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Agustín gives her our order, and they talk again for a moment in Spanish, while I examine my drink. It is a votive holder, I realize—there’s a cross etched on the bottom. When Dolores leaves, Agustín turns to me.

“Ready for your first mezcal?” he says. “You will love it.”

“We aren’t doing shots, are we?”

He looks horrified. “No. Please do not shoot that. Mezcal is for sipping. First, we try it solo.”

He takes a long inhale over his glass. I do the same.

“Whoa,” I say. “It’s very smoky.”

He nods and sips. “Ahhh,” he says, a look of satisfaction spreading across his face. “I missed this. Of course, you can get mezcal in New York but it’s not the same. And Dolores has a great selection. Yours is an espadín—the most common type of agave used for mezcal. Great for beginners. Mine is a tobalá. More advanced.” He winks at me.

I take a hesitant sip. It tastes even smokier than it smells, lingering on my tongue and sending a pleasant burn through my chest.

“Wow,” I say.

“It’s good, right?”

“Yeah.” It’s a very unique flavor. I take another sip and find that I really like it. It brings to mind campfires and sunsets. It almost feels like drinking the embers of a dying hearth. It’s warm and woodsy, but with an herbal bite.

“Here, try it with some orange and Sal de Gusano.” He dips the orange slice into the brown salty stuff, and I follow suit. We eat in tandem then sip.

“Oooh,” I say. The smoky nature of the mezcal works wonderfully with the sweet flavor of the citrus and the savoriness of the salt. “What kind of salt is this?”

“Worm salt,” he says, and I nearly choke on the orange.

“What?”

He laughs. “It is made with the larvae of a moth that lives inside the agave plant. Mezcal is made from agave, like tequila. They toast the larvae with chilies and then grind it all up with salt.”

“Are you telling me I just ate ground up moth babies?” I cry.

He grins and nods, like this isn’t horrifying news.

“No,” I say, pushing the plate away from me. “I’ll stick with the mezcal and the orange, but no moth baby salt, thank you.”

“You know,” he says, dipping another slice into the salt, “the moths would eat the heart of the agave if they could. So by removing them, there is more agave to turn into mezcal. Or tequila, for your margaritas.”

He says the word in a very bad American accent that coaxes a laugh out of me. I lean back in my chair and take another tiny sip of mezcal. People pass by, chattering away in Spanish, and I let the language wash over me. It comes at me from all angles, and I find a real comfort in not having any idea what anyone is saying. I really like this neighborhood, with its narrow streets and cute restaurants and funky shops—Agustín wasn’t lying about the sidewalks. Trees are everywhere and their roots punch up through the concrete, creating a dangerous walking experience. And the trees aren’t planted in neat little rows, boxed in with iron fencing like in New York. No, here they’re wild, and free, and have a very fuck-you attitude, which I respect. I got hit in the face by a low hanging palm on the way over.

Dolores returns with our food, and the black lab in tow. The dog pads up to me, and I rub his ears as his tongue lolls out happily. Dolores says something, and Agustín smiles and replies.

“She said he likes you,” he tells me. “And I said all dogs love you.”

I blush. “What’s his name?” I ask quietly, not making eye contact with anyone but the dog. He leans his head on my knee.

“Cilantro,” Dolores tells me.

I smile. A good name for a restaurant dog. “Qué buen perro,” I murmur to him. He croons and pants up at me.

“Cilantro, ven aquí,” Dolores says, setting down our food and patting her thigh. He leaps to attention and follows her back to the bar.

“Ready?” Agustín says.

“They’re blue,” I say, surprised. Some of the tortillas aren’t the toasted beige color I’m used to.

“Si. Dolores makes tortillas with blue corn as well as yellow.” Agustín points to the little tray set with small bowls of salsa. One is bright reddish orange, another dark almost brick red, and the last a creamy green. There’s also a little a bowl of lime wedges. “I always suggest adding limón,” he says, and I follow his instructions, squeezing a fresh spray of lime juice over one of the shrimp tacos. Then he points to the salsas. “Not hot, a little hot, very hot,” he says, pointing at the green, brick red, and orangish one in turn. I spoon some of the salsa verde and the brick red salsa onto my taco.