Ceviche, Tostadas and Cervezas. A Slice Of Paradise In Ensenada, Mexico

Fresh Mexican seafood in a little cottage on the ocean, just south of the border. My own tiny slice of paradise on aged weathered planks and a view to die for.

Ensenada, Mexico. The sun was just a rumor in the east. It was just a faint blush behind the low mountains of Baja as it clawed its way up the rocky backdrop, flinging itself across the desert. Slowly, I stirred in my bed, wrapping the sheets around me and pulling the blanket over my face to hide the sun’s waking call. Sadly, I reacted too late, blaming last night’s wine for my slow response. I woke up in my rented beach cottage on Playa Hermosa, taking a moment to realize where I actually was. The air was cool. It was heavy with the scent of salt and sand with the only sound a gentle, persistent rhythm of waves rolling up the beach. It was soft, insistent, like a lover’s whisper. Honestly, I’m not really sure what woke me. Maybe it was the ocean. Maybe it was the hangover, thick and woolly, hanging on the front of my skull and a sharp reminder of last night’s vinicultural debauchery. Either way, I was up. I was barefoot on the cold, ceramic tile, peering out across the playa through the salt-streaked window as the day began its slow crawl across the Pacific Ocean.

Playa Hermosa. Ensenada. This place was not the manicured, Instagrammed Mexico of resort brochures and all inclusive vacations. This was the raw, real deal. It was a broad, sprawling stretch of sand where locals jogged with their dogs at dawn. Where surfers paddle out for the first sets way too early in the morning. Where the city itself seemed to pause and breathe before the day heated up to scorching temperatures that either left people running for cover, or others slathered in coco butter sizzling themselves on the sand. My little cottage sat right on the edge of all the insanity. It had a battered porch facing the surf, paint peeling in the sun, but with a view that was worth a thousand five-star hotels. I rubbed my eyes and stretching, stepping outside and feeling the cool, rough wooden boards under my bare feet. I took it all in as I inhaled the salty ocean air. The hush before the day, and the promise of nothing except just the simple and pure existence of it all.

Last night felt like a lifetime ago. My friends; yes, even after the evening’s debauchery, were still my friends. Three of them, to be exact. Old comrades from various misadventures and many; way too many, bad decisions. They came over and welcomed me in as the sun dipped low and the sky turned that impossible shade of orange that only happened over the Pacific—and really only in Mexico. We sat on the porch and swallowed the night. We were a ragtag bunch, passing time as we popped bottle after bottle of wine from Valle de Guadalupe, the pride of Baja’s wine country. If you’ve never had Mexican wine, dear reader, you’re missing out. Forget the tired clichés of tequila and beer that drag on the heels of every Mexican story and adventure. Instead, this was the stuff that made you believe in the power of terroir and in the magic of a grape coaxed to life in ancient and mineral dusty, sun-baked soil. All night, we drank and laughed. We shot the shit about everything and nothing at all. We munched on charcuterie from the local cheese and meat shops, all while the moon rose fat and silver over the calm Pacific water. As we sipped on the pride of the valley, we took in the Mexican ocean breeze as it covered us in a blanket of warmth off the southern coast.

Bottle after bottle was drained as the conversation and laughter echoed along the empty Mexican playa. By the time we hit the fourth bottle, our conversation had devolved into the kind of philosophical nonsense that only made sense at two o’clock in the morning, fueled by alcohol and the sound of the surf that was lightly ebbing and flowing in the distance. In retrospect, it was probably not the best idea that we could have come up with, but when you’re with friends, and especially when the night was soft and the ocean was close, it’s hard to care about tomorrow when the moment was so incredibly delicious. We watched the moon set over the Pacific. It was a slow, majestic descent into darkness, as the giant orb sank into dark brooding water, painting the horizon in liquid silver. For a moment, everything felt right, every joke was funny, and every second was a lifetime.

