For Tere Espinasa
Mexico City's Rooftop Bar Reveals Centuries of History in One View
For Tere Espinasa
"The first eyes to gaze in wonder upon the city of Tenochtitlán from the heights of the mountains that led to it—writes Salvador Novo (thinking in the key of the Old World)—were Spanish eyes." With due proportion and emulating those long-ago explorers, my friend and I now stand in awe, gazing from the restrained heights of this downtown bar at the city sprawled across its distances and horizons. We are at the Terraza Bar, the rooftop of a neocolonial-style building at 4 República de Guatemala Street, designed by architect Enrique Castaneda in 1943 under the name "Pasaje Maurel."
Today, the building houses a hostel, and its secluded rooftop has been cleverly transformed into a bar. We find ourselves perched at the dark wooden counter of this rooftop cantina. The sun blazes like a mirror. The blue sky, visible in every direction, holds not a single cloud. The air swirls, ebbing and flowing. I am suddenly reminded of José Emilio Pacheco's verse: "Yesterday the air cleared all at once, / and the mountains appeared." And indeed, from here we can make out the "surrounding ranges," the "spine of mountains" (as Alfonso Reyes would say) that encircle this high Valley of Anáhuac.
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This terrace offers the rare chance to take in the city as a whole with a single glance—to feel enveloped by the city. But it is only an illusion. In truth, we see the pinnacles of a few landmarks in this vast metropolis, beautifully diminished by distance. "Over there," I point out to my friend, "are the towers of the Temple of Santiago Apóstol in Tlatelolco, one of the city's earliest churches—built with the very stones of the destroyed Templo Mayor of Tlatelolco, the last stronghold of Mexica resistance against the conquistadors—founded around 1522. It also housed the iconic Colegio de la Santa Cruz, the first Western educational institution in the Americas, established by Franciscans, where Friar Bernardino de Sahagún wrote his General History of the Things of New Spain with the help of Indigenous informants and marveled at pre-Hispanic knowledge, such as Mexican herbal medicine."
The western view sets the scene ablaze. A cluster of towering buildings along Reforma Avenue suddenly transports us to New York. Closer to us, the towers and dome of the Church of San Felipe Neri stand out—inside which, tradition holds, lies a sculpture of the Immaculate Conception by Manuel Tolsá, modeled after the face and figure of La Güera Rodríguez, the Marilyn Monroe of 19th-century Mexico. In the distance, the horizon is marked by the Santa Fe Mountains and the Sierra de las Cruces, the Austerlitz of Father Miguel Hidalgo.
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Beneath the rubble and hidden corners of a demolished building on the opposite corner of this cantina—at the intersection of Seminario and Santa Teresa streets—lay nothing less than the Templo Mayor of Tenochtitlán. So, amid the alcoholic fumes of the cantina El Seminario, in the spring of 2014, the Templo Mayor—which some believed lay hidden beneath the Cathedral—reemerged into the light after centuries buried in the depths of ancient Tenochtitlán. The streets of Santa Teresa and Seminario no longer exist; in their place stand the excavated archaeological zone of the Templo Mayor and Manuel Gamio Plaza.
In the 1930s, after the closure of El Seminario cantina, another prestigious establishment took its place: El Centro Catalán, the "Grand Salon Cantina" (as its marquee proclaimed). El Catalán—as its devoted patrons called it—was a bustling hall with long tablecloths and fine woodwork, an L-shaped bar, and a checkered floor, famous for its escargot, Galician stew, rabbit casserole, and excellent cellar of Spanish wines.
Our tequila is running dry. I suggest to my friend that we ask for the bill and make our way to our next stop: Salón España. Before taking our leave from this privileged rooftop, we look south. The reverse side of the Cathedral dominates the view: its massive, stubborn dome, crowned by a slender and haughty lantern whose spire reaches 45 meters—matching the height once achieved by the Templo Mayor of Tenochtitlan; its imposing western tower and the crest of its main façade, sliced through at a distance by planes in their final descent; its western portal, and beyond it, the monumental flag of the Zócalo, rippling like a serpent, sending shivers down the spines of both gringos and jaliscienses alike. In the far distance, our gaze reaches the Ajusco mountain range, birthed nearly two thousand years ago from the jaws of the Xitle volcano.
We pay the bill. We leave. The only vista denied to this terrace is the eastern side of the city. But there will be time to take it in from other heights. We descend in the elevator and step out onto Calle Guatemala, once called Las Escalerillas in colonial times and Tlacopan in pre-Hispanic days—a primordial thoroughfare that led to the grand staircases of the Templo Mayor of the Tenochca.
Speaking of which, as we walk toward the ruins of the Templo Mayor (I pull my half-empty flask of pale tequila from my back pocket, offer my friend a sip, then take one myself), I tell my companion about two cantinas that once stood at the intersection of this street and the old Calle del Reloj—now República de Argentina. This corner, by the way, marked the axis mundi of the Mexica: the precise point where heaven, earth, and the underworld converged—the Cosmic Axis of the Nahua Mexicans.
"Right there," I point out to my friend, "at the corner we're heading toward now, once stood an old building known as the Casa de las Ajaracas—named for its façade adorned with Mudéjar motifs—where, on the ground floor, the cantina El Seminario opened its doors. This was a venerable watering hole, steeped in tradition, named in reference to its neighbor across the street: the Seminario Conciliar de San Pablo, which stood right beside the Cathedral. This cantina must have been one of the city's first, operating from the second half of the 19th century until around 1928, the year the Seminario Conciliar was finally demolished.
Between May 6 and 16, 1914, the regulars of this cantina—amidst frothy mugs, concoctions, and toasts—witnessed a historic event. The anthropologist and father of Mexican Archaeology, Manuel Gamio, located and uncovered, beneath the rubble and labyrinthine remains of a demolished building on the opposite corner of the cantina (at the intersection of Seminario and Santa Teresa streets), none other than the Templo Mayor of Tenochtitlan. So, in the boozy haze wafting from El Seminario, during those spring days of 1914, the Templo Mayor—which some believed lay hidden beneath the Cathedral—reemerged into the light after centuries buried in the depths of ancient Tenochtitlan. The streets Santa Teresa and Seminario no longer exist; in their place stand the excavated archaeological zone of the Templo Mayor and Plaza Manuel Gamio.
In the 1930s, after El Seminario closed, another legendary cantina took its place: El Centro Catalán, billed as the "Gran Salón Cantina" (as its marquee proclaimed). El Catalán—as its devoted patrons called it—was a bustling hall with long tables and fine woodwork, an L-shaped bar, and a checkered floor, famous for its snails, caldo gallego, rabbit stew, and an excellent cellar of Spanish wines.
To be continued...
