night. There was a colorful smattering of beet slices, their earthiness heightened by dashes of peanuts. There were earthy flavors of wheat and coarsely ground flours, the indulgent umami of dark black beans, and the summery freshness of corn kernels. Goblets of inky red wine poured forth, even an Amarone. But every so often: a bright citrus, maybe blood orange, or a crisp sorbet, to cut through it all and allow us to start afresh. Yet the dish I still think about,

sometimes even taste, is the ribeye, plush and pink in the center, nestled next to a slice of seared foie gras. It would have been enough, but the server appeared with a small, white carafe, which he held above the plate before ever-so-slightly dipping his wrist. A thick, dark, viscous mole negro poured forth. It was almost impossibly rich. Almost. If only every year would end like this, and every new year would start like this, in a restaurant like Topolobampo,

where fine dining is truly at the top of its game