Puerto Vallarta

In April of 2024, my sisters and I took our mother to Puerto Vallarta in honor of her seventieth birthday. The actual day of celebration was a few months earlier, in January — we spent that cold, snowy afternoon around a table by the fireplace of a homey restaurant in the Hudson Valley, taking comfort in the food in front of us and in visions of us lounging beneath the hot sun on a sandy beach in just a few short months.

Traveling with my refined sister Brittany means we will be living in luxury for the week ahead. For the trip, she’d arranged for us to stay in an AirBnB that was nothing short of breathtaking. It’s right on the water, and a wide, exposed terrace flaunts the spectacular view while inviting the refreshingly salty air right in. I felt immense tranquility in the constant whooshing of the waves, the kisses of the cool breeze that filled our abode, watching dolphins play and pelicans soar the open sky. At one point there was a private wedding taking place below us on the beach, and secretly witnessing the ceremony made me smile. Each evening granted us a sunset like out of a painting. Mornings were spent floating in the infinity pool on the building’s rooftop, and here was where I really got to admire my surreal surroundings. The view reminded us all of the Mediterranean. Or a dream.

Needless to say, time with my family means we’re eating good. And of course we’re going to do it up extra big while on vacation in the country where one of our mutually favorite cuisines originates.

In advance of our visit, Brittany had booked us a taco tour, which turned out to be one of the main highlights of the trip for me. We were led by a town local who took us to seven of Puerto Vallarta’s most beloved taco restaurants and street vendors. My favorite bites of the night were a crab enchilada in shrimp bisque; slow-cooked beef cheek in the lightest, softest, corn tortilla; and of course, the classic al pastor taco. Honorable mentions include a tortilla that was filled with smoked marlin, more commonly known as “the bacon of the sea”; a beautiful Baja style mahi mahi; and, as a quick interlude in the midst of a savory lineup, the most delectable, crispy on the outside yet airy on the inside churro I have ever tasted. So basically everything I ate. The only round I wasn’t absolutely head-over-heals for was the volcan style sirloin steak tostada with pinto beans. A little too many beans for my liking. But it was still pretty damn good.

After a long night of walking and feasting, our tour guide took the group for a much needed nightcap. One drink was all it took to realize how exhausted I was, and once we were back in our AirBnB oasis I slept deeply. A long day of swimming, sunshine and seven tacos can really knock a girl out.

The next day was dedicated to lounging on the beach. Around lunchtime, after several hours of swimming over waves and getting roasted by the sun, I craved a refreshing margarita and, yes, more tacos. Today’s tortilla was filled with lobster and bone-marrow; my mind was absolutely blown. I thought about all of the tacos I’d eaten thus far on the trip, imagined if I continued this routine of eating nothing but tacos every single day, even once I got back to New York, for the rest of my life. I figured I’d be content with that.

That evening we got all dressed up to dine at Elizabeth Taylor’s house. The girls were excited — particularly my mother — but I lowkey didn’t know who she was and had to do some research. Apparently the lady had seven husbands in her life, one of them being Richard Burton. The two were married for ten years, divorced, then married again a year later. For only one year. This was some juicy yet irrelevant intel before my visit.

Amidst my research I’d also stumbled upon some reviews written about the restaurant that had risen out of the former actress’s home. A popular opinion was that the place was beautiful and elegant but that the food was mid. I was happy to learn for myself that the place really was one of a kind and that the food was actually pretty good. I ordered duck in mezcal sauce accompanied by a plantain purée and arugula salad, and had left the premises extremely sated.

On our last day, I ate both my favorite meal and worst meal of the entire trip. For breakfast, we visited a café in town where I feasted on a giant plate of Mexican style scrambled eggs, rice and beans, a generous serving of avocado, and a plethora of salsas to choose from, which fulfilled the spicy factor I require in almost every meal. Oh, and of course a stack of warm, freshly griddled corn tortillas on the side. As a breakfast lover, this was everything to me. The meal enlivened and energized me to take on the rest of my final day in paradise. It was going to be hard to leave.

After sizzling underneath the ferocious Mexican sun all day, we were all exhausted. We each took a shower and collectively felt like staying clean and cozy instead of drawing makeup and venturing out again for dinner. So, we threw on pajamas and ordered in from the restaurant on the rooftop above us. I chose the mahi mahi with vegetables, and it was utterly unsatisfying. In fact, all of the food that was sent down was gross. “Should we give dessert a chance?” someone suggested.

The menu offered a warm, chocolate brownie a la mode, chocolate cake, and churros. Who could resist?

Leave it to the decadence of hot, gooey fudge, sweet ice cream, and warm cinnamon sugar to save the day. Hunched over the kitchen counter, our spoons fought each other for the last bites. By that point, we were all fully delirious — from the hours spent basking in the sun, and now, from all the sugar. Soon we would crash, and it would finally be time for bed.