Mexico, Central & South America > Mexico > Veracruz, Oaxaca & Chiapas > Oaxaca > Articles > Mezcal: Beyond the Worm

It's not easy finding the pulque stall in the sprawling labyrinth of Oaxaca's lively Abastos Market. We have to stop and ask directions at a magic potions bodega, then talk to a girl mixing cacao seeds, sugar, and almonds into a chocolate grinder, chat with a man pounding together a rough-hewn wooden chair, sample a few chilli-roasted grasshoppers from a basket offered to us by a toothless grandmother, and make further inquiries from a woman selling a pair of forlornly honking geese, before we finally arrive at a simple stall with a hand painted sign reading: "Refresqueria Anita: Pulque y Tepache."

Below the sign sits Anita herself, a Zapotec Indian with a profile straight from a codex, and the stoic manner of someone, who, as my friend Ron Cooper puts it, "has seen a lot of people explode into flames." She removes the metal lid from a fat clay jar, fills us each a gourdfull of thick milky pulque, and passes the brew across the counter. Its yeasty, sweet 'n sour aroma is kinda gross - what the hell is this stuff?

Cooper explains that pulque is an ancient drink made from the fermented aguamiel (maguey juice) of certain types of agaves. When the agaves mature at 11 or 12 years of age, the aguamiel is collected twice daily from a bowl carved into their hearts over a period of several months, and fermented into pulque. After assurances from Cooper that mastication is not part of the pulque-making process, I take a cautious sip, and discover a not-unpleasant taste of citrus.

I sip some more.

Several sips later, as we float our way back through a sea of tiny Indians, I feel decidedly different from pre-pulque. My shattered senses have been put right again like broken bones: the vivid colours of the market appear brighter, its lively sounds seem sharper, and I am consumed with an electric calm. I find myself oddly drawn to a gaudy black velvet painting of the Holy Virgin of Guadalupe, which I stop and stare at as a tinny Mexican polka blasts from a transistor radio nearby.

"But hang on," I say. "I thought drinking pulque was supposed to be like having a beer."

"Beer?" Cooper scowls at me. "Pulque is psychedelic, man. The Zapotecs believe it brings you closer to God."

Although now it's generally seen as a rustic version of Mountain Dew, for thousands of years Mexico's Central Highland Indians used pulque as a ritual intoxicant. They worshipped a groovy group of gods called the Centzon Totochin (400 Rabbit Lords), who represented the infinite forms of intoxication (400 being the equivalent of infinity in their language).

The diva del maguey was the goddess Mayahuel, who is usually pictured in ancient codices alongside a frothy pot of pulque, with pulque dripping from her 400 breasts. Pulque was only allowed for medicinal use, religious ceremonies, and other important celebrations. Casual pulque drinking was forbidden, and the penalty for drunkenness was death.

We stumble from the bustling market into a crazed symphony of honking taxis. It's fiesta day for the cabbies of Oaxaca, and they have all decorated their vehicles with brightly coloured crepe streamers and elaborate floral arrangements. As their horns hoot and toot all around us, we make our way past several giant puppets and a brass band, and cross a taxi-clogged boulevard to investigate a sleazy-looking row of mezcal bodegas.

We head into one of the shops, and find a wide assortment of mezcals sold in recycled bottles, plastic jugs, and hand-painted gourds. There are cremas - with coffee beans and berries inside, pechuga (heart) - which is flavoured by tropical fruit and a chicken breast introduced during the distillation process, and on the shop counter sits a huge jar filled with mezcal and several inches of wrinkly brown agave worms.

A true mestizo drink, mezcal evolved from pulque when the Spanish introduced distillation technology to the New World 400 years ago. While seeking a materia prima from which to make aguardiente (firewater,) the Spanish took note of the native use of agave for pulque-making. There are some 200 species of agave in Mexico, and the Spanish experimented until they found the best ones to make mezcal wine with. By inventing mezcal, they introduced widespread alcoholism to the New World, which contributed to the collapse of Central American Indian civilizations.

Ironically, modern Zapotecs have replaced pulque with mezcal as their ceremonial drink of choice, and in a throwback to the strict traditions once surrounding pulque, mezcal-drinking is frowned upon except at fiestas, important celebrations, or when taken as a daily "medicina" by Zapotec grandmas. They can often be seen downing little shots of mezcal at the local mercado, their long black hair coiled in braids above wrinkled, sculpted faces. While no one is put to death these days for getting lit, Zapotecs still retain an enormous respect for the powers of intoxication, and town drunks are treated as pariahs.

