Mexico has been holding two-night vigils for the dead for three thousand years. They're loud, candlelit, and almost nothing like the things most people in London think they are. On 1 and 2 November, the country builds altars, lights marigolds, and cooks the favourite meals of those who have gone — and then sits with them, in candlelight, until morning.
This is what Día de los Muertos actually is. Here is what it means, and what we make of it at Frida Camden.
A three-thousand-year tradition
Long before Spain reached the Americas, the people of central Mexico — the Aztec, Toltec, Maya and others — held month-long ceremonies to honour the dead. The most documented of them was the festival of Mictecacihuatl, the Aztec goddess who watched over the bones of those who had passed. Death was not the end of a person; it was a different room they had moved into. The living kept their memory by lighting fires, leaving food and speaking their names aloud.
When the Spanish arrived in 1521 and brought Catholic All Saints' Day (1 November) and All Souls' Day (2 November), the two traditions didn't compete — they fused. The pre-Hispanic vigil moved onto the Catholic calendar but kept almost everything else: the altars, the food, the candles, the names. UNESCO recognised Día de los Muertos as Intangible Cultural Heritage in 2008. It is one of the oldest continuously celebrated festivals on earth.
The altar (ofrenda) and what each level means
Every Día de los Muertos altar is built on the same logic. Most have four levels, though larger family altars can stretch to seven. Each level corresponds to one of the elements that connect this world to the next.
The lowest level holds water (for the journey), salt (for purification), and four candles — one for each cardinal direction, so a soul knows the way home. The second level holds food: pan de muerto (a sweet egg-bread shaped like crossed bones), mole in clay pots, tamales, fruit, and the favourite dish of each person being honoured. The third level holds photographs — small silver-framed portraits of the departed, sometimes with a glass of mezcal next to a grandfather's face, sometimes with a child's toy beside a young one's. The top level is for marigolds.
The smell of marigolds
The flower above all flowers in Día de los Muertos is cempasúchil — the Aztec name for the marigold. Bright orange, richly scented, almost spicy. Mexican folk tradition holds that the cempasúchil's scent is what guides the souls of the dead back to their families on the night of the vigil. Whether or not you take that literally, the smell does mark the day. Walk into a Mexican neighbourhood on the morning of 2 November and the air is marigolds before it is anything else.
We bring cempasúchil to Frida every year. They sit on the altar, around the bar, and in small posies on each table. By the end of the night the petals are everywhere — on the floor, in the candles, sometimes in someone's hair.
"Día de los Muertos is not sad. It is a festival of love that refuses to let death have the last word."
What goes on the table
The food of Día de los Muertos is specific and unmistakable. Pan de muerto — sweet, slightly orange-blossom-flavoured bread topped with strips of dough shaped like bones — is baked from late October. It's eaten through the holiday and crumbled onto the altar for the dead. Mole poblano, the slow-cooked sauce of dried chillies, chocolate and spices, is the night's main dish in most Pueblan homes; we wrote about it in our Oaxacan mole story earlier this year.
Atole is a thick, warm corn-based drink, sweetened with sugar or piloncillo and flavoured with cinnamon. Champurrado is the chocolate version — heavier, more chocolatey, served scalding hot with a churro on the side. Both are drunk in graveyards on the night of 2 November, hands wrapped around the cup against the cold. Sugar skulls (calaveras de azúcar) — bright, candy-decorated, often with the names of the living iced onto the forehead — are a reminder, in the gentlest way, that we are next.
Where Day of the Dead and Halloween meet — and where they don't
Halloween (31 October) and Día de los Muertos (1–2 November) sit on the calendar two days apart, both involve images of skulls, and both have grown up around a sense that the membrane between the living and the dead is thinner this time of year. That's the overlap.
The differences are larger. Halloween in its modern form descends from Celtic Samhain and Christian All Hallows' Eve, became commercial in the United States in the 20th century, and is built around dressing as monsters. Día de los Muertos descends from indigenous Mexican religion, was woven into Catholic All Saints' Day, and is built around inviting your dead family back into the room. One is theatrical and outward; the other is intimate and inward. The skulls (calaveras) in Mexican tradition aren't scary — they're decorated with sugar and named for people you love.
