Brian Finally Tried Birria de Chivo in Guadalajara: A Recap

Mira, I have been waiting fourteen years to write this post. Fourteen. Catorce años. Brian — my Plano-Texas-oilfield-engineer husband, the man who has been to Mexico more than forty times, the man who proposed to me in Sayulita, the man who routinely jokes that he "basically lives in Jalisco" — Brian had never, not once, eaten birria de chivo. Birria de res, sure. Birria tacos in Austin, fine. But the actual thing? Goat? Cabra? Híjole, no. "Jess, I'm a beef guy." Mhm. We'll see, cariño.

So when we flew down to Guadalajara in late February to see Abuela for her 83rd birthday, I decided: this is the trip. Abuela's neighborhood birriería has been operating in the same corner spot since 1968. It is owned by a man named Don Memo who has called Brian "el gringo flaco" since 2014. If Brian was ever going to eat goat, it was going to be at Don Memo's table, on Abuela's block, on her actual birthday weekend, with Matty and Sophie watching. The peer pressure was structural.

The Jalisco joke, deployed

For context — Brian's running joke, the one he has been milking since approximately our second date, is that he is "basically from Jalisco." He is not. He is from Plano. But he has the audacity to say things like "in Jalisco we don't add lime to that" and "my Jalisco people would never" and Tía Rosa hates it and Abuela loves it because it gives her ten months of material per year. Abuela, in Spanish, with a perfect deadpan: "Brian, mijo, if you are from Jalisco then I am from the moon." Then she hands him a beer. Qué amor.

So we walk into Don Memo's place at 11am on Saturday — birria is a morning food, sí, this is the way — and Don Memo claps Brian on the back and says, in Spanish, "el gringo flaco, today you eat like a man from Jalisco or you go home." Brian, who pretends not to understand Spanish but absolutely understands Spanish, said "sí señor." The kids erupted. I almost cried into my agua de jamaica.

What he ordered (under duress)

Don Memo brought out:

• A bowl of birria de chivo — goat, slow-braised in adobo, with the consomé on the side
• Hand-pressed corn tortillas, hot, in a cloth-lined basket
• Cebolla picada, cilantro, limones, salsa de árbol
• A small plate of pickled radishes that Sophie ate the entire portion of

The kids got birria de res — Sophie because she is four and Matty because Matty has been eating birria de res since age two and is the household expert. Both kids watched Brian with the unblinking attention of children watching a parent attempt something difficult, like assembling IKEA furniture or apologizing.

The actual reaction

Reader, he loved it. He loved it. The man took one bite, did the little pause-and-blink that I know means "oh no, my entire belief system is wrong," and then quietly ate the entire bowl. Then he ordered a second bowl. Then Don Memo, beaming, brought out a tiny extra plate of cabeza because of course he did, and Brian — Brian! — ate that too.

Matty, age seven, said, with the gravity of a judge: "Daddy, you're Mexican now." Sophie, age four, said: "Daddy taste good?" Brian wiped consomé off his chin and said "this is what I've been missing my whole life." I will be quoting that in our wedding vows renewal, ándale.

The kids' running commentary

You should know that Matty has been a birria evangelist since toddlerhood. He has opinions. His review of Don Memo's chivo, transcribed verbatim, was: "It tastes like beef but braver." I cannot improve on that. Sophie, less articulate but no less passionate, kept dipping her tortilla in Brian's consomé and saying "más rojo" until I had to physically intervene.

If you go (and you should)

Don Memo's birriería is in Tlaquepaque, a neighborhood of Guadalajara that I will protect with my life. We stayed at a small hotel two blocks from Abuela's place — here's my Booking search for Tlaquepaque, filter for free cancellation and family rooms. The neighborhood is walkable, full of artisan workshops, and the food is — no manches — the best regional food I have eaten anywhere in Mexico, and I am biased and Tía Rosa is going to read this and be furious.

Don't show up to a birriería after 1pm. Birria is a morning food. By 2pm the consomé is gone and the chivo is gone and you are eating leftovers. Ándale early. Bring cash. Tip well.

Reading list if you want to go deeper

If you want to understand why birria de chivo matters, why it's specifically a Jalisco thing, why the goat — not the beef — is the real article, I cannot recommend Pati Jinich's work enough. Pati's Mexican Table has the regional breakdowns that helped my Texas mother-in-law finally understand why "Mexican food" isn't a single cuisine. And Mexican Today is the one Tía Rosa actually edits passages of when she's bored — sí, she's that kind of editor. She loves Pati. We all love Pati.

The aftermath

On the flight back to Austin, Brian — chewing nothing, sober as a judge — leaned over and said: "I think I've been wrong about a lot of things." Brian, mi cielo. You think? Yes. Many things. But this is the start.

He has since requested birria de chivo at our local Austin spot twice. He has asked me whether we can "do Jalisco again in like, June." I told him only if Abuela gets him for a full Sunday lunch first. He agreed instantly. The Jalisco joke, somehow, has aged into something almost true. Casi, casi. Hasta la próxima, cariños. 💛