Behind the Black Door
Discover our favorite secret rooftop restaurant in Mexico City blending open-fire cooking, great playlists, and bold Thai-Mex flavors.
Hidden on a quiet side street in Mexico City, our favorite restaurant of the trip doesn’t announce itself with a sign—but step inside and the world shifts—music spilling softly through the doorway, the scent of firewood floating about like a welcome.
This is part wood-fired rooftop restaurant, part vinyl listening bar, part dreamy chef-owned speakeasy—a lived-in vision from an L.A.-born cook channeling punk spirit, Thai-forward flavors, and deep respect for local Mexico City culture. From the moment the incense and house-made chili oil hit your senses, you know you’re somewhere special.
This is the kind of experiential dining in Mexico City where roasted cauliflower gets the same reverence as short ribs, the playlist drifts from funk to cumbia, and where even waiting for dinner sets the tone for an experience that’s about more than just what’s on the plate (which is also amazing). This wasn’t just the best dinner of our Mexico City trip. It might be our favorite kind of place, full stop.
Hey food friends! 👋 I’m Kaitlynn, half of a food-loving couple 🍜 exploring DC (& beyond) who knows the best connections happen at a shared table 🍽️. Whether you're searching for the best hidden restaurants in Mexico City, trying to master your grandma's marinara 🍅, or just craving something real, I’m here with dishes (and discussions) that make life more interesting. Come hungry, leave inspired. ✨🍴
As we step through the unassuming door, the only host stand is a big, friendly guy perched on a stack of firewood that fills the room other than a set of simple yet elegant concrete steps leading up. Tattoos peek from under his sleeves, art-punk energy radiating. “How can I help?” he asks. “Dinner for four?” There’s room in the listening room now, dinner a bit later. Is that okay?
It is more than okay.
We follow the concrete stairs upward, passing what feels like a shrine of sorts—an art installation-meets-stairwell of wax-drenched wine bottles stacked like a candlelit mountain. Dragon trees leaning like dancers. Marigolds hanging on threads between levels. A skeleton dog statue grins beneath a chandelier of feathers and blooms. It’s eccentric, electric, and strangely comforting.
Larry tells me he brought me here because he knows I’m a sucker for open-fire cooking and fresh seasonal ingredients. He said this might be my favorite meal of the trip.
He was right.
I can feel the comfort and curiosity. I sink into the smell of the woodsmoke - this is my ASMR. The air hums with a custom hi-fi system, laughter, and clinking glasses. The happy dog’s nose points toward a cozy area.
Would we like to sit?
Oh, yes please.
Flavors of Mexico City: A series on the Dishes, History & Where to Eat
Mexico City is layered—historically, culturally, and even literally. From the ancient markets of the Mexica people (often called the Aztecs) to Spanish colonial plazas to today’s bustling street stalls, bakeries, and world-class restaurants, its food scene is built on centuries of cultural fusion, migration, and reinvention.
This is a culture that gave the world tacos, chocolate, AND vanilla—just to name a few. Whether you’re planning a visit, looking for inspiration in your own kitchen, or just hungry to understand the soul of CDMX, this series is your guide.
We’re diving into the real stories behind the food, uncovering the flavors that define the city, and sharing practical tips for finding (or making) something incredible to eat. From tacos to coffee and pan dulce to mezcal, Mexico City’s food story is as rich as it gets—and we’re just getting started.
The Listening Room — a soft opening
The listening room isn’t a dining room. It’s a pause. A prelude. Like the intro track to your favorite record.
It feels like the front porch of someone’s interior life.
Another friendly guy in a punk t-shirt ushers us towards some low-slung mismatched seating covered in vintage green velvet next to woven stools and giant comfy armchair that my six-year-old and I lightly spar over until we decide grandma should have it.
The shelves are neatly lined with records and zines and books that hum with life. Nothing here is mass-produced. It’s all slightly off-kilter, deeply considered. Art that feels pulled from someone’s sketchbook during a storm. It’s the kind of hidden gem CDMX is known for: part artist residency, part living room, part magic trick. The kind of place that helps you hear yourself again.
It’s not precious. But it is precious.
There’s a short menu to order from while we wait for dinner upstairs. We say yes to both.
The playlist flips from funk to salsa to Mexican indie so seamlessly you might think the staff moonlights as producers. There are Monday listening nights here, apparently. You can tell.
I sit, feeling like someone hit the “reset” switch inside me. Quietly undone in the best way.
So much of this real, tender, thoughtful state of being — to me much of what is visceral, real and good about being a human in this world — has been edging farther away.
After years of software engineering and parenting and holding it all together, I can feel in this moment how far and often I’ve drifted from this kind of feeling. From presence. From art and rhythm and being surrounded by things made with love but not for show or cynical profit.
And the mezcal hasn’t even hit yet.
Some part of me that’s always been just around the corner like an old friend’s new friend walks up and says: oh, hello.
And I say: stay.
We order drinks, roasted cauliflower with veggies, and a smash burger that my daughter devours like it’s her job. I don’t think she knows this is one of the coolest places she’s ever eaten. That might be the best part.
