84 SAVEUR.COMPHILADELPHIA
to PUEBLAFrom top: Once
griddled on the
comal, chalupas
receive a smear of
green and red salsas;
rose-tinged heirloom
maiz, or corn, will
become fresh masa.E
very meal at Milli
begins with a
complimentary
chalupa. One
of the cooks griddles a
small, handmade corn
tortilla atop a hot comal
until it’s bronzed on
both sides, then layers it
with smoky red salsa and
homemade queso fresco.
It ’s a humble g if t—a nd a
warming first taste of the
restaurant’s pueblo cooking.
taurant come fresh from either their own lands or their neigh-
bors’. Second, all five of Milli’s founders are migrants. At some
point in their lives, each of them left their home in Mexico
for Philadelphia—where a large population of Ozolco natives
currently reside—and have since made the journey back. Because
there are few government or community resources to support
them, they are proactively creating culinary and agricultural op-
portunities for themselves and others. “If no one gives us any-
thing,” Leo says, “we have to do things ourselves.”
Ozolco is a small town, and the five friends and owners met
each other over the years through family members or acquain-
tances. Each has a similar tale of crossing the border and re-
turning. Benjamin Telléz, the restaurant’s soft-spoken waiter
(no relation to Leo), crossed many times and spent nine years in
Philadelphia before ultimately being deported for being undoc-
umented. Ricardo Peréz, who has a huge smile and knows just
a few English words, lived there for 10 years, progressing from
dishwasher to cook. Bernardo Rincón made it across the bor-
der on his first try, despite being robbed by drug traffickers, and
lived in Philadelphia for three years before being sent home. Lino
Hernández, Milli’s head chef, left Ozolco when he was just 15 and
worked for 14 years in restaurant kitchens in the U.S. Leo, whoOne of Milli’s owners, Leo Telléz,
says that other local chefs who come
to his restaurant often end their meal
with hopes of emulating the dishes they
tasted. A common line of questioning is
about the restaurant’s fresh masa. Leo
answers amicably, knowing that the skill
takes time to hone. “If you just want the
final dish, that’s not how it works,” he
says. “You have to feel the maiz, touch it,
even plant it.”
His year-old restaurant in San Pedro
Cholula sits in a converted garage just
a few blocks away from the town’s fa-
mous Tlachihualtepetl pyramid—the
largest in the world. Leo and his four
co-owners share the space with another
friend, who turns it into a bar in the eve-
nings. Corncobs of many colors hang
amid pastel-colored bunting. Pictures
of open fields and inscriptions in Na-
huatl, the precolonial language of cen-
tral Mexico, adorn the walls. Atop the
tables are f lower-shaped totomochtle
sculptures made of cornhusks, created
by female artisans in San Mateo Ozolco,
an hour away.
Milli is remarkable for two reasons:
First, most of the restaurant’s employ-
ees work there just half the week so they
can tend to their farms in Ozolco on the
remaining days. The heirloom maiz and
most other ingredients used at the res-