One of the worst weeks of my life was when I contracted swine flu in 2009 while travelling through Mexico. It was poor to say the least. Couldn’t eat my pinto beans; unable to drink tequila. Prayed to God. I came out of my fever and put both anomalies right, found myself draped coolly in neon on concrete slabs, sunk deep into hessian banquettes and felt free again.
The allure of mezcal tickles me behind the ears. After three or four, I fancied myself a grand man named Carlos, on a horse more majestic still, trotting forth toward the sunset with only the wind for company and the mountains my guide. Worlds away in Soho and the sunsets are fuzzy. No rugged outcrops to show you the way, only the buzz of streetlights and the sound of dropped bottles, the clamour of a congregation which looks to a different kind of deity. One who doesn’t stop at just a sip of wine but allows the whole bottle. They might exist at El Siete, a new location of gumption and aptitude. It’s an orchestra of Luis Barragán pink and chrome that catches wicked light from humming bulbs, where margaritas are lined up on terrazzo, where volcanic stone locks in the music of it all.
