It was a tale of two Mexicos for me today. Searching for just the right place to watch Mexico-France took me first to La Tapatia (1749 Richmond), and then to Maria Selma’s new Orange Sports Bar a few blocks away (1613 Richmond). Why is it called the Orange Sports Bar? Because that’s the color they painted it.

And why do I say “two Mexicos?” If you know the country at all, you’re aware that there are several only slighted connected countries living together inside Mexico’s borders. Historian Lesley Byrd Simpson titled his well-received history of the country Many Mexicos. UT’s Center for Latin American Studies is currently conducting a year-long symposium also titled "Many Mexicos."

But in economic terms, there are only two Mexicos, rich and poor. I won’t say the fans at La Tapatia are poor. They’re paying $10 for their fajitas, and for that matter I don’t have much money myself. But the Tapatia crowd is definitely in Houston to work. They were an alegre blue-collar crowd, but I was pretty sure they’d be back on the job as soon as the match was over, or even sooner.

I left at half-time, with the score of the fast-paced game 0—0, not really happy with the chicken fajitas I’d just eaten. I wanted to find another place to watch the second half. I would’ve gone French, but when I called Au Petit Paris and the Brasserie Max and Julie, they told me they didn’t have televisions, and they didn’t know of any French places inside the Beltway that did.

Just as well for them, as it turned out. And for me too, as I decided to give the Orange a second look, and was very glad that I did. I’d gone by last week for Uruguay-France, and had liked the bar, which still smelled of new paint, but there were more televisions (10) than customers, so I hadn’t planned on going back. But today the parking lot was overflowing, so I went in to find a roaring, rowdy, and thoroughly excited mob—if I can use that word to describe the rather more upscale crowd I found there.

I bumped into an artist friend from Mexico who, as if reading my mind, immediately pointed out how many blondes were in the crowd. I hope this comes across as observational, rather than judgmental. I certainly had a better time, and a better margarita, at the Orange than at La Tapatia. And the crowd was in fact a joy.

When newly minted star Javier Hernandez (aka “El Chicharito,” or “Sweetpea”) scored immediately upon entering the game (at the 64th minute), the crowd erupted, and was still going off 15 minutes later when the venerable Cuauhtemoc Blanco became, at 37, the third oldest player to ever score in a World Cup, making the final tally 2-0. How the tequila flowed as both youth and age were served! I didn’t think that many of my fellow revelers were headed back to work.

This was Mexico’s first victory ever against a team that has won a World Cup, and, frankly, the team looks brilliant. Unlike the mopey French, who are perhaps embarrassed to even be in South Africa, given that it took an infamous handball by Thierry Henry against Ireland to book their spot.

After the game my artist friend and I watched scenes on Univision from a jubilant Mexico City, where crowds gathered to celebrate. When I ventured the opinion that Mexico was overdue for some good news, he more or less dismissed my naiveté.

“A new revolution is starting in Mexico,” he said. “It’s not just a drug war, even though that’s how the media reports it.”

He believes that the Mexican government, eager for bread and circus, has arranged for Mexico to win the World Cup, just to distract the people.

Like I said, there are many Mexicos.