This isn’t the classic CDMX we’ve written about in the rest of our series. It’s not traditional Mexican food, but it’s deeply rooted in Mexican creativity. It’s experimental. It’s evolving. Larry agrees.
We didn’t come here to be cool (though yes, as well-vintaged millennials, we try). But this place?
This feels like what’s next.
And with that—our table is ready.
Rooftop Woodfire
The final flight of stairs carry us up through the scent of roasting herbs and char-grilled things. The flower chandelier’s top crown of marigolds and heather swaying on strings. Wax glistens on the steps. The air shifts.
It’s warm and breezy—not just from the open kitchen and fire, but from people doing what they do best. Lemongrass, chili oil, and smoke hang in the air. We hear the kitchen working and the music in time. Everything else quiets down.
Now, when I say kitchen, I know what you’re thinking, but open your mind up a little bit. For a wood-fired cooking lover and a sucker for rooftops, this is my dream but it might be a bit foreign to some.
Just beside the rooftop dining room, behind bead curtains and open stainless steel counters so diners can smell and hear the good flavors and work, is a glowing heart made of wood fire and cast iron. Chili. Basil. Smoke.
A dreamlike mess of tools and heat. A fire-fed setup of iron stands, woks, a plancha, aluminum packets cooking under embers. Prep station behind. Cooks move deftly around the fire on open iron racks in street clothes, black aprons and pulled back hair. Spices stored in what almost looks like a tool rack.
Chains dangle above the fire like they roasted a whole animal last weekend.
It’s entirely unrefined in terms of pretense, but possibly the highest level of refined in terms of energy and ideas.
We sit at a wooden high-top under linen-draped lights glowing like tamarind soda at sunset. The room feels improvised but intentional—sticks in the ceiling, a hammock strung through the center. One wall absorbs sound; the other invites the night breeze straight in.
As for the food? I remember the heat. The herbs. A bowl of noodles buzzing with lemongrass and dill. Roasted chicken. Spicy beef in a tortilla that made me sweat and smile. My daughter crushed another smash burger like a pro. The hot sauce is HOT in ways that any Thai or Mexican hot sauce lover would appreciate. The mezcal is very good.
I didn’t catch the dish names. I didn’t need to. The menu seems to shift each week—or maybe just bends toward what’s in season and who’s behind the fire. Though certain themes hold — this style of fresh ingredients and wood-fire with Mexican, Thai (and more) fusion influences.
Some setups are humble. But please take a moment and think how rare it is—really—It’s easy to forget this kind of restaurant food still exists—real, fresh ingredients, thoughtfully cooked, reasonably priced, shared by people who love what they’re doing. As someone who is constantly looking for just this, I can tell you, it’s not easy to find.
We eat. We talk. We help color the bathroom walls with the crayons and sharpies they leave out for guests. We grin at the bathroom mirror that is so layered with stickers you have to fight to see yourself.
That might be the point.
Rain begins to fall as we step back through the firewood-filled room behind the door at street level thinking “This is definitely going to stay with me”. A couple lingers on the sidewalk, clearly searching. We point them toward the door.
“This one,” we say. “You want this one.”
A Different Chord
Look, we’ve eaten at fancy places and taco stands in Centro Histórico, cozy cafés in Coyoacán. We visited chefs preserving centuries-old mole techniques and drank mezcal with local experts who could talk terroir better than your wine-snob uncle. And still—this hidden restaurant in Roma Norte hit a different chord.
Because it’s not trying to be “the best restaurant in Mexico City.” It’s not trying to be trendy or nostalgic. And it’s definitely not going for capital-F Fine Dining.
The Chef - originally from DC (as DC locals we love a reason to be proud these days) and his team don't seem like they're trying to “represent” anything. Definitely with big nods to the Chef’s travels through Thailand, New Orleans, Lima, and NYC, now calling CDMX home, they’ve created something you won’t find on big travel websites and probably couldn’t replicate even if you tried. Simple, soulful, sharp in all the right ways.
And in doing so, they make the kind of impact you can feel in your chest.
And that is what we love about Mexico City. The fusion, the evolution, the way the old and new get together for a late lunch and keep going past midnight.
It felt like the future, but grounded in every tradition that matters: warmth, spice, music, community, and that elusive magic where you forget the world outside for a while and at the same time part of you remembers that’s what we’re here for.
It’s the kind of meal that reminds you you’re alive. And that someone else is, too—and they made you dinner.
Want to Find It?
We’ll spill the beans in the full guide below—but only for paid subscribers.
It’s not a secret out of gatekeeping—it’s about keeping the magic intact. Trust us.
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Thank you, Mexico City, for feeding us in every way possible.
Up next: Something a little closer to home—and just as real.
We’re heading into a summer where we need to make some of our own sunshine so we’re going back to our roots—literally. Our next series will explore food that does the most with the least. Think cucina povera meets peak summer freshness. A little reminder that even in tough times, there’s so much sweetness to find in the everyday.
It’s about simplicity. Generosity. Quiet beauty. Real food, real people, small joys.
Not escapism—just a deeper kind of arrival. Hope you’ll come with us.
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