Ever think about how a map of Mexico looks a little bit like Italy, only reversed? Mexico’s equivalent of the Italian boot of Puglia is the Yucatan, sticking out into the Gulf of Mexico like a big stubbed toe. The thirty-one states of Mexico, plus the federal district, hint at a culinary diversity that you’ll find only in places like Italy, where mountains and rivers and desert-like terrain prohibited easy hopping about from place to place.

Like Italy, Mexico luxuriates in a water bath stretching along thousands of miles of coastline, one coast fronting the Pacific in the west and the Gulf of Mexico in the east. And where there is water, there is fish. And where there is fish, there is Veracruz or the “True Cross.” Portal to Mexico, where conquistador Hernán Cortés disembarked on Holy Thursday in1519, Veracruz harbors not only the legacy of those Spanish ships, but also modern ships as well.

This tropical harbor town, with its Caribbean overtones, has been a muggy, swampy crossroads for humanity ever since the indigenous Olmecs carved their first enormous stone heads, all of which appear with grimacing jaguar-like mouths. Smaller figures created from green and black jade also sport the strange mouths of the larger heads. And one of the most fascinating groupings of these figurines stands prominently in the Museum of Anthropology in Mexico City, arranged in a close circle inside a small square glass case filled partially with sand. No one can explain exactly the significance of these seductive and mysterious figures, but you can imagine that perhaps they are standing there getting ready to eat together! Something delicious that evolved into what became the seafood-rich cuisine of Veracruz.

Today the cooking of Veracruz is something truly unique in Mexico. Gently modified over time by Spanish-Moorish cooking styles, Veracruz’s cuisine incorporates African and Amerindian influences from the Caribbean islands, particularly Cuba. The Jarachos, or Veracruzanos, certainly know how to wield a wooden spoon, no doubt about it.

At first, walking along the decaying waist-high sea wall made of a sort of rough shell-filled cement similar to that found in all Spanish-era forts in the Americas, including Verzcruz’s own Fortaleza de San Juan de Ulua, you really don’t notice this complex culinary heritage. Not until that first bite of food in a small hole-in-the-wall restaurant hidden in the arch-covered promenade overlooking the zócalo or town square, painted bright neon blue, walls decorated with frayed Coca-Cola posters dotted with fly corpses. Small shrines to the Virgin of Guadalupe hug the far corners, candles burning, sending smoke into the face of the Virgins, who don’t seem to mind, their benign smiles blessing all who look.

But looks can be deceiving. Forget the blue walls and look at the plate. And look instead at that huge red snapper, Huachinango a la Veracruzana, slapped down in front of your neighbors at the next table, sizzling in a tomato sauce laced with cinnamon and capers and green olives, another of the culinary joys of Veracruz. With roots in Arab cooking brought to Mexico by the Spanish, Huachinango is probably the most famous Veracruz recipe.

And look, too, at the copa or sundae-like dish set in front of you, filled to the brim with glistening pink shrimp the size of large mice. Check out the cilantro clinging to the shrimp and the thin slices of fresh lime coiling over the edge of the dish. Avocado chunks and smidgens of hot green chile add a delightful crunchy texture. Absolute simplicity itself, this is the famous coctel de camarones, or shrimp cocktail, of Veracruz.

By far the best way to savor a shrimp cocktail is to seek out one of those little open-air “cafés” that dot the wide sandy beach paseo or boardwalk, as the ocean breezes blow softly through the white tattered tarps that serve as shields from the relentless tropical sun. Pulling out the flimsy metal chairs at one of the four or five wooden tables squeezed together under the tarp, you must watch out for splinters on the underside of the table, but since you probably won’t be wearing stockings, it will only be your skin that tears if you forget. Plastic-covered menus usually hang from one of the four poles holding up the “ceiling” or maybe there’s a blackboard resting on the sidewalk, the simple menu written in chalk.

Forget the menu. When the cook asks what you want, you know what the answer must be: shrimp cocktail. The cook smiles at you and sets to work. First comes the copa itself, dug out of the large ice-filled coolers, more like one of those portable ice cream wagons, the kinds with gaudy pictures painted on the outside and lined with gunmetal-colored steel that you used to see at county fairs when you were a kid. Back when you still sported a love-hate relationship with The Wild Mouse roller coaster. Steaming in the hot, humid air, the frozen glass copa, set on the metal countertop, fills rapidly as the cook throws in chunks of avocado, small chips of green hot pepper and white onion, cubes of scarlet red tomato, the largest shrimp you’ve seen this side of Italy where they’re called prawns, and cilantro feathering out all over everything. Then a drizzle of lime juice and a sprinkling of dried oregano and crushed salt. And finally comes the crowning touch, a brief anointing with dark green olive oil, just a few teaspoons. But it’s not ready yet. A tiny doily on the saucer gives the masterpiece a slight hint of elegance as the copa is lowered onto the center of the doily. A long-handled fork, thin as an ice cream spoon and wrapped in a rough paper napkin, sits on the saucer, side by side with two rounds of crusty French-style bread.

As the cook places the copa in front of you, you remember all the legends of Moctezuma and his daily 300-dish meals. You look at your one-dish meal, a true masterpiece. You smile at the cook. Words really evaporate in the presence of such beauty. Look at the copa, really look! The gleaming colors shining through the cut glass of the cup. Like the jewels and the gold the Spanish searched for so hard. They looked in the wrong places. The riches of Mexico lay elsewhere.

Right here. In the food of this place. That’s the richness.

The cook steps back toward the cooler. You slowly unwrap your fork, placing the napkin on your lap. Sniffing the aroma of the lime, you spear your first shrimp. Covered with specks of avocado, pepper, and onion, the shrimp wobbles for a moment on your fork. And then you eat. The coolness of the shrimp in your mouth contrasts with the explosion of heat from the hot peppers. You take another bite, this time a fragment of cilantro-covered avocado mixed with shrimp, the lime juice and olive oil coating everything more than in your first bite.

Soon your copa is nearly empty. You pick up the bread rounds and soak up the juices floating at the bottom of the dish, reaching deeply to get the last drops. Three seagulls lolling on the beach see you, or maybe they just hear you chewing. Suddenly there they are, at your feet, begging for bread. You break the bread and you give it to them as the cook smiles.

Coctel de Camarones (Mexican Shrimp Cocktail)

12 large shrimp, shelled, deveined, cooked
1 avocado, peeled and coarsely chopped
1 jalapeno chile, seeded and finely chopped
1 large tomato, coarsely chopped
2 T. onion, finely chopped
2 T. carrot, grated
2 T. fresh cilantro, coarsely chopped

1/3 cup lime juice
1 clove garlic, finely minced
Salt to taste
Freshly ground black pepper

Pinch dried oregano