. It honors a nearly abandoned Mixtec town once known as the “port of the Mixteca,” a place that flourished during the railway boom of the Porfiriato but all but disappeared after privatization in the 1990s. Today, the original Parián has fewer than ten inhabitants—mostly memories and nostalgia. That emotion infuses Loyola’s cooking. Atelier, the French word for workshop, completes the name and reflects the constant creative process behind every plate.

His team, like his menu, brings together diverse roots. Half are from Oaxaca, the rest from across Mexico. “Many came to Oaxaca to grow—culturally, yes, but professionally, too,” he says. Many have formal culinary training, often in the French tradition.

That French influence in the kitchen is no accident. During the Porfiriato, the long presidency of Porfirio Díaz (1876–1911), French culture was consciously adopted as a model of modernity and refinement. Díaz himself was famously Francophile, and under his rule, Parisian aesthetics permeated architecture, fashion, and especially cuisine. French chefs were invited to Mexico to cook for the elite, and French cooking techniques became the standard in upper-class kitchens and newly formed culinary academies.

Sauces such as béchamel and velouté began to appear alongside traditional Mexican moles, and pâtisserie methods influenced everything from breadmaking to wedding cakes. Table service became more formal, plating more intentional, and an appreciation for technique—mise en place, precise knife work, structured courses—began to define what it meant to be a “professional” cook.

Even in the world of drinks, the Porfiriato left its mark: two foundational books on distillation and cocktail-making were published during this era. “We inherited a whole structure of formality from that time,” says Loyola. “The way we plate, the way we move through the kitchen—it still carries echoes of that period.”

After the Porfiriato ended, much of that French culinary refinement faded from everyday food culture, and traditional Mexican mixology—particularly curados, or infused spirits—was nearly forgotten. But today, Loyola sees a revival. “All of that is coming back,” he says. “We’re not just following global cocktail trends. We’re reclaiming what was already ours.”

At El Parián Atelier, every element—from the name to the ingredients to the way the team works together—tells a story. “We’re not just making food,” Loyola says. “We’re making something living. Something that speaks to memory, migration, and the ever-changing shape of culture itself.”

Huatulco

Editor’s Letter

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By Jane Bauer @livingfoodmexico

Class, race, sexuality, gender and all other categories by which we categorize and dismiss each other need to be excavated from the inside.

Dorothy Allison

This month our writers explore the class system. As humans, we love to categorize. We name things, sort them, put them in their proper place. It’s how we make sense of the world, how we navigate complexity. We do this with plants and animals, with time and space, and, of course, with people. We build systems, hierarchies, and classifications—some useful, others arbitrary, and some deeply entrenched in power and history.

Lately, I’ve been thinking about this as I care for my mother, who has dementia. She was once an avid birdwatcher, able to name and identify countless species at a glance. Now, those names are slipping away. She no longer calls the kiskadee by name, no longer distinguishes between a flycatcher and a warbler in the way she once did. And yet, she still sees the birds. She watches their movements, listens to their calls, notices the shimmer of their feathers in the morning light. In some ways, she is experiencing them more purely, freed from the constraints of classification. It reminds me of Shakespeare’s famous question: would a rose by any other name smell as sweet? While naming things helps humans to make sense of the world, it is also a way that we create divisions between ourselves and the world.

Mexico has long been a place of rigid social categories. The casta system of colonial times assigned people value based on their ancestry, with Spanish blood at the top and Indigenous and African heritage ranked below in an elaborate taxonomy of race and class. Those classifications may no longer be law, but their impact lingers. Social class in Mexico today is still a structure of division—one shaped by wealth, education, and skin color, as well as deeply ingrained perceptions of worth. The categories may have changed, but the impulse to sort people into hierarchies remains.

And yet, what if we let go of the names? What if, instead of seeing people through the lens of class, we focused on their essence—their kindness, their resilience, their humor? What if we paid attention to the qualities that matter, rather than the labels that confine? My mother may no longer remember the names of birds, but she still finds joy in watching them. Perhaps there’s something to learn from that.

See you next month,

Jane

Huatulco

Editor’s Letter

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By Jane Bauer

“Perhaps travel cannot prevent bigotry, but by demonstrating that all peoples cry, laugh, eat, worry, and die, it can introduce the idea that if we try and understand each other, we may even become friends.” – Maya Angelou

There are a few questions I hear all the time from people traveling to Mexico that drive me absolutely crazy. I get it: people have questions, and the media has done its part to paint a very specific, often inaccurate picture of what to expect in Mexico. But still, these questions speak to outdated assumptions and biases that need to be addressed.

