Choza
An out-of-town restaurant write-up from Mexico City — because nobody is doing it like Choza
Hugo, the understated wine bar perched on a shady street toward the northwestern pocket of Condesa, just opened a new spot around the corner.
The restaurant doesn’t have a name.
This nameless restaurant, unsurprisingly, also doesn’t carry a digital presence. There’s no website, Instagram, or any trace of information to be found. Boomers tend to get upset and leave 1-star Yelp reviews when a place doesn’t have a phone number. But Hugo said hold my mezcal negroni… “What if we open a place that doesn’t exist unless you’re actually, physically here?”
It’s a pretty wild concept, and a daring one, especially in the context of modern restaurants and the unpredictable economic conditions they face. Tight margins and stiff competition — you need to stand out to stand above. Self-imposing the challenge of discovery feels counterintuitive.
In New York, we’re dangerously close to a point where restaurants need to go viral — or at least have an ultra-popular, made-to-be-photographed item — to survive. But Mexico City seems to be moving in the opposite direction with this “build it and they’ll come” mentality. It’s a calculated effortlessness and strategic nonchalance, all with the intent of creating mystery and, more importantly, avoiding overexposure.
Hugo’s restaurant sin nombre appears to be doing just fine. On a breezy Friday afternoon, the windows were open, tables were full, spritzes were being sipped, and pastas twirled. No virality needed to fill those seats, just word-of-mouth and a great reputation. And Hugo isn’t the only non-conformist to conventional hospitality in Mexico City.
Esquina Común, up until recently, only accepted reservations via Instagram DMs. Expendio de Maiz, for years, hasn’t offered a menu — they’ve just been cooking what’s on-hand and in-season to whoever shows up (and many, many do).
The phrase is: “If you know, you know.” If you’re paying attention — if you’re tapped into the scene — you’ll reap the rewards. And there isn’t a restaurant that embodies the ethos of “If you know, you know” quite like Choza.
Choza is the gold standard — the poster child of mysterious restaurant auras. They’re not on Google (which they’re a bit self-indulgent about, but it’s a fact nonetheless). There’s no website, no reservations, and no phone number to call to ask if there’s a wait. They do have an Instagram where they’ll periodically post photos of dry spices in woks, and link out to their (very good) Soundcloud. But otherwise, there’s not much collateral to set your expectations, and certainly no published menu to rehearse your order.
The digital persona, or lack thereof, carries over to Choza’s physical existence. The only streetside signage is a cryptic Haruki Murakami quote written in chalk: ¿Por qué me gustan las medusas? [Why do you like jellyfish so much?] Where most restaurants would situate a welcoming host stand, Choza leaves the space blank.
But once you’re beyond the black steel doors at 194 Monterrey, the abstraction starts to become a tangible reality — a particularly special one. Choza doesn’t hold back on showing you exactly what it is, and what it’s all about.
Choza is a music-driven experience featuring open-fire, high-flavor cooking on a buzzing open-air rooftop. There’s Thai, Mexican, and Peruvian flavors hitting you from every direction. It’s New Orleans-inspired, New York-influenced, with a distinctly Mexico City energy. If that combination of elements doesn’t excite, entice, or even intrigue you, we have very different value sets.
Choza is bold, unapologetically spicy — and a great fucking time. It is, without question, the most captivating restaurant I’ve ever been to.
Part of the magic is the way Choza pulls you into their own little world — a world that doesn’t pay any mind to trends, rules, conventions, or norms. It’s immersive, hypnotic, and carefully considered.
It starts on their second-floor lounge, where they’ll seat you for a drink or two before ultimately taking you to the roof for dinner. The holding area isn’t an afterthought waiting room — it’s an intentional part of the experience. It’s where Choza sets the mood, inundating you with their cosmic beats and settling you into their tempo. With each Carta Blanca sunk, the anticipation rises for what’s to come.
The ascent to the rooftop is a metaphorical and literal climax. The music intensifies with each upward step. The haze — a blend of fire and incense — starts to wrap around. A golden hour glow filters through the jacaranda trees. There’s pace and buzz that’ll make you say “holy shit, here we go.” When you’re on Choza’s roof, anything happening beyond their walls feels irrelevant and unimportant. Choza commands your presence, captures your attention, and doesn’t let it slip.