Most of us know mezcal as tequila, which is a type of mezcal that was given the name of a town in the western state of Jalisco where it has traditionally been made. In recent years, tequila has become the fastest growing alcoholic beverage sold in the United States (80 million litres were sold there in 1999,) while mezcal is still mostly made in small quantities in the state of Oaxaca. It is typically sold in funky, mom-and-pop bodegas like this one.

While all tequilas are mezcal, not all mezcals are tequila. By government regulation, tequila should only be made from the blue agave, which is about two-thirds the size of the enormous maqueys that produce pulque. But mezcal can be made from eleven different types of magueys: quishe, pasmo, tepestate, tobala, espadin, largo, pulque, azul, blanco, ciereago, and mexicano.

With a few exceptions, a 51 percent agave minimum is allowed in tequila production, while mezcal must be made with a minimum of 80 percent agave. Tequila manufacturers also routinely add chemicals, fertilizers, and sugars, and the only brand of tequila which doesn't use such additives is Herradura, which is known for its strict organic standards. Mezcal is traditionally made from the roasted hearts of magueys (done in sunken fire pits) but tequila producers generally steam the hearts en masse to meet the demands of large scale production. As a result, tequila generally has a neutral taste, while mezcals are known for their smoky, complex flavours.

Because of variations in distillation techniques and the different magueys that can be used in production, mezcal can have as many different tastes as wine. Minero (from the village of Santa Catarina Minas) and Tobala (made from the wild mountain maguey) are considered the finest types of mezcal, and are often compared to French cognacs. But what about all those worms at the bottom of that jar on the counter?

In the 1950's, the owner of Gusano Rojo mezcal began adding an agave worm to his bottles as a marketing gimmick, and in the U.S. at least, mezcal became known as "that drink with the worm," the kind of cheap rocketfuel first hangovers are made of. Traditionally, mezcal should only be made from water and the roasted hearts of magueys, but to stretch out their supply and give it more kick, unscrupulous bottlers often add cane alcohol and a variety of scary chemicals, as well as worms.

The shop girl offers me a shot from the worm-filled mezcal jar, and I inhale a stomach-turning, industrial-smelling nose. Yikes!

"A good mezcal," cautions Cooper, "should always smell of sweet, roasted maguey, and when you shake a bottle of it, the perlas (bubbles,) should be bigger and last longer." He should know. To find the pure stuff, you usually need to go straight to the source and obtain it from a palenquero (mezcal producer) at his palenque (production site.) A seasoned aficionado, Cooper has spent years exploring the farthest reaches of Oaxaca on the hunt for the finest mezcals.

An internationally-renowned artist, for the last three decades Cooper has immersed himself in Zapotec culture for his work, and in 1995, he began importing Zapotec mezcal into the U.S. through his company, Del Maguey, Ltd. The company's five organic, handcrafted mezcals, which Cooper obtains in small batches from five different Zapotec palenqueros in five different villages, have won numerous accolades and awards, and are widely considered the finest in the world.

One morning at 4AM, to the indignant protestations of the local roosters and donkeys, Cooper and I climb into his old yellow pickup truck and set off from his home in the famous Zapotec weaving village of Teotitlan del Valle (about 20 minutes from Oaxaca.) We are going to visit one of Del Maguey's palenqueros, Espiridion Luis, who lives three hours away in the remote mountain village of Santo Domingo Albarradas. We cruise down the two-lane Pan-American Highway past Yagul and Mitla, two of the most important archaeological sites in the fertile Oaxaca valley, which has been settled for thousands of years.

After an hour or so, we turn onto a smaller road and head into the hills, passing small plots of magueys that the local magueyeros (maguey farmers) are cultivating for mezcal production. Normally, the hearts of these spikey-leaved plants aren't harvested before they're eight to ten years old, but due to a blue agave shortage in Jalisco (which has coincided disastrously with the tequila boom in the U.S.) enormous semi-trucks have been barrelling into Oaxaca and hauling off the local maguey crop at an alarming rate.

With desperate tequila producers paying as much as 1,000 percent more than the normal market price, Oaxacan magueyeros have been harvesting plants as young as two and three years old. Consequently, the local palenqueros are now in the unfortunate position of not being able to afford to buy the local maguey, while witnessing the selling-off of their future materia prima years before it has even matured. If things keep going at the same rate, there won't be any maguey left before long.

