Chipilo, the Italian town in Mexico

We went to Chipilo to escape Puebla’s ubiquitous mole. That was the plan, anyway. After a month in Puebla City, our taste buds needed a break from cinnamon- and chocolate-inflected sauces. Thus, our trip to Chipilo, The most Italian Town in Mexico™. Allegedly.

Just six miles outside the city, Chipilo is home to the descendants of 38 Venetian families who arrived in 1882 and apparently never left. Or updated their menu. Admittedly, it was a bold culinary bet, but we were seriously tired of Poblano food. Unfortunately, what we got was the worst bolognese I’ve ever eaten. And I’ve eaten airplane pasta. In Ohio.

The thing about Chipilo is that it’s both genuinely fascinating and spectacularly underwhelming. The whole town feels like someone tried reconstructing rural Veneto based on a slightly water-damaged, sepia-toned memory. The signage is bilingual—Spanish and something vaguely Italian. Their homegrown dialect has no official grammar or spelling, it’s less language and more collaborative improv.

They call it Chipileño, or Itañol if they're feeling fancy. It's a hyper-local pidgin—a mash-up of 19th-century Venetian and everyday Spanish, passed down orally and proudly miswritten by generations who have never agreed on how to spell anything. Everyone speaks it, but no one writes it the same way twice. Yet, they all want UNESCO to give them a hug and list it as an official dialect.

And yes, they’re serious. There’s a full-blown international campaign to have Chipileño officially recognized—right up there with Nahuatl, Tarahumara, and other Indigenous languages that actually developed organically over centuries and didn’t begin life as a workaround for dairy co-ops. Italian officials have weighed in. Cultural institutes have made sympathetic noises. It’s an impressive amount of institutional energy devoted to a small town that also serves red wine and lemonade in the same glass. Honestly, it's like if a Spanglish hoodlum and a Venetian ghost had a baby and then claimed it was a Habsburg heir. I’m not buying it.

We wandered the six-block downtown, where everything was quiet. Even Mexitalians have siesta, I guess. There’s no zócalo in town, no central fountain, no gazebo for impromptu band concerts. No, this town is proudly built in the Italian style—private and public sharing the center, a subtle architectural nod to equality. Or maybe just a practical choice by homesick Italians trying to make Mexico feel like Treviso.

The church is the standout building, and I mean that both literally and diplomatically. It’s dedicated to the Immaculate Conception, but it’s far removed from the ornate excesses of Mexican Baroque. No gilded angels looming over your shoulder. No exploding cherubs. Just clean lines, a sober simplicity, and a collection of saints that looked like they were curated by an interfaith committee. Italian patron saints mixed in with the usual Mexican staples. I’m pretty sure I saw both St. Anthony and the Virgin of Guadalupe politely ignoring each other.

We took it all in, slowly, carefully, as if maybe our stomachs would forget the lunch we’d just subjected them to. The bolognese had been gray. Gray. The wine came mixed with lemonade. Sweet lemonade. It’s a local drink that sounded charming but tasted like sangria’s sad cousin. We drank half out of politeness and then quietly left the rest to ferment in peace.

And yet—there was cheese. Sweet, merciful cheese. Chipilo has built its modern-day reputation on dairy, and for good reason. Their cheeses are famous across Mexico—provolone, parmesan, panela, even Oaxacan and American styles. We stopped at a shop on the way out of town and bought a little of everything. It was the only part of the day that felt sincerely Italian. Or edible.

We never did climb Cerro de Grappa, the hill that rises out of the center of town and is named—one assumes—either after the mountain in Italy or the liquor that numbs you to disappointment. But we did stare at it for a while. There's a statue up there of the Sacred Heart and a tribute to Italians who died in World War I, which felt too heavy for a Tuesday.

To its credit, Chipilo leans into its history. They even have a sister-city pact with Segusino, the original hometown of its first Italian settlers. There’s palpable pride here, even if it’s wrapped in substandard pasta and fizzy red lemon wine. And, hey, their espresso was pretty good.

In the end, I’m glad we went. Not because of the food. But because not every place has to be great to be worth visiting. Some towns give you perspective. Others give you a mildly unsettling cultural remix of Italy in the Mexican highlands. Chipilo gave us both.

We came for a taste of Italy, but we got Spanglish with cheese. Honestly? It could've been worse. That cheese was delicious.