We’ve all been there. One minute you’re in a dive off Garibaldi Plaza watching your out-of-town guests dance with half-naked mariachis, and the next morning, you’re nursing the poor tequila-stricken bastards back to life so they can do it all over again a few hours later.

What is there to do? Take heart. Mexico has its own remedies for such scenarios – most of which involve ingesting ample quantities of seasoned, roasted meats, dripping in their own juices.

Luckily, we need only help our friends a short distance to one of the oldest, if not best-known, fondas selling barbacoa in downtown Mexico City: Cocina Vianey, open only on weekends, providing a helping hand to hungry, and often hungover, patrons since 1968.

The no-frills eatery is something of a neighborhood institution, located six blocks south of Alameda Central Park downtown. It draws regulars from the men and women hustling lighting and bath fixtures or networking gear up and down the surrounding streets and from the working-class families that live nearby.

In recent years, the clientele has diversified a bit to include tourists and foodies visiting the San Juan Pugibet gourmet market – only a stone’s throw away from Vianey – or wandering up from La Ciudadela’s massive artisans market two blocks down.

Seating is family-style at the dozen or so plastic tables set up in the kitchen and along the sidewalk. Electricians, housewives and whole families sit side-by-side with college kids, foreigners and the occasional hipster, lured to the capital’s historic center, which has undergone a multi-billion-dollar aesthetic, logistical and commercial transformation over the last decade, mostly for the better.

For all the change, owner and manager Vianey Torres Vega (her parents named the place after her when she was only a baby) has worked hard to keep the model simple and rooted in tradition.

After some prodding, Torres Vega revealed to us the secret to good barbacoa. “It’s all about the meat,” she said. “A lot of [vendors] just give their sheep a bunch of feed to get them fat as quickly as possible – not us.” Hers are grass-fed out on the family ranch in Tenango del Valle, located across the mountains about 70 km west of downtown Mexico City in the State of Mexico.

Barbacoa, the barbecue-style preparation for which Vianey is famous, is traditionally buried underground in a pot and surrounded by hot coals, but the variety here relies on oven-roasting.

The styles of barbacoa actually vary widely but can be broken down into two main categories: roja (red) and blanca (white). Barbacoa roja is made mostly in the states of Jalisco, where Guadalajara is, and Hidalgo, northeast of the capital. It is the hotter of the two varieties and usually seasoned with a blend of chilis, which imparts its fiery hue. Barbacoa blanca, like Vianey’s, typically comes from rural communities in the State of Mexico – most just west of Mexico City – making it more common here, and much friendlier to spicy-food lightweights. The name has more to do with the lack of those chilis and that red color; it’s actually brown in appearance.

The prices are right for anyone on a budget. A popular opener is the caldo de borrega, mutton consomé (13 pesos). Served with or without hunks of mutton, it’s a soup that patrons often tweak with the sides and salsas for several minutes before digging in. One diner sitting at our table showed us how many Mexicans season their soup: one tablespoon of parsley and onion, a little red salsa – bringing the heat – and a squeeze of lime juice. Stir well and go for it.

For 270 pesos, you get a full kilo of barbacoa, but you can order by weight. If you are feeling hungry and really need a solid meal before a long day of sightseeing, tell the waiters you want a 150-gram portion of maciza for 50 pesos. This is simply an assortment of juicy, buttery mutton bits. There’s enough to prep six thick tacos. If you’re not so hungry and only looking to jumpstart your day in Mexican style, four tacos will do.

Maybe it’s one of those days when you feel up for a little adventure and are hankering for strong and unexpected flavors. If so, specify cabeza, chopped tongue and ear, or pancita, chopped tripe from the roasted sheep.

Barbacoa comes with all the fixings, including any combination of fresh corn tortillas, pork cracklings, minced onion and cilantro, a rather picante and creamy guacamole, a straight-up traditional red salsa, limes, nopales en escabeche (cooked cactus strips, marinated with chilis) and – most special of all – the beloved salsa borracha, literally “drunk sauce.” (Another local at the table told us, “They bring the sauce, I bring the drunk.”) This raisin-y concoction is made from spindly dried pasilla chilis, in combo with just a touch of pulque, the mildly alcoholic and sometimes-hard-to-swallow brew made from the maguey plant and favored by the Aztecs and civilizations that preceded them. The sauce is not hot at all, and its sweet flavor matches beautifully with the barbacoa.

Vegetarian sidebar: If you don’t mind the sight and smell of a full-on meaty free-for-all, the sides really do make for a mean little taco, especially with liberal use of the nopales. For 15 pesos, you can also go to the side quesadilla stand (separate line) to get a variety of fillings, like mushrooms, squash blossoms or huitlacoche, a fungal Mexican delicacy that grows on rotting corn and is treasured for an earthy, woody flavor profile reminiscent of truffles. The fillings go into blue corn tortillas, made by hand before your eyes, which then go onto a searing-hot griddle. Add cheese for three pesos extra.

For the meat-inclined, there are also plenty of meat fillings for the quesadillas, like picadillo, a spicy chopped beef preparation that is often combined with chopped carrots and potatoes, and chicharrón – pigskin (think pork cracklings, chopped and served before being fried).

Lines form at peak hours. Don’t wait too late to get there; doors open at 8:30 a.m. and close as soon as the meat runs out, usually mid to late afternoon.