A long time ago, when I was young and handsome, I found myself in Mexico City — staying at a hostel, because obviously, I was broke.
At the hostel, on a Thursday, I met a wonderful, eclectic group of travellers, including two young European women whose names, to my great regret, I have since forgotten. One was Dutch, the other Swedish — both taller than me — I’m five-foot-ten, for the record — both blonde, both the kind of women you notice the moment they walk into a room.
Enthusiasm was high — until people started talking about Colonia Doctores, the neighbourhood between the historical centre and the arena. After dark, it could be iffy, some said. Maybe dangerous. One by one, the group quietly backed out.
The only two people still willing to come with me on Friday night were the two beautiful European women.
So there we were: three people who could not have looked more out of place, walking through Doctores toward the Cathedral of Lucha Libre. We arrived before sundown. And the moment we stepped inside the arena, every head turned. We were absolutely sticking out like sore thumbs. Picture this in a wrestling arena: a dude with a huge pro-type photo camera around his neck flanked by two gorgeous European women. We had been giddy with anticipation; now we were a bit nervous.
While we were looking for our seats, I spotted a drinks stand that had piles of gigantic Pepsi-branded paper cups with rims slathered in a reddish-brown goo. I knew exactly what they were selling, and I knew it was precisely what the three of us needed. I walked over and ordered three Micheladas con Clamato.
The Clamato mix was already waiting at the bottom, and the top half of the cups was sticky with Chamoy, that sweet, tangy, smoky tamarind paste. The woman behind the stand grabbed a massive bottle of Corona — not the Export, the proper Mexican one in the brown bottle — and poured it fast and high. It foamed up to the top of those enormous cups in an instant.
The three of us stood there giggling, struggling to carry these ridiculous, overflowing tubs with one hand.
We walked to our seats, settled in, and the Micheladas did exactly what they were supposed to do.
By the end of the night, sufficiently fortified, we felt brave enough to walk back to the historical centre through Doctores after dark.
Michelada con Clamato
In honour of that evening — and of the two remarkable women who were game enough, or perhaps foolish enough, to come along — here is my recipe for a Michelada con Clamato, just like the ones they poured at Arena México. Chamoy on the rim is non-negotiable — if you can find it, that is.
Ingredients
- 710 ml Corona Familiar or any easy-drinking lager (at minimum 355 ml per serving)
- 300 ml Clamato®
- 5 ml soy sauce
- 5 ml Worcestershire sauce
- 15 ml lime juice (about half a lime)
- hot sauce (to taste)
- Chamoy (for the rim — see notes)
- 5 ml Tajin (for the rim)
- 1 thin slice of salami or chorizo (optional garnish)
- 1 lime wheel (garnish)
Equipment
- Two large glasses (pint or bigger)
- Bar spoon
- Lime squeezer
- Two wide shallow containers (for rimming)
Mise en place
- (If using Tajin as a rimmer) Squeeze the lime into a container wide enough to house the entire rim of your glass
- (If using Tajin as a rimmer) Dump plenty of Tajin into a similar container and add a couple of pinches of sugar
- (If using Tajin as a rimmer) Dunk the rim of each glass in the lime juice, then in the Tajin mix
- (If using Chamoy as a rimmer) Dump some Chamoy into a container wide enough to house the entire rim of your glass
- (If using Chamoy as a rimmer) Dunk the rim of each glass in the Chamoy (it might be messy, that’s ok), then sprinkle with Tajin from a height
Method
- Add a small pinch of Tajin inside each glass
- Divide the Clamato, lime juice, soy sauce, Worcestershire sauce, and hot sauce between the two glasses and stir gently
- Tilt each glass and pour the beer very slowly down the side — the gas will react and foam aggressively, so take your time
Presentation
- Garnish with a thin slice of salami or chorizo and a lime wheel