The dining experience feels DIY in a deliberate, but undeniably scrappy way. The kitchen centers around a roaring open flame, with pots and pans dangling from above. Hammocks and stools are mismatched and spread about the room. The service is sporadic, and navigating the floor can be chaotic. You eat with chopsticks, Asian soup spoons, and often your hands. But it all adds to the effect and feeds into the vibe.
The menu has a seemingly limitless range, with one common thread: every dish contains chiles. Choza’s chile program is its driving force. Whether it’s a Som Tam papaya salad with chocolate habanero and prik kee nu suan chiles, or a Khao Soi roti with puya and tabiche, every dish gets its power, depth, and complexity from rare peppers.
The usage of chiles doesn’t always mean heat. This is especially true in the New York-influenced dishes, like the wagyu chopped cheese, where seco veracruzado is used to drive an earthy, umami flavor, rather than spice.
However, if there’s a curry on the menu, expect it to be ripping hot. A particularly fiery dish came in the form of a deep green curry with braised chicken, its skin crisped and charred on the grill. It’s best paired with a frozen mezcal mango daiquiri, which mellows the kick (and gets you buzzing quite hard).
With big, bold swings, you’d expect an occasional miss, or at least a few less than memorable dishes. But everything I’ve eaten at Choza has been an overwhelming hit. Everything. Even the straightforward: fried rice with fermented hot sauce, and spicy Chiang Mai sausage, which gets the lettuce wrap treatment.
On my most recent visit, I brought along a crew large enough to partake in the “para los homies” section of the menu, which features a whole fried fish doused in fragrant chile sauce. It’s outrageously good. There’s a small, delusional part of me that thinks I could take down the pescado on my own. One day I’ll try.
Galletas y Leche, or cookies and milk, is how you’ll wrap. Choza’s chocolate chip cookies might be the most mesmerizing item on the menu. Brown butter and melty dark chocolate, a subtle, unexpected-yet-unsurprising chili kick, flaky salt. It’s paired with a shooter of cinnamon toast crunch-infused milk. It might not sound revolutionary, but it is, bar none, the best cookie I’ve ever had, and it plays incredibly well with the flavor profiles that precede it.
Choza is doing things their way. They’ve built a restaurant not to serve, but to express. They set the terms. It doesn’t mean they’re assholes about it, or even remotely unhospitable, it just means they don’t bend over backwards to please or accommodate. If you like what they’re doing, great. And if you don’t, the beat will go on. It’s modern thinking — they recognize it’s impossible to please everyone, so they push boundaries, and trust it’ll resonate with the right audience.
This unwavering authenticity is refreshing. And it’s why I’m so into what Choza is doing. It’s relatable, in a way. From personal experience, my best work — my most expressive writing, the photos that pop — come together when I’m unabashedly expressing and capturing what I’m feeling. Not doing it to please anyone but myself. It’s a hard thing to get over, especially with the instant gratification that surrounds us. Choza is so creative, unconventional, and deeply personal — it can deliver a profound, impactful encounter for those willing to let it happen.
¿Por qué me gustan las medusas?
I like jellyfish because they’re majestic, elusive, and mysterious. Gracefully, fluidly drifting about. What lies beyond the doors at Choza is a lot like the jellyfish. Not meant to be harnessed, but rather witnessed — experienced.
This was a restaurant write-up from Mr. Flood’s Party. Subscribe for free and get Flood’s delivered every week. If you feel inclined, consider becoming a paid subscriber, supporting the creative process, and gaining access to Flood’s Worldwide and the full Mexico City hit list.
I feel like I've had tons of people tell me to visit Mexico City, but this post was the first instance in which I actually felt compelled to look up flights and seriously consider. Deadass, this write up should be a commercial for their tourism board or something.
Also, a Khao Soi roti, are you kidding me?? Not a want, but a need.
I dream about Choza. It's seriously one of my all time favorite restaurants and I miss it everyday that I'm not in CDMX. (I once stood in line...in the sun...for three hours JUST to have their frozen daiquiri and whatever food I could get my hands on and I have absolutely no shame about it)