Spencer's again: huevos con machaca.
It's another day at the beach with the boys, and a lunch of chicken mole (apologies to the accent purists) from a local joint, a place that felt just a corporate step below the chaininess of a Quizno's. 
I'm not the biggest fan of mole; the smoky sweet and chalkiness of it doesn't do it for me, but, of course, I ain't one to turn down food.
The evening takes us to Rick (h?) and Luc's place, a luuu-verly place where Luc's been installing a new bathroom (black tile and slate). Alberto's also got a place, just up the way, all avocado and cream and gray and burnt orange, a place that opens up to the source of much panty-creaming: an infinity pool.
At Rick and Luc's, we dined on a salad washed in water sanitized with iodine, and a very quotidian and yet utterly spectacular spaghetti with meat sauce, then tried to make our way back to the hotel, after several glasses of strawberry frozen margaritas, without being turned into a tangle of steel and chunks of unidentifiable viscera.
Yum.
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