I’ve always had a theory on people raised in Mexico possessing an extra layer of passion and emotional depth that can’t be easily comprehended by someone who has never lived there. I don’t mean that to sound like a nationalist declaration. At its core I believe that this depth has its foundation in a collective suffering that has been internalized by a society ridden with violence, scarcity in the midst of surplus, corruption, and catholic guilt. It’s not a depth achieved by merit, but rather by circumstance. This is what I call Mexican Yearning, and it’s something that I believe can never be fully explained, only felt and perceived. It can be heard in the murmurs of bars or on the women’s side of a family gathering. The most basic and straightforward example of the Mexican Yearn is the fact that there’s a holiday fully dedicated to longing for your loved ones who have passed, and honoring their memories. Every November, we say: “I love you, I miss you, I don’t know where you are but I left out this shot of your favorite mezcal for you, just in case.”
The deeper you understand the culture, the more you can clock it in even the most mundane acts that often go unnoticed. Something I’ve been thinking about recently is how in the States, generations have been raised on songs like “YMCA” or “Sweet Caroline.” Mexican children, however, have been raised on music that in popular culture has been recognized as the music that hurting, single mothers listen to while washing dishes (La Gata Bajo la Lluvia by Rocío Dúrcal will always be my personal favorite). When you think about it, this yearn is the only reason why, in a country so incredibly homophobic, our grandparents would still idolize singers like Juan Gabriel and Chavela Vargas for their melancholic lyrics and poignant voices. In cinema, many directors have captured it (some of the most notable examples can be seen in Y Tu Mamá También by Alfonso Cuarón and Amores Perros by Alejandro González Iñárritu). Many authors have written great novels that can all be simplified to a man’s struggle with Mexican Yearning (see Pedro Páramo by Juan Rulfo or Los de Abajo by Mariano Azuela).
Mexico is a country that carries so many distinct feelings, but seems to have nowhere to place them. When caught in this predicament, you simply learn to incorporate those feelings into everything you do. We carry our emotions in our hands, but they are constantly overflowing—slipping through our fingers and falling sometimes into the stadium, sometimes during a fight with friends, sometimes while being followed around by a stray dog.
I once read a quote that said something along the lines of, “Creative people who repress their creativity often find themselves falling hopelessly in love with ordinary people who aren’t worth all the effort,” and I feel that this speaks to the root cause of this yearning. In a country so rich in culture and color, it’s almost impossible not to spark creativity. Circumstance, however, often represses creativity, leaving people with an insatiable longing for passion in the most ordinary things. That insatiable longing for passion in everything is the Mexican Yearn.
This is why, when visiting a country as spiritual as Japan, I expected to find myself dissecting the parallels between Mexican Yearning and Japanese Reflection. My limited knowledge of tea ceremonies and Zen gardens had led me to believe that in the very fabric of their DNA, the Japanese held a deep appreciation for their environments and a sensibility toward their own internal worlds. My findings were not far off from my hypothesis.
In Mexico, family is God. In Japan, duty is God. Duty as an employee, to do a good job even without incentive. Duty as a citizen to keep the streets litter-free, public transportation quiet, and everybody around you feeling respected at all times. Coming from a country where noise, chaos, and unrest seem to be the norm, it was refreshing—somewhat eerie even—to be around so many effortlessly tranquil people. It was weird because I found the Japanese cities that I visited to be so soulless yet so spiritual all at once.
Soulless sounds like a harsh word, but to me a soulful place is one with dialogue, passion, fire, EMOTION. Conflict is soulful, friend groups are soulful, being loud (with substance) is soulful. But what the Japanese lack in what I perceive as soul, they make up for in spirituality. The Japanese feel deeply; they just manifest their feelings in a different way. Their love and appreciation for the external world is evident. Like I said, they have mastered the art of pondering—of careful consideration for the elements, architecture, ingredients. They don’t need to be loud because they can sit still and transmit whatever it is they want to with gestures, the way they dress, the way they glance. It was so foreign to me, to say so much without saying anything at all. This is Japanese Reflection.
Mexicans are loud because their surroundings are merely a backdrop for social interactions—most of which are made up of storytelling, singing, dancing, drinking. Which is not to say that the Japanese don’t storytell, don’t sing, don’t dance, don’t drink. I’ve found the main difference is they do it in a way that occupies the least space possible and causes the least amount of disturbance—something Mexicans have very little awareness of.
I thought about Mexico’s current trend: Salas de Despecho. Salas de Despecho are bars that specialize in having their visitors release their inhibitions by screaming sad songs at the top of their lungs (possibly a byproduct of being raised on Rocío Dúrcal, as mentioned earlier). When you visit a Sala de Despecho, you’re likely to find many broken-hearted people, drunk out of their minds, singing songs that remind them of their cheating exes, their absent parents, or their most traumatic experiences. It’s crazy how something that many people view as incredibly vulnerable (singing and airing your grievances) is second nature to Mexicans. So much so that Salas de Despecho are filled to the brim every night with strangers, coworkers, neighbors, or even lifelong friends. Japanese people love singing as well, but they do it in the privacy of karaoke rooms, which are in most cases occupied by smaller groups of people who know each other well. The Japanese drink—many of them in standing izakayas or on the go thanks to their open container laws. For them, drinking is just that—literally drinking. Have your drink and leave, and maybe while you’re leaving, have an extra drink. For Mexicans, drinking is more about socializing. It’s not atypical for a work lunch to get extended into the night while having highballs, tequila shots, and long talks about topics as trivial as sports or as personal as mommy issues. Alcohol is the magic elixir that allows Mexican men to be vulnerable, to sing, to speak their truths. It’s a vessel for reaching your most social self.
