Tulum carries a reputation. Some see it as paradise, others as an overpriced mirage. But beyond the curated beachfront and influencer-filled resorts, there’s another side—one that moves slower, tastes richer, and lingers long after you leave. That’s the Tulum we came for.

Maria, Carlos, and I landed with no plans. Just a hunger for the kind of nights that start with fire-grilled octopus and stretch into morning conversations with people we’ll never see again. A craving for tacos where the tortillas are hand-pressed, the meat slow-cooked, and the salsa—bold enough to make you pause.

Day One: The Taste of Smoke

The best meals in Mexico are cooked over fire, where time and intuition matter more than recipes.

At Hartwood, the only thing between the ingredients and the flames is the hands of someone who knows how to listen. No electricity. No gas. Just a wood-burning oven and whatever the fishermen hauled in that morning. We ordered whole roasted fish, charred pineapple, and tamarind margaritas that tasted like summer at its peak. The flavors weren’t fussy. They didn’t need to be.

After dinner, we wandered. The streets pulsed with sound—neon-lit bars humming with techno, street vendors brushing butter onto elotes, the low murmur of conversations over mezcal. We followed the music to Gitano, a jungle bar where the air smelled of burning copal, and the drinks carried just the right amount of smoke.

Day Two: Hidden Cenotes and Taco Pilgrimages

Tulum’s beaches are beautiful, but the magic runs deeper. Literally. Beneath the limestone, cenotes—freshwater sinkholes—cut through the earth like hidden veins. We found Cenote Escondido through a local’s whispered recommendation. No crowds. No entrance fee. Just water so clear it felt like floating through air.

By afternoon, hunger took over, leading us to Taquería Honorio. No polished branding, no need for it. Just plastic tables, hand-pressed tortillas, and the slow-roasted depth of cochinita pibil—pork marinated in achiote, wrapped in banana leaves, and buried in the earth until it surrendered to tenderness.

The conversation turned, as it often does, to Milaluna. It reminded us of why we do what we do. Every batch of salsa we create carries the same belief—that great flavors come from patience, from care, from honoring the process. The right salsa doesn’t just sit on top of a taco. It weaves into it, cuts through the richness, brings everything into balance.

Day Three: A Lesson in Letting Go

On our last day, we skipped the tourist-packed brunch spots and found a small palapa called Chichila, run by a woman named Doña Lupe. She served huevos motuleños—fried eggs over tortillas, covered in black beans, plantains, and fresh salsa. The kind of breakfast that doesn’t just feed you but grounds you.

Afterwards, we drove south, past the polished beach clubs, until the jungle swallowed the road. Sian Ka’an stretched out in front of us—untouched coastline, the only sounds coming from waves rolling in and the occasional fisherman adjusting his nets.

We sat there, watching the tide, feeling the weight of leaving. Tulum had given us exactly what we were looking for—reminders. That the best meals aren’t rushed. That fire and smoke tell their own stories. That salsa, when made with real intention, does more than add heat. It carries history, memory, and the kind of flavors that stay with you long after the plate is empty.

We chase these moments, and try to bottle them. For us these experiences fuel our love for food. And remind us why we do what we do at Milaluna. For us it’s about more than just salsa. It’s a story, a feeling, a connection.

What Tulum Leaves You With

Tulum isn’t just a destination—it’s a test. It challenges you to look past the Instagram version, to dig deeper, to taste the cochinita that’s been roasting since dawn, to find the cenotes that don’t make it into the guidebooks. It reminds you that food, like travel, is best when it’s unfiltered. When it’s real.

As we packed up the car, Maria turned to me. “We need to make a salsa that tastes like this trip,” she said. “Like fire, and salt, and something you didn’t expect but can’t forget.”

I nodded. Because that’s exactly what Milaluna is about. Not just flavor, but feeling. Not just salsa, but a story.

And Tulum? Tulum was one hell of a story.