Mexico City

It started in the ladies' room at Pujol, where I became completely obsessed with the hand soap. Is Xínú a little pretentious? Probably. I don't really mind.

Sometimes the way I like to eat is a progression — a drink under the lanterns at Hotel San Fernando, tuna on the street at Koku, then a seat at the bar at Plonk.

We turned up on a rainy night with no reservation and no expectations, and they walked us to the chef's table. That night we happened to get the best seat in the house.

I'm not even a big pasta eater, but the lemon ricotta ravioli got me before I'd taken a bite — candlelight, a record player, and pasta drying in the window.

There is something I really like about places that don't make a big fuss about themselves — the corn-and-masa offshoot of Pujol is one of those places.

Pretty red-tinged lanterns and little bistro tables on the street — where I'd start a Condesa evening, with a drink at Lounge Fernando.

Tables spilling onto the leafy street, and bluefin tuna from the Gulf of Baja. If you see it on a menu, order it.

They really know how to do sauces here. They aren't an afterthought. They are what make the dishes. Take a seat at the bar.

Enrique Olvera's two-Michelin-starred flagship, where we had my birthday lunch. Noah has been dying to try the mole madre forever. It did not disappoint.