How fortunate is San Francisco to have the only Michelin two-starred Mexican restaurant in the world?

Exceedingly.

Now, chances are that in your lifetime, you’ve had more than your fill of tacos and tostadas.

But not the way they and other dishes are interpreted at Californios.

This is Mexican cuisine that is elevated, elegant, exhilarating.

Last year, Californios relocated from its snug spot in the Mission District to a roomier property in SoMa, which formerly housed Bar Agricole. Following a remodel and the throes of the pandemic, it opened its doors earlier this spring.

While Bar Agricole didn’t really make use of its sizeable front patio, Californios certainly has. High walls encircle it, painted deep, matte charcoal gray like the restaurant’s interior. Steel beams run across the top, from which large light fixtures dangle. In case of rain, there is a retractable roof, with space between it and the top of the walls to allow for air flow.

My husband and I sat at one of the white tablecloth-draped tables outside, which had heaters both above it and to the side to provide ample warmth, no matter how chilly the evening. Done up with potted plants, the patio has a chic starkness to it.

There is only one tasting menu offered each night, and it’s $267 per person. Likely, you’ll have to reserve at least a month or two in advance. You’ll also have to prepay the amount, which is not refundable if your plans should change, so just be aware.

The menu at the table is tucked into a black envelope. Inside is not a mere piece of printed paper listing the dishes, but an entire booklet that not only details each dish (and wine pairing, if you should choose to add that), but also the farmers the restaurant sources from, along with the ingredients they get.

Moreover, there is a full page listing the names of the restaurant’s staff — not just Executive Chef-Owner Val M. Cantu; his wife, Maitre ‘d-Owner Carolyn Cantu; and Beverage Director-Owner Charlotte Randolph; but every employee down to the backservers and the porters.

As you settle in, a refreshing glass of agua fresca is set before you. On this occasion, it was Golden Nugget Mandarin juice laced with the warmth of saffron and tingle of mint.

Next comes a parade of bites, an introduction to Cantu’s unique, contemporary lens of Mexican cuisine with California verve.

The little dishes set simultaneously before you include: an airy chicharron with rainbow trout roe, creamy chive mousse, and a mound of shaved summer truffle; the tiniest arepa topped with squash salsa and Siberian caviar; a one-bite morsel of braised Spanish octopus with spicy, earthy Romesco negro, chile negro and Meyer lemon; a plump briny Kusshi oyster with bright Granny Smith apple and tongue-tickling jalapeno aquachile; and a thick slice of heirloom green tomato, dusted in corn flour for the lightest coating, then fried to a crisp before finished with green tomato salsa and celery powder.

Use your fingers to enjoy each of these one by one, as you marvel at the complexity and precision of each.

In fact, you will use your fingers a lot, rather than utensils, for the first part of this meal. Pick up the chilapita likewise, a crisp, delicate masa tart made with heirloom corn nixtamalized in-house that’s filled with a cloud of smoked sturgeon mousse and topped with Royal White Sturgeon caviar. It’s like a Mexican riff on blini and caviar.

A tostada, the color of river rocks, forms the foundation for a slab of raw, sustainably raised Mexican blue fin tuna, glazed with chile tepin, and garnished with fresh avocado to balance the lilt of heat.

To cleanse the palate for the ceviches to come, there’s a small scoop of sorbet, tinged deep pink from pomegranate juice and brightened with Japanese calamansi. It’s served in a clear pool of gentle tarragon tea.

Like the introductory bites, the ceviches arrive in a trio simultaneously at the table: a novel vegetarian one that’s actually paper-thin jicama and Fuji apple rolled up into cigar shapes, then dusted with chile pequin tajin and tamarind chamoy; hamachi slices in a tart-spicy gooseberry and habanero aquachile; and Monterey Bay abalone served in its dazzling shell with slivers of Hachiya persimmon for cinnamon-y sweetness, coastal succulents for texture, and yuzu and seaweed aquachile for breezy touch of brininess.

