Hernando’s Hideaway
Ladies and Gents,
Mexico has been on my mind ever since its President, Claudia Sheinbaum, played ours like a guitarrón over that imaginary trade war. (“¡El arte del trato!”) But as a native Angeleno, “Mexico” always meant Baja to me—particularly Rosarito, where I spent years chasing some of the now-faded Liz and Dick Rita Hayworth and Orson Wells glam of its past.
My antics in Baja are the stuff of legend. One time I got so tanked up on Coco Locos in Lobster Village that I crashed a Quinceañera and ended up dueting a warbly version of U2’s “I Still Haven’t Found What I’m Looking For” with one of the birthday girl’s tios. (A grainy video of said performance was later sent to Bono himself, who enjoyed it so much that, years later, he asked to recreate it with me at midtown karaoke bar after a performance of Spider-MAN Turn Off the Dark.)
Well, that was then. Now, when I travel south of the border, it’s to Mexico City. If Baja is a beachy tequila dream, CDMX is an electrified symphony—let’s call it El Gran Escándalo. A city that pulses with as much history as Rome, as much artistry as New York, and a culinary scene so dazzling it rivals Paris itself.
The most frequent question posed to me (aside from “Which ‘Sex and the City’ character are you?”) is where to eat. If answering “Mexico City” is too vague, let me get into specifics.
The pinnacle of indulgence? A night at the legendary Pujol, where I was treated—no, fêted—by none other than superstar photographer Juliana Cervantes. A Broadway baby by way of Mexico City, Juliana guided me through a tasting menu that felt like a spiritual awakening. That famous mole madre, aged longer than some theatrical runs, brought tears to my eyes.
If you like your contemporary Mexican cuisine served with a side of American luminaries, visit Rosetta. On my recent visit, I ran into a coterie that included New York’s favorite starchitect David Rockwell, New York Times heavyweight Barbara Groustark and the always divine Jane Krakowski (en route to London for the National Theatre preem of Sondheim’s Here We Are). The only thing as delicious as the tamales was the conversation, which spun from art to politics to the ever-looming question: Why don’t we all just move here?
After dinner, the Berman Brothers—those chart-topping, beat-dropping, globe-conquering music producers—summoned me to a clandestine club deep in the heart of Juarez where we found ourselves dancing (and possibly harmonizing) to some of their greatest hits.
And speaking of music, The Lion King (El Rey León) is set to make yet another historic return to Mexico City. Disney honcho Tom Schumacher himself will be in attendance for opening night. And I hear an international casting search is on for the lead of the in-development musical about the life and work of Frida Kahlo. Kahlo is not just an icon here—she’s an energy, a presence, a heartbeat. And in these fraught times, her spirit looms even larger, a symbol of resilience, identity, and defiant artistry.
Mexico City, El Gran Escándalo, is a siren call to the adventurous, the artistic, and the insatiably curious – and it’s starting to feel like home.
Tidbits from around town….
Spied Katie Holmes at a recent performance of Simon Rich’s All In, which I describe as “All the brilliance of Woody Allen with none of the mishegas.”
Overheard a publicist type exclaim, “It’s the Mount Rushmore of Comedy!” when she spotted Chris Rock, Jerry Seinfeld, Adam Sandler, and Amy Schumer chatting at the premiere of Schumer’s new Netflix’s movie, Kinda Pregnant.
Saw Suzanne Vega checking out the hardcover fiction section at McNally Jackson in Soho.
As always, a toast of something sparkling to you and yours!
Kisses,
