TOP: Fruits de mer aguachile with coconut-tomatillo leche de tigre, Calabrian salsa macha, and trout roe. BOTTOM: Wagyu tartare with roasted bone marrow.
descend into madness, and the only way out is to write terrible poetry. None of this is true, but the peyote-adjacent myths around the “green fairy” sure are fun. The spirit, originating in Switzerland, is just a potent, distinctive combo of wormwood, anise, and fennel. It tastes like intense and dynamic black licorice, if black licorice had the ability to gleefully impair your decision making and turn your motor skills into noodles. The rumors about the bone marrow are true—it’s luminous. Actually, it’s a Wagyu tartare, tossed with Dijon, marrow (aka meat butter), and guajillo chiles served on the roasted bone. The marrow and mustard replace the creaminess traditionally provided by egg yolk, and this dish perfectly shows off the handshake between French and Mexican flavors that is the defining characteristic of Wormwood— Franco sauces, Baja flair.
The shocking thing about dining here is not just how tiny it is—like bistros in San Francisco or New York, the mere notion of elbow room is financially reckless. They also have to maximize guests-per-inch. Feet kicker- uppers may struggle, but the eating-on-top-of-strangers experience has an enlivening effect. It mandates a conviviality, a togetherness for everyone in the room. The real shock is how, in this smallness, they prioritize tableside presentations—like the pouring of the zucchini veloute, poured form decanter into a bowl with squash blossoms stuffed with crab and mascarpone, pickled ramps, orange crema, and pepita oil. The secret is that they don’t make their chicken stock for this with roasted bones; instead, they blanche them to rid impurities, then simmer for six hours. The luscious, tomatillo aguachile for
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