In Mexico City, the most enjoyable part of the dining experience unfolds well after dessert is served.

On a rainy summer evening in Mexico City, my friend Sofía and I found ourselves at the bar of a restaurant, anxiously eyeing the table we were waiting for. The couple seated there had finished their meal long before we arrived, yet their lively conversation showed no signs of stopping. Ignoring the growing line outside, they happily sipped their water, completely oblivious to the check sitting between them. “Apologies,” our waiter said as he brought us another round of complimentary drinks, “You know how unpredictable sobremesa can be.” We certainly did, and it was hard to fault the couple; Sofía and I had occupied a table like that many times ourselves.

Arranging dinner with friends in Mexico City can be just as challenging as in any major city, but there's often an extra factor to consider: sobremesa. This term, which literally means “over the table,” describes the time spent drinking, chatting, and enjoying each other's company after a meal. While post-dinner conversations are common at private gatherings worldwide, sobremesa is a unique cultural tradition that hails from Spain. In Mexico, it’s so embedded in daily life that it frequently extends the duration of restaurant visits, impacting the waiting times for others as well. However, restaurant owners and diners alike do not see sobremesa as a burden; in fact, if you want to connect with locals in Mexico City, participating in this tradition is a must.

Embodied in Mexico’s appreciation for relaxation, community, and tequila, sobremesa is a cultural nuance that seems less prevalent in the U.S., where there isn't even a specific term for it. In Mexico, food—while rich in complexity and history—serves primarily as a means of bringing people together. This is especially true in Mexico City, a bustling metropolis with a population of 21.2 million, where sobremesa offers a soothing contrast to the city's hectic pace.

I like to think I mastered the art of sobremesa back in college, when my roommates and I were usually confined to our apartment's dining room due to our limited student budgets. Having never managed to buy a couch, we gathered daily around a long table made from a door. Since we were all jobless and not the most diligent students, we spent our time creating affordable dishes to share on large plates until they were empty. This inevitably led to hours of engaging conversation.

Newcomers quickly adapt to the local customs; for instance, Andrea Celda moved from Spain to Mexico with her partner years ago, and they forged friendships through the endless sobremesas that followed their lunch gatherings. Although the concept originated in Spain and is cherished in its culture, Celda now associates it uniquely with her social experiences in Mexico City. “Often, a sobremesa would evolve into a full-blown party,” she shares. “I miss that so much.”

A few months ago, the couple moved to New York City, where Celda observes that social interactions are notably less relaxed. “I suppose it’s because people here have so little time and space,” she reflects. “In Mexico, food is deeply cultural and intricately connected to friends, family, and community building.”

Conversations during a meal differ greatly from those that occur during sobremesa. Once the tequila is poured and a haze of smoke hovers over the table, people are ready to unwind. “A good sobremesa can lead to closing a significant business deal — or losing one — forging a friendship, or igniting a rivalry,” says Juan Luis Carrera, a wedding planner from Guadalajara. Mexican weddings are known for their vibrancy, but Juan Luis realized something was missing in their events: the time for conversation. Dancing typically started right after dessert, leaving no opportunity for guests to savor their carajillos, a traditional after-dinner drink made with espresso and Licor 43.

“Before entering the wedding planning business, I often felt that the opportunity for sobremesa was overlooked at weddings,” he explains. “You’re not even done with dessert before everyone jumps up to dance. In Mexico, people love to talk just as much as they love to dance.” Now, Juan Luis encourages his clients to allow time for sobremesa before the dancing begins, a crucial element in his view. So far, no bride has regretted this decision. “It’s obvious,” he asserts.

While meticulously organized events like weddings necessitate scheduling sobremesas, they are typically more spontaneous affairs, perfectly suited to certain restaurants. I was shocked when friends visiting Mexico City from New York mentioned they planned a museum tour just an hour and a half after a lunch reservation at Contramar. This restaurant is undoubtedly a culinary icon in Mexico City, but its true magic unfolds after dessert.

At Contramar, the waitstaff takes their time with the check, always attentive to any mezcal glasses needing a refill. During my last visit, my group arrived at 2 p.m. and lingered for seven hours until the restaurant closed. I told my confused gringo friends that a 90-minute visit to Contramar misses half the fun; it’s about staying with your group long after dessert, getting louder with each round of exemplary carajillos.

This city can feel overwhelming in its vastness, tempting visitors to cram in a packed schedule — from Aztec pyramids to Frida Kahlo’s house, colorful boats on the Xochimilco canals, and countless museums, markets, and taco stands. In recent years, travelers have become keen on experiencing destinations “like a local,” but to truly immerse yourself in Mexico City’s culture, you need to do more than just identify popular spots; you must also embrace the local way of enjoying them. Sobremesa is just a small but essential piece of the city’s vibrant culture that visitors shouldn’t overlook.

Local restaurants understand this well, and if a hostess mentions that the wait for a table could range from 15 minutes to two hours, she’s being honest. Spend a Friday afternoon outside El Parnita, a casual lunch venue popular among La Roma’s art scene, and you’ll see that everyone inside is taking their time. The same goes for San Ángel Inn, a former hacienda in the city’s south, where large groups of families and friends gather on weekends.

The feeling of loneliness in a big city is common elsewhere, but since moving here, I’ve never felt isolated or without a community — largely due to sobremesa. There’s something liberating about abandoning strict schedules and the notion that time spent socializing is wasted, allowing you to connect more deeply with others. While working on this article, I asked my Mexican friends about their experiences with these over-table moments. “I wouldn’t even know where to begin,” my friend Francisco said, “but let’s chat about it after dinner this weekend.”

Karina Zatarain is a writer who splits her time between Mexico City and New York City.