Where can you have an authentic Méxican meal, get a great night’s rest, and stare in open-mouthed wonder at an incredible Big Thing, all in the same place? Right here at the Presidente InterContinental Hotel in Mexico City’s trendy Polanco district – home to the beautiful and historic El Chapulín.
That’s ‘The Grasshopper’ for you gringos. ¡Buen provecho!
El Chapulín started life as the logo for what was originally known as the Presidente Chapultepec Hotel, and was designed by American artiste Lance Wyman in 1975. Chapultepec means ‘hill of grasshoppers’ in the ancient Aztec language, so it wasn’t a huge leap to settle on a giant insect.
Having previously worked on the iconography for the 1968 Olympics and the Mexico City Metro, Lance brought a touch of class to the emblem, whilst celebrating the vibrant personality of this cheeky chap(ulín).
The minimalist logo was so moving that, not only did the owners slather a 15-metre version of it across the top of the hotel, but also placed an immense stone rendition at the front door to greet customers.
By the way, do you need to tip the doorman if he’s a two-tonne Aztec grasshopper?
“I designed the hotel grasshopper using forms found in the Aztec period,” Lance explained. “When the hotel changed ownership it used a new logo. I remember feeling sad the first time I flew into Mexico City and the 15-meter grasshopper was no longer on top of the hotel.”
Heartbreak, however, soon turned to hoppiness. Whilst the logo atop the building was removed, the stone statue of El Chapulín was saved. He soon moved to his current location in a courtyard opposite the Jardín Winston Churchill.
Thanks, Lance – your work is Chapul-íncredible!
They should’ve called him Dennis Hopper!
So beloved is El Chapulín that there’s even a restaurant, right next to the statue, named in his honour. Serving traditional comida Méxicana, Chapulín is famous for its picaditas de camarón en salsa verde, pollo estilo Sinaloa, and ceviche verde de pescado.
Bizarrely, the restaurant serves neither jalapeño hoppers nor Grasshopper cocktails. When I demanded an answer from the waitress, all I got was crickets. On the plus side, the restaurant’s very clean, so they’ll have no trouble with the health insectors.
When I tore Mexico’s elite away from their meals to tell them those pithy one-liners, they started bugging out. I guess my hilarity’s lost in translation.
“Mmmmm, this tostada de jaiba reminds me of my youth on the streets of Guadalajara,” I gibbered to my mí amiga, Bigella. I paused to elegantly wipe salsa macha from my chin. “I’d rise at dawn to shine shoes all day, just to earn enough dinero to buy a simple carne apache de atún madurado sobre tres piezas de tuétano.”
“I thought you grew up in a waterfront bungalow in Vaucluse?” she responded.
“Honestly,” I sighed, “my backstory changes so often that even I don’t remember anymore.”
There was an uneasy silence. The two of us stared longingly at El Chapulín as we munched away on our perfectly-prepared postres. Helado de mangos con crema for myself. Pastel de queso a la leña con compota de frutos rojos for Bigella.
“By the way, Bigella,” I said, jabbing an ice cream-sticky finger at her belly. “I’ve been meaning to ask about…”
“Too many quesadillas,” Bigella snapped.
“It doesn’t have anything to do with what happened that night in Andorra?”
“Too many quesadillas.”
“I told you, I was overcome by lust after visiting The Ponderer.”
“Too. Many. Quesadillas.”
Somewhere, in Parque Chapultepec, a loon cried out on the lake.
