‘Latino culture … it’s kind of infectious’
“Idon’t want to sound like I blow my own trumpet,” Rotorua’s own “Mexican guy” says. “But I am very proud to have introduced Latin music and the Latin culinary experience to New Zealand.”
This Mexican guy is actually Chilean. Eduardo Diaz, 59, is also an award-winning Latin singer, a former refugee, and until
recently the emperor of Rotorua’s Mexican eateries: El Mexicano
Zapata Cantina, El Mexicano Zapata Express and a Mexican food truck. But the empire has fragmented. El Mexicano Zapata Cantina is going it alone (Diaz sold the restaurant to his former business partner).
Diaz has been starting and selling Latin American restaurants since 1984. That’s when he opened El Inca on Auckland’s Karangahape Rd. El Inca was a triple threat: home to pan-latin American food, live music, and a lot of dancing.
“There was nothing else like El Inca back then,” Diaz recalls. “There were Yugoslavian clubs for the Yugoslavs, Dutch clubs for Dutch, but Latino culture … it’s kind of infectious. We take it to everyone.” In lieu of El Inca, Diaz texted me a Youtube link to a Victor Jara song called Te Recuerdo Amanda — so I could get a taste. Jara was a Chilean neo-folkloric singersongwriter.
Music had been Diaz’s priority and food his side-gig. Now it’s vice versa. Diaz moved from Auckland to Rotorua eight years ago and, in 2017, opened the very popular El Mexicano Zapata Cantina. El Mexicano Zapata Express soon followed. The Express is lighter on Dia de Muertos kitsch and Frida Kahlo portraits than Cantina, but there are enough sombreros around to be sure it’s Mexican food you’ll be getting.
And soon you’ll be getting much more: El Mexicano Zapata Express is set to become El Inca of the Bay of Plenty. Diaz is building a stage for live music, a dancefloor and a recording studio. It’ll all be ready by Christmas. Diaz assures me he is nothing if not a man of action.
“My father was a good Communist and I am a good capitalist,” he says.
His Communist dad was the reason Diaz is in New Zealand today.
It was 1973. Chile’s Marxist president had been overthrown in a Us-backed coup d’etat led by Augusto Pinochet. Diaz’s dad, Luis — a union leader who waved placards telling America to “Get Out Of Vietnam” — was a marked man. The new army arrived at their home, pointed a gun at Luis’ head and told him to get out of Chile or die. “So many people were tortured and killed,” says Diaz. Jara, a political activist as well as my new favourite singer, was one of them.
Diaz remembers sneaking across the Peruvian border at night. The family spent six months in a Peruvian refugee camp before the United Nations helped get them to Auckland. Neither of his parents spoke English.
Back then, refugees were given factory jobs. Luis worked at a sheet metal factory, his mum Patricia at Simplicity Patterns — the first job she’d ever had (a woman’s place was at home in 1970s’ Chile). Patricia found she loved the independence an income gave her. She used her new freedom to learn English, divorce Luis and study social work at Auckland University. Patricia worked with Aboriginal communities in the Australian outback before helping set up the Aotearoa Latin American Community (ALAC) — a social services provider supporting refugees from around the world. Diaz is a proud son.
“I take my hat off to her, because she was a real pioneer,” he says.
Luis, meanwhile, returned to Chile in 1990, when a new government came to power. “Even though my father loved New Zealand, in the back of his mind his place was in Chile,” Diaz says. “With his brothers, his food, his tango, and his friends — who’d gossip in bars until 1 o’clock in the morning.” Pre-covid, Diaz returned to Chile often to spend time with his dad. He’s made sure his own seven kids spend time over there too, to learn about their culture.
Why doesn’t Diaz make Chilean food?
It’s simple: Mexican makes more money. He considers himself a pan-latin America chef, however, and slips in the odd special from Peru, Argentina, or El Salvador.
He smokes his own chillies (crucial), slow cooks his meat (frying is the enemy), and soaks vast quantities of black beans for hours every day (cans are the devil). He gets excited over sauce chat: “My salsa roja, oh! It’s delicious. It has chipotle chillies, coriander, lime, garlic … it’s delicious, really.” His salsa verde is my favourite, made with thin-skinned green tomatillos that look like gooseberries and aren’t tomatoes.
Tapas at El Mexicano Zapata Express are huge, big enough for a meal (I took home leftovers). The beef quesadilla costs $16 and comes with salsa verde, salsa roja, and chipotle aioli. The especialidades are freaking enormous. Diaz recommends enchiladas ($28). He stacks tortillas like pancakes, with roja salsa, meat, and mozzarella. After a good grilling, Diaz garnishes them with red onions he’s pickled himself. That’s a lot of food, but wait, there’s more: red rice and black beans. Plus six or so sauces in dainty little dishes. Wash it down with a bottle of Jarritos, a Mexican soda that comes in tamarind, guava, and “Jamaica” ($6).
El Mexicano Zapata Express, 1211 Amohau St, Rotorua
In the second instalment of a new column, Amanda Saxton chronicles the culinary landscape of small traditional restaurants. This week, she heads to El Mexicano Zapata Express, in Rotorua.