There’s a special kind of love that shows up as a steaming pot on the stove, tortillas warming under a towel, and a “¿Ya comiste?” before you’ve even taken off your shoes.
If you’ve ever been welcomed into a Mexican home—friend, neighbor, coworker—you know food isn’t just food. It’s memory, pride, and hospitality rolled into one.
I’m a systems person who cares about the little rituals that make life feel cared for. And when it comes to someone else’s kitchen—especially a Mexican mom’s kitchen—respect lives in the details. The words you choose matter as much as the help you offer and the plate you clean.
Here are 8 things I’ve learned to never say—especially about food—and what to do instead.
1. “Is this spicy?” said like a warning
Ask about heat the way you’d ask about weather—curious, not fearful. Heat is a spectrum, and it’s handled with care.
Many Mexican moms cook for a mix of palates: a mild base, salsas on the side, a little extra chile for the folks who want to sweat happily.
Try this instead: “It looks amazing—what kind of chiles did you use?”
That invites a story, not a defense.
If you’re sensitive to spice, say, “I’m a mild person—should I start with the green salsa or the red?” You’ll get guidance without dampening the mood.
2. “This isn’t authentic, is it?”
“Authentic” can be a conversation ender. Mexico’s food is wildly regional and deeply personal. The carne asada you grew up with in the north is different from the cochinita pibil in the Yucatán, and both are “authentic” to the people who learned them at a grandmother’s elbow.
Try this instead: “Whose version is this inspired by?” or “What region is this from?”
You’ll learn more in two minutes than a week of scrolling restaurant reviews—and you’ll honor the family tree in the recipe.
3. “Do you have anything… less heavy?”
Calling a meal “heavy” lands like a judgment on centuries of good sense: beans for fuel, corn for life, slow-cooked meats to feed a crowd without a spreadsheet. If something isn’t your usual, treat it like an opportunity, not a nutritional emergency.
Try this instead: build your plate around what you love.
More nopales, extra pico de gallo, a little meat—no speech required.
If you have real dietary needs, share them ahead of time with gratitude so your host can plan without guesswork.
4. “Can I get ketchup?” (especially for tamales, mole, or rice)
Ketchup has its place. That place probably isn’t next to a sauce that took all afternoon and a constellation of spices to make.
Asking for it reads like, “I’d rather flatten the flavor than meet it where it lives.”
Try this instead: ask about the house salsas or the proper garnish.
A spoonful of crema, a sprinkle of queso fresco, some sliced avocado, a squeeze of lime—those small touches are the “ketchup” of the cuisine, and they harmonize with what’s on the plate.
5. “Real Mexican food is…”
Mexico is bigger than your favorite resort taco—and kinder than the hot-take you’re about to say out loud.
One person’s “real” is another person’s “my aunt’s way.”Declaring the standard suggests you’ve come to grade the meal instead of enjoy it.
Try this instead: “This reminds me of a trip we took—your version is way better. What makes your tortillas so tender?”
Compliment, then get curious. You’ll be invited into the how—and maybe even the masa if you time it right.
6. “I don’t eat carbs” (while someone warms fresh tortillas)
Think of tortillas as a love language. Someone shaped that dough, pressed it, and kept it soft under a towel just for you. You don’t have to eat six. But making a speech about carbs while the comal is working feels like giving a TED Talk at a birthday party.
Try this instead: take one, savor it, and move on. Or say quietly, “I’m pacing myself—these look amazing,” and load your plate with proteins and vegetables.
If you truly can’t have corn or flour, let your host know in advance and bring something you love to share.
7. “You shouldn’t have gone to so much trouble”
Mexican food often hides its labor in the sauce: toasting seeds, soaking chiles, roasting tomatoes, then blending, simmering, and adjusting until the whole house smells like you’ve been hugged.
Calling it “too much trouble” can erase the pride in that craft.
Try this instead: name the work and praise it.
“This mole is so deep—what did you toast?” or “These tamales are perfectly balanced—how long did you steam them?”
When you notice the effort, you honor the cook.
8. “I prefer Tex-Mex/Cal-Mex/[anything]” (at a family table)
Preferences are valid. Announcing them at the table is… not helpful.
Fusion and diaspora foods are their own beautiful stories, but the middle of someone’s meal is the wrong time to pitch an alternative canon.
Try this instead: enjoy what’s offered and compare later—with kindness—if a conversation naturally leads there. Or keep it simple and true: “This is delicious.” Full stop.
What to say and do instead
-
“Thank you for having me. It smells incredible in here.”
An easy opener that sets the tone. -
“What can I do?”
Fill water glasses, warm tortillas, carry a stack of plates—small tasks communicate respect. -
“Tell me about this salsa.”
Salsa is story. Heat levels, ingredients, who taught whom—this is how you get welcomed in. -
“Can I take seconds?”
Asking shows you’re paying attention to the group. If there’s plenty, the answer will be “¡Sí!” and you’ll make someone’s day. -
“Can I take leftovers?”
This is often a compliment. Bring your own container if you can. Handle the handoff like a treasure, because it is. -
“What should I bring next time?”
Make it a relationship, not a one-off. Ask for guidance if you’re unsure. (Tortilla chips? Ice? A dessert? Fresh fruit?) -
“I’d love the recipe—no pressure.”
Offer to text your number. If the answer is “My hands don’t measure,” you’ll still leave with a tip or two.
Why this matters (beyond good manners)
Food is culture you can taste, and hospitality is a bridge you can walk across—if you step lightly. I’ve learned that the words you choose in someone else’s kitchen can widen that bridge or narrow it.
If you’re ever unsure, lead with gratitude, curiosity, and help.
Compliment the labor, accept what you can, and skip the commentary that centers your preferences.
When in doubt, do what I do: ask where to set the tortillas, offer to slice limes, and make space at the table for stories.
That’s the kind of system that makes every home—mine included—feel like a place people want to come back to.
