January 2019: Pre-pandemic, pre-takeout only, pre-having to keep six feet away from the next person.

The restaurants in San Miguel de Allende, Mexico, are in full swing, offering food for stomach, eye, and spirit.

We take the bus to the historic centro and explore. At the famed eatery called Hecho in Mexico, the food is artful–and so is the wall space.

It’s hung with the paintings of Canadian Olympic skater and human artistic volcano Toller Cranston (1949-2015).

Back closer to our digs, we can walk to Pizza Guy, owned by Joe and Ana Ruffino, formerly of Hudson, New York. Pizza Guy portions are enormous (we easily get a second meal from the leftovers) and Joe and Ana throw in great conversation for free. They also exhibit the work of local artists–five separate ones since they opened a year ago.

Today, they have paintings by Abel Delgado on their walls. One features a young person of indeterminate sex and large brown eyes, with a hazy river scene in the background. It’s an interpretation of the Kumbh Mela, the enormous religious festival in India held once every twelve years. Joe and Ana have brought the world into their Mexican pizza parlor.

For home cooking, we go to Doña Irene’s, two blocks away from the Bat Casa and opening onto the cobblestone street.

Inside, the kitchen and buffet table line the left wall and the linoleum-covered tables and red Coca-Cola chairs the right.

Doña Irene cooks, replenishes the buffet, and talks to the customers at the same time.

There’s a menu on the wall, but we take the all-you-can-eat option for 75 pesos (about $4), which includes a “refresco”–a tall glass of tamarind or hibiscus tea.

On our first visit, Doña Irene treats us graciously, but with a certain formality. We sample the buffet–potato soup with shreds of ham, meatballs, two bean dishes, and a dish with noodles and huge sprigs of cilantro. Doña Irene rolls out and cooks tortillas and brings them to us in an immaculate hot towel.

On the second visit, when she sees us coming, she rushes forward  and gives us bear hugs. She’s had a chat with our landlord and is now reassured that we are reputable folks.

After that, she always greets us with the cry, “Preciosos!” (Lovely, beautiful people!) Then she goes to the refrigerator and shows us what can be cooked up that very minute, if we want. Fresh fish fillets or chicken breasts that she hammers thin, breads, and lightly fries.

It turns out her name isn’t Irene at all, but Ana María Sanchez. A stranger I encounter in a nearby park tells me that she’s known throughout the neighborhood for her big heart.

We mean to have our last lunch in San Miguel at Ana María’s eatery, but I have a slight stomach upset and we leave for the States without saying goodbye. This gives me a lump in my throat. I ask our landlord to convey our farewells. When will we be back? When will we again hear that cheerful cry of “preciosos?”

Not soon, I fear. The pandemic is not sparing Mexico. I wonder: Is Ana María well? Is her restaurant open? When will her world–and everyone’s– return to something like normal?