Morning came hard and slow, as I so rightly deserved. I turned away from the pounding morning surf, and shuffled into the kitchen from the front porch. It was a tiny galley with mismatched tiles and a stubborn window that never quite closed properly. While it let in the dampness of the ocean breeze, it also allowed the sound of the waves to reverberate through the tiny house as well. My salvation sat on the corner of the kitchen counter. My Bialetti. I brought it from home, along with a portable grinder and a bottle filled with filtered water. My Bialetti was battered and stained from years of use, but it was the most perfect portable coffee maker I have ever owned. While here in Mexico, I decided to buy my coffee beans local, and purchased a bag of coffee from Hogar de Fuego Café, a tiny local spot just off the Carretera Libre Tijuana. The beans were dark, oily, and smelled of smoke and earth. The moka pot hisses on the stove and filled the tiny kitchen with the aroma of freshly brewed espresso. And just at that moment, I started to feel human again. I pulled my Bialetti off of the stove and poured myself the first cup. The espresso was black and strong. It was powerful and thick. It was just what I needed to bang the hell out of me and launch into coherence. I curled my fingers around the ceramic cup and took it out onto to the porch where the waves were still crashing, relentless and reassuring. I watched the surfers all poised on their boards just waiting for the next wave to overtake them.

There was something about coffee by the ocean that seemed to change everything. Maybe it was the salt in the air, wafting through the house and my hair. Maybe it was the way the light shifted as the sun climbed higher and higher in the deep blue sky over the sea. Each sip that I took felt like a small victory over the night before, as I got closer and closer to feeling like an actual person again. I sat there on the front porch completely useless. My bare toes gripped the weathered wooded planks. I was wrapped in a T-shirt and jeans. My favorite pair of Persol sunglasses rested on the tip of my nose doing very little to keep out the glare of the sun that was battering the Pacific Ocean in front of me. And let’s not forget my shredded hat shielding my eyes from the glare, the job which my Persol sunglasses should have been doing. The world was slowly waking up around me. Beachgoers arrived for a day in the sun and to play in the water. Families set up colorful beach umbrellas, struggling with planting them “just so” in the loose sand. Beach vendors started their morning run as they dragged carts across the sand peddling water, fruit and ice cream. I watched it all from my little porch. I was content to be a spectator, slowly polishing off what amounted to several cups of espresso from my Bialetti, as I let the caffeine work its slow magic on me, bringing me back to reality.

Eventually, hunger always wins out. And, as I had just arrived the night before, my refrigerator was in a very sorry state—it was completely empty. My friends had, of course, supplied the wine and the charcuterie when they arrived. As all good guests should. Believe me, I actually took a moment to pop up open the refrigerator and peer inside at the desolate desperation. I was hopeful that there was something left over from last night. I cube of cheese. A slice of prosciutto. A pickle. Something. But alas, I was sorely disappointed. I glanced down at my stomach, which was now growling at me fiercely. I put my cup in the sink, rinsed it, made my way to the front porch locked the front door, pushed my Persol sunglasses up to the top of my nose, and headed out to Mariscos El Guero. If you have never been to Ensenada, then you have missed absolutely everything. Mariscos El Guero was a seafood shack that was more of an institution than a restaurant. In fact, it was really not a restaurant at all as much as it was an outdoor food stall. The cruise ships, as expected, right on queue, were already parked in the harbor, disgorging tourists in search of street food and souvenirs. As I dodged the crowds of flip-flops, Hawaiian shirts, and sandals with socks, I was on a mission and on a destination for something else entirely. Something truly fresh and absolutely magnificent. The menu at Mariscos El Guero was simple. We’re taking tostadas, ceviche, and maybe a few other things if you’re lucky. But really, the seafood was as fresh as it could ever get. It was literally pulled from the sea that very morning and served with nothing more than lime, salt, and a little bravado. This was in Ensenada cuisine at its purest, and it's most sublime.