Mexican Yearning and Japanese Reflection are woven into the fabric of both countries—not only evident in social practices, but also in many other aspects. Obviously, what stood out to me the most had everything to do with food. I realized that the Japanese cook as if they’re baking. I’ve always fucking hated baking. I find it to be tedious, somewhat mathematical, and always incredibly insufferable. That’s not to say I’m not good at it—I’ll bake the occasional brown butter cookie when I’m in love. What I hate about baking comes down to the fact that it lacks everything I love about cooking: experimenting along the way, measuring with your heart, having unlimited do-overs, and the capacity to take a dish in a different direction at any point in the process. Baking frowns upon not following a process, and it certainly does not entertain the idea of measuring with your heart, for it will invariably, without a doubt, lead to a soggy mess. I’ve always thought that those who cook are Type Bs, and those who bake are Type As. I admire those who bake for having the patience and perfectionism that I so clearly stand in need of. It’s a natural part of Japanese Reflection—to view something as primal as cooking as something worth perfecting, worth following every step seamlessly, reaching a consistent result every single time. When operating on Japanese Reflection, a special regard for ingredients leads you to constantly use only the freshest ones, and to treat them with the utmost care—using the proper knife and the most delicate of techniques. That’s why many restaurants in Japan only have one dish they serve. Be it okonomiyaki, udon, onigiris, or even western classics like pizza or burgers—Japanese chefs have learned the art of losing yourself in the process of creating one singular perfect dish. It can be a lesson on how being authentic and true to what you know, can make the right people gravitate toward your craft.
The Mexican Yearner operates differently. Most restaurants you visit will have menus with phonebook lengths. Because we fall in love with every new dish we discover, but often struggle to let go of the ones we’ve loved in the past. Even when food trends change or when certain key ingredients begin to be frowned upon (we hate seed oils now, apparently), the nostalgic meals can still be found somewhere on the menu for those who haven’t quite gotten over it yet. Where Japanese Reflection says, “I’ve made this perfectly for you to appreciate it as is,” the Mexican Yearner says, “I’ve made this soulfully, so if you can’t appreciate it for what it is, I’ll turn it into what you want.” That’s why on any given day in Mexico you can walk into a seafood restaurant that specializes in octopus tostadas and still order arrachera tacos. (Picky eaters deserve space as well.) The Japanese culinary scene has a firm identity that will not be compromised for the likes of tourists or people with ARFID. But like I said, Mexicans measure with their hearts, so our culinary identity—while definitely very distinct and established—has a bit of wiggle room. Because in matters of the heart, it’s better to please those who are consuming what you make than to please yourself. This is also one of the Mexican culinary scene’s biggest downfalls—in the name of pleasing, chefs tend to compromise their flavors for what the customers want. It’s the main reason why tropicalizing new and inventive flavors becomes almost inevitable. Mexicans will try anything once, but they yearn for what they know and love.
On the other hand, the concept of a “sobremesa” (aka the conversations that go on after the meal) is also an idiosyncrasy of the Mexican Yearner that is a completely foreign concept in Japan. It was a devastating blow for me during my visit because those who know me know that there is nothing I love more than a debrief that can go on for hours on end after a good meal. It’s a ritual that I enjoy endlessly. It’s also a ritual that’s definitely not profitable for restaurants. To have a table full of people who are mostly done ordering, sitting and talking without much consumption, is a wasted sale for restaurateurs. They’re also highly inconvenient for the people partaking in said sobremesa. Once you’re in one, it’s almost impossible to tap out, making any appointment or meeting scheduled within hours of a meal a coin toss. Despite their very apparent impracticality, sobremesas are still widely encouraged—sought after, even. In Japan, meals are more mindful and practical. Omakases are the perfect example of this. You sit, you have a perfect meal that was carefully curated by a chef, eat each item in its own time, and fully experience each bite being completely present. You can pair each course with the sake that most matches the flavors being presented (again, mindful). When the meal is over, you thank the chef, you pay, and you leave. Another customer comes in almost immediately and follows the exact same ritual. It’s a practical and effective way of eating in which everything that’s presented to you is fully experienced and reflected on. The Japanese’s conscious approach to eating is also probably why you aren’t allowed to eat while you walk. Meals are to be taken in, not multitasked. Many of the bars I visited had signs outside with time limits. While drinking plum wine with my sisters in a shoebox bar in Golden Gai, I was gently reminded by the owner that we had only 30 minutes before we would be asked to leave. In my mind (that of a Mexican Yearner), the idea of only going to a bar for 30 minutes is not only terrifying but frankly, also impossible. Thirty minutes is barely enough time for me to set the stage for a lore drop, let alone do it over a few drinks. That kind of policy would make even the most popular Mexican bar go bankrupt effective immediately. Mexican Yearners are keen to loud vulnerability that can only be truly achieved after at least an hour of talking.
I haven’t been able to stop thinking about the way two entirely different cultures—polar opposites even—are both fueled by the same thing: the burden of feeling incredibly deeply. It’s soulful chaos versus soulless perfection. It’s improvisation versus ritual. It’s the belief that discomfort is the price we pay for community versus the belief that giving each other space is real community.
When I got back from my trip, I went straight to my favorite bar (my non-negotiable Thursday tradition). The music was too loud, the people were too drunk, and I sat there for four hours and trauma dumped the manager over a cigarette. And in that moment, though I wasn’t craving the silence that I was just starting to get used to in Japan, I definitely understood its appeal.
I'm a mexican lawyer and writer who likes to write about food, love, and the sweet spot where both of them intersect.