Big-Bottomed Ants and Mazamorra: The Cravings You Can Actually Find in Laureles

Laureles is not just pizza and sushi: the flavors that don't make it to Instagram

If you search TikTok for "eating in Laureles", you'll get fifty videos of the same artisanal burger with melted cheddar cheese and another fifty of gourmet ramen. And that's fine, that's also Laureles. But there's another side to the neighborhood, the one that doesn't need hashtags or neon lights: the big-bottomed ant stall on la 70, the mazamorra you drink at 6 in the morning with the park's chill, the pork rind you eat standing up on la 80 while the vendor tells you how business is going.

This guide is not for those looking for the trendy restaurant. It's for the curious foodie, for the local who wants to return to home-style flavors, and for the second-time tourist who's tired of the lines at the places featured in the guides. Here are the cravings you can actually find in Laureles, the ones that have survived gentrification, high rents, and food fads.

And here's a fact almost no one mentions: Laureles was declared a neighborhood of cultural interest for its architecture and urban layout, but the neighborhood's true culture isn't in the house facades, it's in the smells coming from the improvised stoves in the parks and on the corners. In August 2026, these stalls are still there, holding on, and this guide is a map to find them.

The big-bottomed ant stall on la 70: 40 years of tradition

Avenida 70 is known for its bars and restaurants, but if you walk between Calle 47 and Calle 50 in the morning, you'll find a small cart with a sign that says "Hormigas culonas de Santander". That's where don Pedro works, a 68-year-old man who has spent over four decades selling this delicacy that gives some people the creeps and seems like the best snack in the world to others.

Don Pedro told me, while sorting the ants by size, that his family comes from Barichara and that his grandmother taught him the trade. "This isn't a business, it's an inheritance," he said with a smile that wrinkled his eyes. The ants he sells aren't from Medellín, because they don't grow here; a cousin who lives in Santander brings them and collects them during the rainy season, when the queens come out of the anthill. That's the secret: only the queens are eaten, the biggest ones with the fat abdomen.

How she prepares them and what you should try

The process isn't complicated, but it has its science. The ants are washed several times to remove the dirt, left in salted water for a couple of hours, and then toasted on a clay griddle, as is done in Santander. Don Pedro adds a touch of lemon and a bit of garlic powder, something that isn't traditional but that he says "gives it a modern twist". The result is a crunchy bite, with a flavor some describe as roasted peanuts with a hint of bacon.

Reference prices in August 2026 are as follows:

• Small bag (to try): $8,000 COP
• Medium bag: $15,000 COP
• Large bag (to share or take as a gift): $25,000 COP

Don Pedro works Monday through Saturday, from 9 in the morning until 1 in the afternoon, or until he runs out of inventory. On Atlético Nacional game days, he sells out super fast, because according to him, "there's no better companion for a beer than big-bottomed ants". It's recommended to check hours before visiting, because during the rainy season there might not be a harvest and the stall may stay closed for several days.

Fun fact: the name "culona" isn't a swear word, it's a literal description. Queen ants have a large, prominent abdomen, which is precisely the part that's eaten. And in Santander, this insect is so important it has its own festival: the Festival de la Hormiga Culona in Barichara, held every year in June and attracting hundreds of tourists.

The mazamorra at the corner of Laureles Park: grandmother's recipe and exact hours

If you've lived in Medellín, you know that mazamorra is more than a dessert: it's a ritual. And in Laureles, the ritual has a name: the stall of señora Rosa, which sets up on the northeastern corner of Laureles Park, right where Calle 49 meets Carrera 72. There's no sign, no advertising, just a steaming pot and a smell of corn and panela that you can sense from half a block away.

Señora Rosa is 74 years old and has been selling mazamorra on that same corner for 30 years. Her recipe is her mother's, who in turn inherited it from her grandmother, a peasant woman from Santa Rosa de Osos. The difference between her mazamorra and the one you can buy at a supermarket is abysmal: hers is made with yellow corn that's left to soak overnight, cooked over low heat for at least four hours, and sweetened with grated panela, not white sugar.

The hours are sacred: Monday through Saturday, from 5:30 in the morning until 10:00 in the morning, or until the pot runs out. And it runs out almost every day. Señora Rosa says her most loyal customers are taxi drivers and construction workers who pass by early, but there's also a group of elderly folks who arrive at 6 sharp with their aluminum cups so she can serve it "really hot and with plenty of milk".

