Sixty, in Oaxaca

The brief

Elena, a chef in Chicago, wanted to spend her sixtieth eating. Forty-two friends, no speeches, no ballroom, and a promise that nobody would need to rent a car.

What we did

Guests stayed in two boutique hotels a block apart near Santo Domingo. Friday was a walking dinner through the markets and street stalls with a local food writer, ending in hot chocolate and pan de yema at a stall that has been there since 1946.

Saturday we drove into the Tlacolula valley for a palenque lunch: mezcal tasted straight from the still, a barbacoa pit opened as the group arrived, a brass band appearing out of the agave rows. That evening, dinner in a 16th-century ex-convent courtyard: a seven-mole tasting menu by a chef Elena had admired for years, a table set with black clay and Teotitlán textiles, wildflowers from the Sunday market.

The detail people remember

Elena didn’t want speeches. Instead, each guest wrote a line on a hand-painted mezcal bottle label, and the bottles went home with everyone else. She still has the one from her sister.