Cupid and Consommé

I first met Birria in Puerto Vallarta. At Tacos Rolex in Las Juntas, to be exact.

There it was. Steaming, red-orange, unctuous, with a scent that could make your nostrils write thank you notes.

A vendor leaned over the counter of his tiny, smoky taco stand.

“Birria?” he asked, as if the universe itself had arranged this meeting.

“Uh…yes?” I said, unsure if I was agreeing to lunch or eternal devotion.

Five minutes later, I was holding a taco so heavy with stewed beef it almost required a luggage cart. One bite, and I understood that love isn’t always a person; sometimes it’s a taco.

Turns out it was eternal devotion. 100%.

Puerto Vallarta, with its cobblestone streets and sunsets that look like they were painted by someone with very good Instagram filters, became our playground. I explored the old town seeking out my newfound love, Birria. I’d wander local markets, letting the smell of roasted chiles and fresh tortillas guide me like a compass. I’d find Birria tacos wrapped in handmade corn tortillas and let the meat melt in my mouth while the ocean whispered promises of more adventures.

Birria, I learned, is not fickle. Oh, no, no!

You can chase it to Guanajuato, where the meat is so tender it practically swoons at your fork, and you can chase it to Mexico City, in a hole-in-the-wall joint where the cook winks at you like he knows your secret, and it waits patiently, still dripping with consommé.

In Guadalajara, there’s a section of the city that smells of mole and woodsmoke, with colours so intense you can see them through shut eyelids. I once wandered into a tiny street stall where a señora, her hands moving faster than my brain, was ladling birria into a pot.

We locked eyes, and we smiled a knowing smile. She slid me a plate that glistened with fat and spices. And as I sipped the consommé, rich and spicy and slightly mischievous, I realised Birria has a sense of humour. It’s a tease; a dare. Every bite whispers, “You think you know what love is? Try me.”

Travelling across Mexico with Birria as my silent companion is an education in subtle joys. I’ve learned that dipping the taco into the consommé isn’t optional, it’s existential. In El Tuito, the birria had a hint of something almost earthy, and I realised that even the same love could have surprises.

I was once in San Blas, sweating through a heatwave that felt like an actual furnace, and I spotted a tiny birria cart. I considered ignoring it. I really did. But the smell, oh, the smell! It was magnetic.

I walked over, ordered a taco, and suddenly the heat didn’t matter. Nothing mattered except that taco, its meat so soft it practically dissolved, and the little pool of consommé at the bottom of the paper-lined basket that seemed to say, “It’s okay. You found me again.”

Sometimes, though, I realise love can be complicated. Enter my boyfriend. He’s very human, very patient, and occasionally slightly jealous of a slow-cooked cow.

He once suggested we share a seafood platter instead of ordering birria. I smiled sweetly and explained that I can love two things at once, but only one can be a taco dripping in spicy consommé. He sighed, shook his head, and ate his seafood like a good sport.

Once, in Mexico City, he tried a stealthy fork-to-mouth tactic. I caught him mid-sneak and just shrugged.

“Sorry, babe, but there’s a line you simply cannot cross,” I exclaimed!

He laughed, knowing far better than to compete with consommé.

Back in Las Juntas, I like to sit at the same taco stand where Birria and I first met. I bring a notebook sometimes, scribbling observations, lists, or poems that mostly rhyme with “taco.”

I’ve had sunsets with Birria. I’ve had bus rides, street corners, and midnight bowls in every town imaginable.

Sometimes I dream about other foods. Once I flirted with mole poblano, and once I kissed cochinita pibil. But I always come back.

I know what you’re thinking. Is this a story about food or love? Well, sometimes the two are the same. And sometimes they’re perfectly complementary.

Love is messy. Love is rich. Love warms you from the inside out.

Love makes you travel, makes you pay attention to details, makes you slow down, and makes you taste every single moment.

Love waits for you in the most unlikely places.

And sometimes, love tastes like birria.

So yes, in Puerto Vallarta, sunburned, slightly sticky from a day at the beach, holding a taco in one hand and a spoon in the other, a vendor once smiled at me. And I realised something very important. I can love more than one thing at a time. I have my boyfriend, I have Birria, and somehow, in this sometimes messy, sometimes delicious world, they both fit perfectly.

The moral of the story? If you ever find yourself wandering across Mexico, let your heart, or at least your stomach, lead the way. Because love, true love, is patient, it’s exhilarating, and it’s always there when you need it most.

And who knows? Maybe you’ll get lucky enough to find love twice. One in your heart, and one on your plate. 

One spicy. One saucy.

Both making life irresistibly delicious.