Then, prepare yourself for one of the most beguiling dish you’ll ever experience. Just try to wrap your head around the notion of a grilled, warm baby banana, that’s soft, caramelized and sweet like you’d get in a Fosters dessert, but inexplicably dolloped lavishly with salty, crunchy Kaluga caviar, and presented with a swoosh of dulce de leche that’s savory tasting. It’s a bite that’s confoundingly brilliant. It’s sweet, it’s salty. It’s warm, it’s cold. It’s low-brow, it’s high-brow. It shouldn’t work, but boy, does it ever. It’s one of those dishes you don’t want to end.

Now, you’ve arrived at the street food part of the menu. Though, these certainly must be some posh streets, given the eloquence of what’s to come. As with any street food, there are garnishes to add if you like, such as perfectly cut discs of crunchy fermented carrots, wedges of fresh key limes, pickled onions, salsa verde, paper-thin slices of jicama marinated in citrus, and creamy huitlacoche crema.

Up first is a pre-Hispanic tlacoyo, a bundle of charred hoya santa leaves enveloping heirloom masa grown in Mexico, cranberry beans and smoked queso. You eat the entire thing — leaves and all — with a smear of the tangy crema. It’s smoky and vegetative, like the taste of a camp fire.

That’s followed by an al pastor taco that looks like minimalist art work. A Hickory Gold masa tortilla that tastes intensely of corn holds one perfect slice of smoked pineapple on one side, and grilled Tai Madai on the other. I often crave more pineapple when it comes to an al pastor taco. Not with this one, which let the pineapple really shine without overwhelming the mild, sweet sea bream.

Squab is a lean bird. But here, the Durham Ranch squab, marinated and grilled, is somehow as juicy and succulent as pork belly. It’s served atop a house sourdough tortilla, as puffy and soft as pita, dotted with cucumber crema and Aleppo pepper salsa. It’s accompanied with a cup of sundried tomato, coriander and fenugreek broth so intensely savory, peppery, and thoroughly warming that a big bowl would surely instantaneously cure any cold if you’re ever ailing.

The final savory course is Snake River Farms ribeye asada that melts in the mouth, alongside a slow-smoked pine mushroom that was a pure explosion of smokiness and meatiness. It’s as if an entire forest were distilled into this single mushroom.

As someone who loves the throat-burn of ginger, the digestivo of fresh young ginger juice and Pink Lady apple really hit the spot. Its fresh, sharp warmth definitely resets the palate.

It’s accompanied by a tiny cylindrical Asian pear taquito, all creaminess from Liwa goat cheese from Tomales Bay Creamery and sweetened by a house-made quince paste.

Almost too beautiful to eat, the bunuelo flower-shaped fritter is adorned with colorful petals. Underneath it is a Bartlett pear sorbet, sumac ice cream and creamy, nutty tasting pepita butter.

You’re just getting started on the desserts. Next up, a gourmet version of a choco taco, this one made with a crunchy chocolate waffle cone folded up upon cocoa nib ice cream, and frozen Thomcord grape chamoy with a touch of chile morita. A fanciful squiggle of torched meringue finishes it off.

A spun-sugar sphere on a stick comes perched in a glass. It’s cotton candy made from coconut sugar that tastes like deepest, darkest caramel that’s nearly savory. Hidden inside at the very center is a surprise: a teeny frozen Pina Colada paleta. Yes, a miniature creamy, frosty popsicle at its heart. How fun is that?

Chocolates are set out: a white chocolate one that’s liquid inside with Marshall’s Farm Honey and bee pollen that you need to eat in one bite; milk chocolate bonbons filled with fig jam accented by bay leaf and mezcal-based Xila liqueur; and a caramelized candied sweet potato bonbon.

Before you leave, little gifts of wax-sealed bottles of vanilla extract are presented for you to take home. They’re made with three types of vanilla beans. The server suggests using the extract for cocktails or baking. I can’t wait to try it in batches of cookies for the holidays.

Around us on the patio, couples were commemorating birthdays and anniversaries. My husband and I? We were just celebrating that it was Thursday, and that we were fortunate enough to enjoy such breathtaking food even if the world isn’t quite normal yet.

Life is short. Life is unpredictable. Don’t put off experiencing a meal like this, if you can. Just do it.