Tikin xic belongs to the coast. It is cooked in the fishing towns along the northern and eastern edges of the Yucatán Peninsula, in Campeche, and anywhere a palapa sits close enough to the water for the fish to arrive whole and still stiff. The name is Yucatec Maya and is usually glossed as dry fin, a reference to cooking the fish over heat rather than in liquid. In Tulum it is the dish that makes the most sense of where we are: a grouper or a red snapper, a banana leaf cut from the garden, and a fire.

It is weekend food and midday food. Nobody makes tikin xic for one person on a Tuesday. The fish is bought whole, opened out flat like a book, and that shape only works if there are five or six people around the table to pull it apart. On the beach it comes out on a metal tray with the leaf still under it, rice and tortillas alongside, a bowl of xnipec within reach.

The taste is earthy before it is anything else. Achiote gives color and a mild, slightly resinous, almost peppery flavor, and the sour orange cuts under it with a bitterness that lime alone lacks. Over coals the leaf scorches and perfumes the underside of the fish, the tomato and onion on top collapse into a loose sauce, and the thin edges of the belly go crisp. None of it is hot. The chile sits on the side so each person decides.

Two things go wrong most often. The first is treating achiote paste as a sauce and laying it on thick, which leaves a chalky, medicinal coat; the paste should be thinned with sour orange until it brushes on like paint. The second is to wrap the parcel tightly and put it in the oven, which steams the fish and gives you something pale and watery. Keep the leaf open or loosely folded, keep the heat below it, and accept a little char. Also, do not marinate for hours. Acid cures fish flesh, and forty minutes is enough to flavor it without turning the surface opaque and firm.