In Oaxaca, on the hunt for mezcal

Many years ago I worked at a wonderful restaurant in the mountains of Colorado. It was a great job, with many perks. One was the sublime joy of skiing to work just as the lifts were closing, and stepping in to a cozy dining room filled with wonderful aromas and good friends. Another was the chance to learn about all manner of delightful food and drink.  The maître’d was a man named Stu, a charming, irascible, lewd, hilarious southerner with an encyclopedic knowledge of wine. One snowy Sunday evening Stu produced, with typical fanfare, three bottles of mezcal.  I knew the stuff vaguely, when someone came back from a trip to Tijuana or spring break in Mazatlan this was a typical souvenir. A yellowish, vile liquid with a resemblance to tequila, its only charm it seemed was the presence of a worm at the bottom.  But, this was completely different. The liquid was clear, the bottles had cool folk art paintings on them, and it was delicious! A really interesting beverage, kind of like a single-malt whisky from Islay- smoky, almost a touch oily, with deep flavors and a pleasant finish.  Moreover, each bottle was slightly different, supposedly reflecting the subtle differences in terroir and production methods between villages near the Mexican city of Oaxaca. I was hooked. Well, not exactly hooked, but I took notice and would seek out a fine mescal from time to time when the opportunity presented itself. I also resolved to one day track them down in their villages of origin.

Seventeen years later I finally made it to Oaxaca, and along with the moles, the tamales, the chocolate, and the fried grasshoppers, I was ready for my mezcal experience. 

Mezcal has come a long way since then. It’s been written up in food columns and travel pieces and is probably available in bars in Omaha and Biloxie. This has not escaped Oaxaca’s notice. All over the city center there are little shops dedicated to individual mescal producers. They resemble fancy clothing boutiques, with only a few bottles artfully displayed on shelves. My gateway mezcal, Del Maguey, probably took the cake, occupying a tiny, modern space between a fancy restaurant and an art gallery, where a fashionable woman sat behind a Mac book next to a table displaying all of their varieties available at the same hefty price they fetch in the US. One sunday we took a bus out to the village of Tlacolula, and after gorging ourselves at the wonderful sunday market, made our way to one of the mescal producers on the outskirts of ton. Despite what the tourist offer had said, there wasn’t much to see on a Sunday. A gruff woman poured a few samples of mediocre product and sent us on our way.

I had to be missing something. I was sure locals drank this stuff, and I was also pretty sure they didn’t buy it in a boutique. I scanned the shelves at one of the ubiquitous corner stores, appropriately called “miscelanea” in Oaxaca: Nothing. Then another, and another. Had the boutiques cornered the market? On the way back to our hotel I decided to check one more place, a little store just like the rest. I didn’t see any alcohol at all, so I asked the woman behind the counter: 

“Ustedes tienen mezcal?”

 She shot a glance at her husband, then back to me, and nodded slightly. 

“Cuanto quiere?” she whispered. 

No way! I’d found it, a mescal speak-easy.

 I kept my cool and asked “Es muy buena? De donde es?”

 She told me the name of the village, one well-known for producing fine mezcals and assured me it was very good. Her husband even fetched a sample from somewhere in back. It was delicious, just smoky enough, and very smooth. A liter was produced in a plastic water bottle, and the price was right. Soon I was sitting on the roof terrace of the hotel, sipping my elicit mescal and munching fried grasshoppers as the sun set over the distant Pacific.

On our last day in Oaxaca I found something of a combination between the corner store speak easy and the tourist boutiques.  A dilapidated old building near downtown the housed the Union de Palanqueros de Oaxaca”, the mescal makers union. Part museum, part enoteca, Kristin and I sipped a dozen different varieties of mezcal from traditional gourd cups, and had a lovely chat with Carmen, daughter of the union’s president., and a mezcal expert in her own right. We learned a bit about mezcal’s pre-columbian, history and the advent of the copper stills brought by the Spaniards. We tasted mezcal infused with various fruits and herbs and two rare gems: la olla, made in the ancient style using a clay still, and “pechuga” a famed, almost mythical mescal that is made using a raw chicken breast hung in the still. I’m not quite sure what the raw chicken does, but the stuff is really delicious. We tottered away into the afternoon sun with a few samples in tote.

So tonight I raise my gourd to Stu, to the mountains, to the resourcefulness of people everywhere who ferment whatever is nearby, to beautiful Oaxaca. Pass the grasshoppers. Salud!