If you grew up with Halloween and have only met Día de los Muertos through a Pixar film or a costume shop, the difference comes through fastest at a real altar — the photographs, the candle smell, the food set out for someone who isn't going to eat it.
What we do at Frida Camden on the night
On 1 and 2 November, the front room shifts. We close the lights and lift the candles, build the altar in the front window, drape marigolds across the bar, and put on a Día de los Muertos menu beside the regular one. The mariachi band plays, but quieter than on a Friday — more guitar, less brass. Face painting (la catrina — the iconic skull face) is done at the bar by anyone who wants it, usually free of charge.
The menu changes too. Pan de muerto comes out of the oven from late October. Mole poblano is the centrepiece. Atole and champurrado replace the after-dinner cocktail. We add sugar skulls to dessert. The whole evening runs a little slower than a normal service — no one is hurried out of a table.
How to mark Día de los Muertos at home, if you can't come to ours
You don't need to be Mexican, or in Mexico, to keep a small ofrenda. Most London Mexican families build something — even just a corner of a kitchen with photographs, a candle, a glass of water and a piece of bread. Casa Mexicana in Soho stocks pan de muerto and sugar skulls in late October; Mexican grocery shops in Brixton and Tottenham Court Road carry cempasúchil seeds for those who want to plant them.
Set the photographs at the back, the food in front, the candles either side. Light them on the evening of 1 November and let them burn down. Say the names out loud. That is most of the ceremony.
Why you should come
Because grief, in the Mexican tradition, is something you share around a table. Because it is one of the few nights in London when strangers hug each other without apologising for it. And because the way the room feels, at about ten in the evening, with the candles low and the mariachi soft and someone teaching their child the names of grandparents who never met them — there isn't really a comparison.
If you're new to Frida, our Cinco de Mayo writeup covers what the kitchen is like on a normal Mexican-calendar night. Día de los Muertos is the same kitchen, slowed down by half, and lit only by candles.
Booking opens in late September. We sell out by mid-October most years. Reserve a table here, or call us on +44 207 383 3733 to ask about altar contributions — we welcome guests who want to add a photograph or a name to the bar's altar for the night.
Frequently asked questions
Is Día de los Muertos the same as Halloween?
No. They sit two days apart on the calendar (Halloween 31 October, Día de los Muertos 1–2 November) and both involve skull imagery, but the traditions come from different places. Halloween descends from Celtic and Christian European roots; Día de los Muertos descends from pre-Hispanic Mexican religion fused with Catholic All Saints'. Halloween is theatrical and outward-facing; Día de los Muertos is intimate, family-centred, and joyful rather than scary.
What is pan de muerto?
Pan de muerto ("bread of the dead") is a sweet, lightly orange-blossom-flavoured egg bread baked from late October through Día de los Muertos. The top is decorated with thin strips of dough shaped like crossed bones, and a small ball at the centre representing a skull. It is eaten with hot chocolate or atole, and traditionally crumbled onto the altar for the dead to share.
When is Día de los Muertos celebrated?
The main vigil runs across two nights — 1 November (often dedicated to children who have passed, Día de los Inocentes) and 2 November (the main day, for adults). Preparations begin in late October: altars are built, marigolds are gathered, and pan de muerto is baked. Some families keep the altar up until 3 November.
Can non-Mexican guests take part?
Yes — the festival is for everyone, and Mexican tradition is generous about welcoming outsiders into it. We've had guests at Frida add photographs of grandparents, friends and pets to our altar over the years, and the night is more meaningful for it. The only thing we ask is that the spirit be honoured, not costumed: this is a vigil, not a fancy-dress party.
How early should I book a table at Frida for Día de los Muertos?
As early as you can. Booking for 1 and 2 November opens in late September, and we usually sell out by mid-October. The smaller of the two nights (1 November, traditionally for children who have passed) often goes faster than 2 November. Our reservation page opens for the holiday around 20 September each year.
Save your table
Frida Camden, 40 Camden High Street, London NW1 0JH. Between Mornington Crescent and Camden Town tube. Open Sun–Thu 10:30–22:00 (last food orders 21:30), Fri–Sat 10:00–23:00 (last food orders 22:30). Book a table online or call us on +44 207 383 3733.
