ROBERTO SANTIBAÑEZ drove with me to a bakery in Mexico City called La Espiga expecting to be disappointed. Before leaving the city many years ago, he loved the tamales that a man sold on the sidewalk in front of the bakery, and he was hoping that maybe, just maybe, he could get those same tamales at that spot now.

We parked and walked toward the bakery, shuffling between vendors selling fresh juices, deep-fried quesadillas and corn slathered with mayonnaise. In front of the bakery, standing next to two large pots, was a woman selling tamales.

“There!” Mr. Santibañez said, his face brightening. “My tamales!”

The vendor, Maria de los Angeles, told us that her 80-year-old father had begun selling tamales at that location in the Hipódromo neighborhood when he was 18. Mr. Santibañez began to suspect that this was the daughter of the vendor who had fed him so well all those years ago. After he tasted the tamales, he was thoroughly convinced.

It was just one of the times during our visit that Mr. Santibañez, below, discovered that the foods he had so loved in his youth were right where he left them.