Mexico City, a sprawling, cacophonous organism of 22 million souls, is a place where the sheer volume of excellent food options can induce a kind of existential paralysis—a What do I even want? paralysis, compounded by the fact that every block seems to offer at least three places where you could theoretically eat the best meal of your life. And this isn’t hyperbole; Mexico City’s food scene is so dense with excellence that choosing where to eat can feel like trying to solve a particularly cruel math problem. Campobaja, however, manages to cut through this noise, not just because it’s good—though it is, very—but because it feels like a kind of meta-commentary on the whole idea of dining in a city that’s constantly trying to outdo itself.
Located in Roma Norte—a neighborhood that’s equal parts European chic, Instagrammable café culture, and dive-bar grit—Campobaja occupies a rooftop space that feels both intentional and accidental, like someone decided to build a restaurant in the middle of a half-finished industrial warehouse and then just... stopped. This is, of course, a compliment. The industrial aesthetic feels less like a trend and more like an honest reflection of the space itself. The exposed metal roof looms overhead, the kind of thing that might make you wonder if it’s a design choice or if the contractors just ran out of drywall. Communal tables and old-school classroom chairs, the kind with the tiny wooden desks attached, complete the vibe, which is less haute cuisine and more let’s just all hang out and eat incredible seafood, okay?
The music here is a low, steady thump—not intrusive, but present, like the hum of a refrigerator in an otherwise silent house. Conversations flow easily, which is a minor miracle in a city where most restaurants seem to compete for who can blast their playlist the loudest. And this is a real problem, by the way. Why do so many restaurants think their patrons want to shout over Bad Bunny to order tacos? Tucked into a corner is a small bar, unassuming but lethal, where bartenders perform alchemy with agave and citrus, producing cocktails that are both inventive and deeply satisfying. The wine list, meanwhile, is the kind of thing that makes you want to order a bottle just to prove to yourself that you’re the kind of person who appreciates a good wine list.
And then there’s the kitchen: exposed, unhidden, a stage where chefs move with the kind of precision that suggests they’ve been doing this for decades—or at least since breakfast. Watching them work is its own kind of entertainment, a reminder that food, even when it’s elevated to the level of art, is still fundamentally about people doing stuff with their hands.
Now, the food. The menu at Campobaja is a kind of culinary Schrödinger’s cat—half seasonal/daily specials that feel fleeting and ephemeral, and half solid staples that anchor the whole thing in something resembling tradition. From the daily specials, three dishes stood out, though “stood out” doesn’t quite capture the way they seemed to vibrate with their own kind of urgency. First, the shrimp aguachiles: indescribably delicious, which is a phrase I don’t use lightly, mostly because it feels like a cop-out, but here it’s the only thing that fits. The sauce—bright, acidic, with a heat that builds slowly, like a good story—was so good I briefly considered asking for a cup of it to drink straight, a thought that, in retrospect, says more about me than the sauce.
Second, the ceviche negra. It wasn’t bad, not by any stretch, but it suffered from the culinary equivalent of standing next to a supermodel at a party—it just couldn’t compete with the aguachiles. The flavors were fine, maybe even good, but fine and good don’t cut it when you’re sharing a table with something extraordinary.
And then, the avocado tostada. Let me be clear: I did not expect this to be the star of the meal. Avocado tostadas are the kind of thing you order because you feel like you should, not because you think they’ll change your life. But this one did, or at least it came close. The avocado was creamy but not mushy, the tostada crisp but not brittle, and the whole thing was topped with... something. I don’t even remember what, because the combination was so perfect it erased its own details, like a dream you can’t quite recall but know was important. It blew everything else out of the water—literally.
On to the cooked items. The grilled pulpo taco, served on a fresh tortilla that was less tortilla and more pillowy pita, was a masterclass in texture. The octopus was tender but not rubbery, the beans added a kind of earthy grounding, and the tortilla—oh, the tortilla—was the kind of thing that makes you wonder why anyone ever bothered with bread. Then there was the shrimp and chicharrón quesadilla, which sounds like something you’d order at 2 a.m. after one too many mezcals but was, in fact, exceptional. The shrimp were plump, the chicharrón added an umami that felt almost illicit, and the cheese—well, let’s just say it knew its role and played it perfectly.
Pulpo taco and shrimp & chicharron quesadilla
Dessert was a slice of chocolate cake so decadent it felt like a moral failing, paired with a pisco sour that was tart enough to cut through the richness without feeling like a punishment. It was a great way to end the meal, though “great” feels inadequate. Let’s call it a quiet triumph, a reminder that even in a city where every meal feels like a competition, sometimes you just get to sit back and enjoy the ride.
Pisco sour and chocolate cake
