Driving north along the eastern shore of Lake Pátzcuaro, we came to a string of a half-dozen restaurants out in the middle of nowhere, apparently all hoping to serve motorists making the trek back to Morelia. The first in the row was Restaurant "Mitzi." Signs announced: Cecina, pollo mole and tortillas hecho a mano. Hungry and looking for a meal, for us this place was a godsend.

Swinging into the oncoming lane to execute a Mexican left turn, I slewed into the parking lot while an officer in a passing Michoacán State Police cruiser nodded approvingly.

The owner/waitress/cook brought us a tray with four kinds of salsa and a bunch of limes, a Diet Coke for me and an agua de jamaica for Jean. (Jamaica is hibiscus. Mexicans make a kind of sweetened tea from the dried blossoms.)

Jean ordered the chicken mole; I went for the cecina—thin slices of salted beef grilled over charcoal. Mitzi's was cooked to the consistency of crisp bacon. Wrapped in a just-cooked hand-formed tortilla, it was sublime.

I mentioned that Mitzi's was one of several restaurants, all right next to each other, all sharing the same parking lot. And all had signs offering cecina and handmade tortillas. So while about a dozen cars were parked in front, we were Mitzi's only customers; this on Sunday at 3 PM, the traditional time for a big weekend family comida.

I'll never understand the Mexican approach to business.

Mitzi's is one of the spiffier roadside restaurants I've visited. Lots of natural light filtered through skylights. Maybe 16 tables, each with six or eight hand-carved chairs. A harmonious decor.

Dozens of identical wooden planks were carved with a singular motif. It looked to me like an rounded cast-iron frame with rivets supporting a pair of auction paddles.

I had to stare at it for quite a while before the image resolved into a pair of horse heads eating a large, spotted mushroom. I think.

So that the colorful decor wouldn't unduly brighten customers' moods, a crucifix hung over one of the entrances.

I found myself staring at it as I munched my cecina while a fog of melancholy descended over me.

Mitzi herself exuded cheerful hospitality. She repeatedly brought us more tortillas, two or three at a time as they finished cooking. They were good enough to eat plain. Soon we were stuffed and back on the road to Morelia.