The first one: Can I drink the water? Is the ice safe? We tackled this topic in our water issue back in November, but here’s the short answer—yes, you’ll be fine if you stick to bottled or filtered water, which is the norm. This isn’t the mystery it used to be. Restaurants and hotels understand their clientele, and they’ve adapted accordingly.

The second one, and maybe the most infuriating: How much should I expect to pay for something? Specifically, the cost of a ride from the airport. Whenever I’ve traveled—whether it’s Paris, Chicago, or anywhere else—I’ve never thought to research what a taxi ride should cost to my hotel. The mere act of asking seems rooted in the assumption that you’ll be scammed in some way, which is not only offensive but also highlights a lack of trust and understanding of local culture.

And finally: Is Mexico City safe? Whether I’m talking about how much I love CDMX, how my daughter is thriving there, or asking if someone managed to visit, the knee-jerk response is often a concern for safety. Let’s be clear: Mexico City is one of the most dynamic, exciting, and culturally rich cities in the world. Of course, like any large city, it has its issues—use your street smarts, just as you would in New York, Toronto, or Berlin.

In this issue, we’re diving into all the reasons Mexico City is so special, there are so many things to see, do, and experience. So, if you’ve ever hesitated to explore this extraordinary city, let this be the nudge you need.
Plan a layover in CDMX the next time you travel or even a weekend getaway – you won’t be disappointed and may even discover your new favorite destination.

See you next month,

Jane

 

Huatulco

Editor’s Letter

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By Jane Bauer

He that has been bitten by a snake is afraid of a rope.
Edward Albee

As we step into the Year of the Snake, it feels like the perfect time to reflect on the power of shedding—letting go of what no longer serves us. Snakes, with their ancient ability to shed their skin, have long been symbols of transformation and renewal. And in this upcoming year, I find myself asking: How can we, like the snake, release what holds us back and make space for growth, healing, and the things that truly align with who we are becoming?

In Mexican culture, the snake carries a deep and powerful meaning. On Mexico’s flag, the eagle grips a serpent in its beak while perched on a cactus. This image isn’t just about the nation’s founding—it’s about balance, transformation, and the struggle that leads to wisdom. The snake here is not just a symbol of danger; it’s also a symbol of the great god Quetzalcoatl, the feathered serpent who represents life, knowledge, and the cycles of nature. It reminds us that sometimes, our greatest victories come from the struggles we face, and that embracing change—however uncomfortable—can lead to deeper wisdom.

Compare this with the serpent in the Garden of Eden. In this story, the snake is often seen as the tempter, the one who introduces sin into the world. But, in reality, temptation is a catalyst for change. It’s a break from the old way, a shift that forces us to reconsider, to evolve. Just as the snake sheds its skin to reveal something new beneath, we too can let go of old beliefs, outdated habits, and things that no longer serve our growth. In this Year of the Snake, I think it’s time to ask ourselves: What are we still holding onto that no longer serves us? And not only personal habits, but about the larger mindset we’re living in. Our culture of overconsumption, greed, and constant striving has disconnected us from what truly matters. We’re so focused on acquiring more—more stuff, more money, more distractions—that we’ve forgotten the peace and wisdom that comes from living more simply, from living in harmony with nature. What if we decided to shed that?

What if we let go of the pursuit of more and started reconnecting with the earth, with each other, and with the deeper parts of ourselves that are calling for attention? The snake’s ability to shed its skin is a powerful reminder that, sometimes, we need to let go of the superficial layers in order to reveal what’s underneath—the authentic, the raw, and the life-giving.

So let’s take a cue from the snake and shed the old patterns and return to nature, to what’s real, and to the deeper, quieter truths that sustain us. By letting go of what no longer serves us, we make space for renewal—both in our lives and in the world around us. Because, in the end, shedding isn’t a loss. It’s the beginning of something new.

