It was my last night in San Miguel before heading up to Toronto for a few weeks. Don Day’s Wife was suffering some post-Covid blues so I asked a couple of my favorite guys to join me in my five o’clock ritual.

“Venencia?”, said Jack, “never heard of it”.

“It’s on Zacateros”, I replied.

“On Zacateros?”, said Lou, “never seen it”.

“Right across from the flatiron”, you’ll see it”, I replied.

Venencia looks good from the outside. Classy but charming. More old world than new. More like it belongs on a side street in Madrid or Rome than on Calle Zacateros in the middle of Mexico.

Venencia looks good on the inside as well, still classy, still charming and, you can also add cozy and cool.

Jack and I arrived there first. When we walked in, I was happy…no make that very happy…to see who was behind the bar. It was Mario Iribe-Benítez, the guy who owned Salon Oaxaca down on Insurgentes. 

“Your place?”, I asked.

“My place”, he replied. Well my partner and I’s place.”

I always liked Mario. Liked his food. Liked his love of food. But didn’t like Salon Oaxaca too much. It was a little too disjointed. A bar here, a patio there, a terrace here, an upstairs there. I didn’t know where I wanted to be when I got there, so I rarely, if ever, got there.

Venencia is far more simple. One room. A simple room. A small room. About the size of my and maybe your living room. Bar at one end. Casual table and chairs in front.

The room is decorated with those big green bottles that I used to call garrafons or flagons or demijohns until Mario taught me what they’re called in Oaxaca. Now I call them damajuanas. I like saying that word. Damajuanas. Damajuanas.

Venecia looks more like a bar than a restaurant. “I think the place to sit is at the bar”, I said to Jack. “Let’s saddle up”. 

Now that afternoon, the boys had been involved in a game of chance and, usually where there are cards, there are beers. So, upon arrival, the boys were already a little lubricated. Stick with the suds or drift in another direction? We blamed the little white menu that Mario Iribe-Benítez handed us.

On the cover of Venencia’s menu it says Mezcal-Comida-Vino. OK, two liquid specialties. Mezcal or vino.

“Mezcal or wine?”, I asked Jack.

“I’m not sure I’m ready for wine”, said Jack.

“OK, two mezcals”, I said to Mario.

“I’m not sure I’m ready for mezcal”, said Jack.

“But it’s my last night in San Miguel”, I said to Jack (a line I vaguely remember using frequently that evening).

I knew what was coming next. Mario hit us with that impossible for unsophisticated mezcal drinkers to answer question: “And what mezcals will you have?”

I have two pat answers: Espadín and Tobaló. Because they’re the only two types I can ever remember the names of. Espadín is my most pat answer because Tobaló sometimes comes with an XL price tag.

“We’ll have one Espadin and one bartender’s surprise, but don’t surprise us with one that has a big ticket please, Mario, and a couple of empty glasses so we can share and sample both.”

I had the Espadin. Jack had Mario’s recommendation. “It’s a Tobaló but not a pricey one”, said Mario. We tapped glasses and did the cheer:

“Para todo mal, mezcal, y para todo bien, tambien,” 

Jack liked his mezcal. I liked mine. As men who’ve had mezcal will often do, we ordered another mezcal. And in walked Lou.

Now Lou’s choice of beverages is…well let’s call it selective. I’ve seen him select ron y coca, Captain Morgan and cola, Cuba Libra, etc. 

“Can I get you a rum and a coke, Lou?”

“No, tonight I’ll have what you guys are having.”

Hmmm! Now three mezcaleers. I read the words written across the back of Venencia’s bar.

It was time for part two of Venencia’s tagline. Time for comida.

Mario Iribe-Benítez‘s specialty at Salon Oaxaca was his home state’s version of the pizza, the tyaluda. It still occupies a sizeable portion of his menu at Venencia but there were a couple of other items I wanted.

The pork belly in black mole was a dish I’d had at his old place. The duck garnachas Istmeñas was a dish I’d never had anywhere.

The pork mole was as good as ever and well-priced at $180. The duck was even better and crazily priced at $120.

We were full. Very full. Until Mario said, “You haven’t had the chapulines yet.”

Aah! Chapulines and mezcal. Like pretzels and beer. Like wine and cheese. Perfect partners.

But not for everyone. Especially when they first discover their English name.

Grasshoppers. Crickets. Locusts. Found and written about by Fray Bernardino de Sahagún, when he accompanied Cortez on his trip to New Spain. Soon to solve the world’s growing desire for protein according to aspiring insect farmers. Found in markets throughout Oaxaca. And sometimes found on a bar in front of three guys on their third mezcal.

Grasshoppers…sorry, chapulines…are usually seasoned with some not-too-hot chiles, a little garlic and a squeeze of lime, then spend a couple of minutes being grilled on a comal. They end up tasting like not much more than chiles and lime.

Mario Iribe-Benítez does them a little differently. He adds a little more garlic, some good olive oil and tops them with a crumbly, cheezy crust that you can use to spoon them into your anxiously awaiting mouth.

Now when it comes to chickens and ducks and chapulines (and yes, women), I’m a leg man. So it bothers me that some nimble-fingered chefs pull the legs and wings (yes, grasshoppers have wings) off before cooking them. Chef Mario, thankfully, leaves them on. I like their texture. I like the way they tickle the roof of my mouth.

“Nice”, I said to Mario. “You take a snack and make it into a meal.”

It was Wednesday night and, as much as we liked Venencia, it has yet to entice a happy hour crowd. It was time to head to Berlin where there’s always a five o’clock crowd.

But should I use my “last night in San Miguel” line again so early in the evening?

“I think we should have one more here at Venencia”, I strongly suggested. “But don’t know if I can handle another straight up glass of mezcal.”

“I’ve been into old-fashioneds lately”, said Jack.

“I can make you a mezcla old-fashioned”, said Mario.

“Done” one of us said. And Mario Iribe-Benitez did and, as we trudged through those steeper than usual three or so blocks up Zacateros to Berlin, I thought to myself I could make Venencia a very regular stop. I rarely, if ever, say that.

Venencia is located at Zacateros 81b in Zona Centro, San Miguel de Allende, Mexico. They’re open from 5:00 pm to 10:00 pm, seven days a week.