Canton to the Desert: How Mexicali Preserved the Soul of Chinese-Mexican Fusion
When I first moved to Mexico City three and a half years ago, I felt both confused and, admittedly, a bit offended by the “Chinese food” on offer. The city’s Chinatown is filled with buffet-style restaurants offering low-priced meals, oddly colored steamed buns, and menus filled with nothing but spring rolls, sweet-and-sour chicken, and fried rice or noodles.
As a chef from China’s southwestern Yunnan province, I hoped to introduce a more nuanced interpretation of Chinese cuisine to the Mexican capital. But it was hard to know where to begin. The more I tried, the more I felt like something essential was missing from the country’s Chinese food scene.
To my surprise, I found it in Mexicali — a hub of Chinese-Mexican cuisine near the border with the United States.
The Chinese community in Mexico is primarily concentrated in Mexicali and Mexico City. In the 19th and 20th centuries, tens of thousands of Chinese immigrants arrived in California, where they found work building the railroads. Faced with the United States’ exclusionary Chinese immigration laws, many later settled just south of the border.
The capital of the Baja California state, Mexicali is known locally as “the city that captures the sun.” It has an extremely hot desert climate, with temperatures reaching up to 50 degrees Celsius. Despite these harsh conditions, Chinese immigrations managed to establish successful farms in the region, helping transform Mexicali into a Chinese cultural hub. By the 1920s, there were 14 times as many Chinese residents in Mexicali as native Mexicans.
After Mexico enacted its own discriminatory policies in the 1930s, the Chinese community in Mexicali formed the resilient enclave known as La Chinesca. Although Mexico’s Chinese population fell sharply in the 1930s, an underground network of businesses, including laundromats and restaurants, preserved La Chinesca’s heritage and laid the foundation for the city’s distinctive culinary landscape. The fusion of Chinese and Mexican flavors was initially a practical response to local conditions, but it has since become a symbol of cultural exchange, resilience, and community-building that continues to shape the region’s food culture today.
Driving into Mexicali for the first time, I noticed stone lions and lanterns marking the entrances to its numerous Chinese restaurants. With more than 300 establishments, Mexicali boasts the highest density of Chinese dining options in Mexico. One of the best, Dragon Oro, captures the essence of Chinese-Mexican fusion. The menu, rooted in Cantonese techniques but tailored to local tastes, emphasizes family-style dining, with meals consisting of four to six dishes — including soups, stir-fried vegetables, meat and tofu dishes, and rice or noodles. The consistency of its à la carte options, such as its iconic “chop suey” with red-dyed meat, further reflects regional adaptations made by generations of chefs.
Inside, the atmosphere is lively and communal, filled with the clatter of woks and the aroma of soy sauce. Its approach — emphasizing quick preparation, generous portions, and sweet and sour sauces — mirrors the practical needs of early Chinese immigrants while incorporating local ingredients like beef, shrimp, chiles, canned tomatoes, and pineapples, resulting in a cuisine that feels both familiar and distinct.
There are also signs of something new brewing in the region, however. Walking past the cultural center, I stumbled upon Chieng’s Bistro, a modest eatery that immediately piqued my curiosity. A glowing Google Maps review caught my eye: “The best char siu I’ve tried outside of Vancouver” — a city renowned for its authentic Cantonese cuisine. Inside, I met Cristina Chieng, the owner, who greeted me with a warm smile. “I haven’t met someone from China for a while,” she admitted.
Chieng, a native of the southern Chinese province of Guangdong, followed her husband to Mexicali a decade ago. Her restaurant stands out with a menu focused on Cantonese staples: steamed dim sum, noodle soups, wontons, and dumplings — all prepared fresh in the kitchen by the entrance. She often travels to California to source authentic ingredients unavailable at Mexicali markets.
“My brother is the chef,” she explained. “He trained in Guangdong before joining me here. I wanted to create a place where the flavors of home remain intact.”
The char siu lived up to the hype. Each bite was a perfect balance between lean meat and fat, all infused with soy sauce, spices, and a subtle sweetness. A delicate crust sealed in the juices, adding a smoky dimension to the dish. For dessert, she offered me a classic walnut cookie — a crunchy treat that instantly transported me back to my childhood.
I was struck, not just by the flavor, but at how food can bridge worlds. Chieng’s Bistro preserves authentic Cantonese traditions while standing as a testament to the evolving identity of Chinese regional cuisine in Mexicali.
That’s a feeling I’ve been chasing since I arrived in Mexico, starting from the first pop-up wine tastings I organized in Mexico City to the Chinese tapas bistro I opened in the city two years ago. Returning to the capital, I decided to take a chance of my own: adding small-pot noodles, a traditional dish in my hometown, to the menu. In addition to the classic noodles floating in bone broth, we offer diners the option of topping it with moronga, a kind of Mexican blood sausage — my attempt at fusing the flavors of Chinese and Mexican cuisine.
Over the years, I’ve come to appreciate the history and techniques of Mexican-Chinese food. It might seem unusual to me, but the chefs who make it are inheritors of a long tradition of adaptation and resilience. Sometimes, it’s important to look beyond simplistic labels like “authenticity” and recognize that the food I grew up with is just one thread in the rich tapestry that is Chinese cuisine.
Editor: Cai Yiwen; portrait artist: Zhou Zhen.
(Header image: La chinesca in Mexicali. Courtesy of Yu Chenfeng)