The sides you can't miss

Mazamorra is served in a disposable cup or in a mug, if you bring your own (and señora Rosa appreciates it). The sides are the classics:

• Milk: you can order it with whole milk or with freshly milked cow's milk, which she gets from a supplier in Belén.
• Bocadillo: a piece of bocadillo veleño that melts into the mazamorra and gives it a sweet contrast.
• Cheese: for those who like the salty-sweet contrast, she offers grated costeño cheese.
• Panela: if you want it sweeter, you can ask for an extra serving of grated panela.

The price is unbeatable: $4,000 COP for a large cup with milk and one side of your choice. It's one of the few places in Medellín where you can still eat something decent for less than five thousand pesos.

Fun fact: mazamorra is a pre-Columbian dish that the indigenous people of the Antioquia region already prepared long before the Spanish arrived. The name comes from the Quechua "mishki", meaning sweet. In Medellín, the tradition stays alive on corners like this one, where the recipe hasn't changed for generations.

The pork rind with arepa "al paso" on la 80: the secret of the sauce is in the house

Avenida 80 is another of Laureles' main arteries, and although it's full of fast-food chains and sushi restaurants, there's a stall that steals the hearts of those in the know: "El Chicharronazo", a cart parked in front of the Metroplus station on la 80 with Calle 47A, right next to a laundromat that's already part of the landscape.

The owner is Jairo, 52 years old, originally from Jericó, a town in southwestern Antioquia famous for its gastronomy. He learned to make pork rind from his dad, who had a restaurant in the town, and when he moved to Medellín 15 years ago, he decided his trade would be this: selling pork rind that's crunchy on the outside, soft on the inside, with a hot arepa and a sauce that makes all the difference.

And what's the secret of the sauce? Jairo won't say it all, but he did let on that it has garlic, cumin, egg onion, and a touch of beer. "It's a family recipe, but I put my own twist on it. The beer gives it a slight bitterness that cuts through the pork rind's fat," he explained while cutting a piece with a knife that looked like a sword.

The ritual of eating "al paso"

The pork rind is sold by weight and eaten standing up, on the street, with the arepa in hand. It's a ritual that makes sense: the pork rind is freshly fried, the arepa is freshly made, and the sauce is cold. The combination of temperatures and textures is what makes this stall have a line every day, especially at lunchtime and in the afternoon when schools let out.

Reference prices in August 2026 are:

• Pork rind portion (200 grams): $12,000 COP
• Plain arepa: $2,000 COP
• "Al paso" combo (pork rind + arepa + sauce): $15,000 COP
• Extra sauce: $1,000 COP

Jairo works Tuesday through Sunday, from 11 in the morning to 8 at night. He rests on Mondays, but sometimes you'll see him around, walking his dog or having a tinto at a café on la 70. If you go and don't find him, ask at the laundromat; they know when he'll be back.

Fun fact: in Jericó, pork rind is traditionally accompanied by chócolo arepa and hogao, but Jairo changed the recipe because he says "in Medellín people want something faster, more street-style". That's how his "al paso" version was born, which already has its own followers and has even been replicated by other vendors in the area.

Artisanal milk candies at the plazoleta on la 44: a trip to the past

In the small square that forms on Carrera 70 with Calle 44, in front of the Nuestra Señora de la Candelaria church, there's a lady everyone calls "the candy grandmother". Her name is doña Mercedes, she's 81 years old, and she's spent over half a century making milk candies, brevas with arequipe, cocadas, and the famous manjar blanco that melts in your mouth.

She doesn't have a fixed stall; instead, she sits on a plastic chair with a large wicker basket, covered with a white embroidered cloth. The candies are wrapped in colored tissue paper and sold by the unit or by the dozen. There's no sign, no posted price, but the whole neighborhood knows her and knows her candies are the best.

Doña Mercedes' specialty is the Quindian milk candy, made by boiling milk with panela and cinnamon for hours, until it thickens and takes on a caramel color. Its texture is firm on the outside and soft on the inside, and the flavor is intense, with a touch of vanilla that she says is "the house secret".