See you in February,

Huatulco

Editor’s Letter

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By Jane Bauer

Researchers believe that taste memories can be among the strongest one can have based on a principle called “conditioned taste aversion,” a survival tactic that helps one remember if something was eaten previously and was either poisonous or caused illness. This principle states that this memory biologically helps to prevent one from repeating the mistake in the future when this food is encountered.
-from the article Food and Memory by Joy Intriago

I love when something is so unexpectedly delicious that it imprints on me, creating a food memory that I will remember for years to come. It isn’t usually exotic foods, but an oddly delightful and unexpected pairing that causes my taste buds to perk up. Over 25 years ago in Brighton, UK, at a vegetarian restaurant, after watching The Wedding Singer at a movie theater, I had a combination of beet, cucumber, dill, something creamy and something crispy… maybe a piece of fried wonton. I have tried to recreate this perfect combination but have never managed to hit the same balance of yum.

About 13 years ago, on a chilly May evening, I had dinner in Montreal with my aunt and uncle at Laloux, a French restaurant. I had a combination of foie gras and apple that has made every time I have eaten foie gras since, feel like something is missing.

When I miss my father I can taste the pancakes with ham and maple syrup that he made for me on Sunday mornings. The beauty of a food memory is that you don’t just remember the taste but all the details of the moment get frozen and saved.

Last month I went to Mazunte for a 3-day silent meditation retreat. I was feeling a little dubious about going as I lived in Mazunte for a couple of years when I first moved here in the late 90s. Back then it was a dirt road village with a few palapas on the beach, one Italian restaurant and electricity in only a few parts of the village. Each time I have been recently I felt annoyed by its growth, and I felt even more annoyed with myself, for being that kind of person. Change happens, places grow, some evolve and some just get bigger.

Upon arrival for my retreat I was told that the retreat actually started the following day so I was left to my own devices for dinner. I wandered into the village. Stopped and visited the family that welcomed me into their fold twenty-five years ago and set off to find dinner. Outside the restaurant La Cuisine a blackboard displayed the evening’s specials and one was Tortellini de Conejo con Salsa de Zanahoria y Parmesano (rabbit tortellini with carrot and parmesan sauce). My mouth watered just thinking about it. It did not disappoint. Large tortellini with ground rabbit and a hint of fennel seed… I think, I tried to decipher each bite. The carrot and parmesan sauce was the perfect complement and I liked the cleverness of serving carrots with rabbit.

I had to admit, progress has its advantages in bringing new ingredients and chefs with different techniques. And it’s not new, it’s always been this way. Change is the only constant.

Huatulco

Editor’s Letter

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By Jane Bauer

A few years ago I sat in a tapas bar in Madrid with a glass of wine ready to devour a copy of a well-respected food magazine that I had picked up at the airport. The cover promised stories about Mexican chefs. Sadly, as I read through, almost all the chefs mentioned were men and they all seemed to croon the same old story I had heard from almost every Mexican chef I know about how they started in their mother’s or grandmother’s kitchen. The tone of these tales always suggests some sort of bravery on their part for having taken a chance in the kitchen.

This issue of The Eye brings up a lot of topics that I have long debated. I once got into a discussion with a man who couldn’t understand why I don’t refer to myself as a chef.

“You run a kitchen, don’t you?” he pushed, knowing full well that I do. I explained that none of the women I work with refer to themselves as chefs and therefore it would seem the height of arrogance to go around calling myself a chef. “I just like feeding people. I don’t really need or want the title,” I said and I could tell he couldn’t understand this.

Why do I cook? Cooking for me started as an act of love- first in my childhood with family, then in college with friends, then in my first home for my husband, then for my daughter… I can scarcely think of a time in my life when I haven’t run a kitchen.

I am always a little taken aback when I am invited to attend a food event such as a culinary festival as a presenter or judge, to find other people who run kitchens dressed up in their chef whites- I don’t even own a pair of chef whites! I do have many elegant dresses that look great with an apron though!

My culinary creativity hasn’t been spontaneous, it has been cultivated over time from my travels, sharing kitchens with others, being introduced to new ingredients and necessity- cooking qu’est-ce qui, a French term I learned today for “what there is.”

Chefs also have a terrible reputation for getting upset- having fiery tempers and throwing things. I have rarely raised my voice in the kitchen and have never thrown anything. The kitchen is the heart of a home and even in a restaurant I think the vibe should reflect that- good food is made with care not ambition.

“What people expect from your kitchen isn’t what people expect from mine,” a fellow chef/restaurateur once told me with a tone that suggested his was superior. So while not calling myself a chef or strutting around in chef whites may lead to me being taken a little less seriously, I’m ok with that. I am far more honored to be a part of a legacy of women who cook to connect, to grow and to nourish.

See you next month,

Jane