I will warn you, however, when you are here, don't be a tourist. If you're expecting a quick swipe of a credit card, or a tap of a phone pay system, you are in for a massive disappointment. This place was cash only. But of course it was. Where did you think you were?! Here, there were just the essentials. I waited in line, watching as locals and tourists alike jostled for space, as each person’s patience was tested. And while all of the cruise ship attendees checked their watches for the time, for me, I had nowhere to go and no place to be. My time was my own, free to spend it waiting in line or something else completely divine. The air here was thick with the smell of lime and cilantro as it drifted from one nose to the next. Finally. At long last. When it was my turn at the front counter, I didn’t waste any time. I ordered the Guerito Ceviche. It was a riot of raw shrimp, octopus, clam, and scallop. I added a couple of shrimp tostadas to go to my order as well. Why you ask? You remember the hang over, right? Also, because I had an empty refrigerator, and because you never knew when hunger would strike you again, I took fresh provisions back to my temporary home should the need or temptation arise. I watched the chef put my order together, my arms crossed as I stood and waited with others in line for their orders to be ready. The ceviche was simply ridiculous. It was bright, briny, and I could just smell the heat from the cup in my order. It wasn’t too spicy, just enough to remind me that, yes, yes, I was alive.

I collected my order, as onlookers who were waiting in line from the cruise ship stared with ravenous hunger and utter jealousy. I didn't want to torture the cruise ship goers in case they needed to run back to the cruise ship empty-handed. I decided to be merciful and took my haul back to my cottage. I was alone, and therefore did not need any type of order in my morning meal. Like a barbarian I plunked myself down under the awning, threw my food onto the small rough wooden table, and dug in to the spoils of my conquest. At this point, I will ask you not to judge me. And most certainly do not envy me. I will say this, there was nothing like eating ceviche in the morning. Nothing. It was like tasting the ocean right after you woke up in front of it. The sun climbed higher and higher with each bite that I took of my briny breakfast. The beach by now had filled up with people from all over Baja Mexico. I listened to the blended sounds of conversation and heard that more than a few of the beachgoers were from the States, probably drawn by the promise of sand, surf, and something cold to drink. The Mariscos El Guero tostadas were absolutely perfect. Even hungover, I could taste the raw shrimp, creamy avocado, a splash of hot sauce, and the unmistakable crunch of some random left over shell giving way to the softness of my meal. You can’t get tostadas like this in the United States-not really. You could try, but ultimately, you would fail ever so miserably. There was a freshness here. There was a vitality on top of that that only came from eating food pulled from the ocean right before you bit into it. Anywhere else, it was unrepeatable, it was unheard of, and it was completely unavailable.

With my meal devoured, and my hunger satiated, the rest of the day stretched out in front of me like a lazy and unhurried animal. I read a book on the porch with the sound of the waves my constant companion. The sun moved slowly across the sky as it lazily started its way towards the water across a smear of blue and a small patchwork of white fluffy clouds. I watched as beachgoers came and went, set up and tore down. I watched surfers chasing their last sets, taking one more wave, dodging one more shark, and staring at one more dolphin. I watched families pack up as the afternoon faded, kids who were dragged to the beach, kicking and screaming, and crying as loud as possible, suddenly kicking and screaming, digging in their heels and crying as loud as possible, not wanting to leave. Maybe tomorrow I would venture into Valle de Guadalupe again, sample more wine, lose myself in the vineyards and dusty roads. But for right now, this was enough. This beach house on the edge of the world. This fresh, good food pulled straight from the ocean in front of me. The endless view of the horizon and the crashing waves of the Pacific. And the absolute best part of not needing to be anywhere at all.

This my friends, was Mexico. It was the real Mexico. Not the sanitized version of Mexico found in all inclusive resorts, and glossy brochures. It was the messy, beautiful, unpredictable reality of life on the coast in Baja California. It was a place where time forever slowed down. It was a place where meals lasted for hours and hours. It was a place where the only thing that mattered was the next bite, the next sip, and most definitely, the next laugh. I sat back in my hammock on the porch, my sunglasses pushed all the way up to the bridge of my nose, my arms crossed, and my hat pulled down low over my forehead. I swayed gently in the coastal breeze. I felt the sunshine on the tips of my toes. And as the sun set again on another glorious day, I reached for my ice cold cerveza pulling it out of the rusty steel bucket beside me and watched as the departing sun painted the sky in shades of orange and pink. I toasted the end of the day. To the hangovers big and small. To the late nights. To the perfect mornings with nothing to do and no where to rush off to. To the promise of something extraordinary, in a little cottage on the ocean, just south of the border. My own tiny slice of paradise on aged weathered planks and a view to die for.