As the rising sun tries to burn off the heavy fog clinging to the lush green mountains all around us, Cooper steers his truck onto a muddy track. We slowly wind our way up and up through a forest of dense pine, the bromeliads still dripping with night rain, and here and there we slosh through a rushing stream. A few miles up the track, I unwrap some empanadas we've brought along for breakfast, and wolf one down that is filled with a tasty mix of chicken and chocolate mole. About half an hour later, I get the worst heartburn I have ever experienced in my life, and start feeling an alarming tingling sensation throughout my left arm. Oh boy.

"Ron, we gotta go back, man. I'm having a heart attack."

"No way, compadre. We're hours away from the closest hospital. If you're going to die, you're going to die."

"Aw, man. Come on! I'm not kidding!"

"It's just that greasy empanada you ate."

"Empanadas don't make your arm tingle!"

"We just need to get some mezcal in you and you'll be fine."

"You and your mezcal, Cooper! I don't believe this!"

"Look, if you die, I promise I'll bring your parents out here so they can see where it happened."

Just then, we round a corner to find Santo Domingo Albarradas tumbling down the hillside below us. We are now 8,500 feet up in the mountains, and white mists are swirling around the valley below and up into the steep peaks towering above us. We slowly approach a handsome whitewashed mission church that has been decorated with flowers and streamers. A brass band plays in front of the church, and noisy fireworks are blasting off in all directions. We are just in time for the fiesta San Lorenzo.

"Shit," I wail. "This is straight out of Under the Volcano. I'm gonna die here!"

"Then maybe I can have you buried in that cemetery by the church."

Cooper navigates a steep winding street through the village, and pulls up next to Espiridion Luis' simple one-story adobe house. It turns out that Espiridion is away performing some civic duty, but his cheerful son Juan comes out to greet us, and ushers us inside the family kitchen. His mother and sisters are cooking breakfast over a wood fire, and in between kneading dough for her ever-growing stack of tortillas, his mother serves us each a cup of hot chocolate and a roll.

To the great amusement of the Luis family, Cooper entertains them with my conviction that I'm having a heart attack, and Juan soon produces a plain, unmarked bottle of the mezcal which he and his father make down the hill in their palenque. In return, Cooper presents him with a framed award from the most recent World Spirits Championship, where Juan and his father won 1st place for their mezcal.

Juan pours us a round, and we raise our glasses high, saying "stee-gee-bay-o," Zapotec for "to your health." Now, this mezcal is, in a word, the bomb. It has a high, light nose, a spicy taste with perhaps a bit of roasted pear, and a long, dry, smooth finish. Wow. Unlike the crappy stuff we tried in the mezcal bodega, there isn't a trace of chemicals. This mezcal warms my throat, calms my nerves, and gives me a cheery, clear-headed high. After a few sips, my heartburn vanishes, and the tingling in my left arm begins to disappear.

"Shay-you (how are you?)" Juan's mother asks me.

"Wank-a (good!)" I answer, and everyone giggles.

"Bakin, bakin (drink, drink!)" Exclaims Juan, and we have another. We can hear the fiesta getting going in the village plaza nearby, undaunted by the steady rain outside. A stray chick wanders into the kitchen, and starts pecking around the clay floor. Juan places some baby maguey plants on the wooden table.

"In seven years," he grins, "these will be mezcal."

I ask him what he likes about making mezcal.

"It's a lot of hard work," he says, "But when I drink this cristalina, I feel closer to God and I thank God for the ability to make this mezcal and appreciate and enjoy its effects. Then I thank the Zapotec God because I'm thankful that I can participate in this transformation and be present with God. It makes me feel muy contento."

After sipping another round of Juan's transformative cristalina, we head up to the fiesta in the centre of the village. A rodeo corral has been set up next to a basketball court, where competing teams from rival Zapotec villages are battling for a grand prize of $1,000. A brass band serenades them from the second story of the town hall, while hundreds of onlookers follow the game. As I listen to the music, watch the game, and look out over the misty mountain valley, I feel muy contento indeed.

A couple of days later, some of Cooper's friends invite me to a christening ceremony for their grandchild at their home in Teotitlan del Valle. The family altar is festooned with gifts, including several bottles of mezcal. Trestle tables have been set up in a courtyard in the centre of the house, and following tradition, the men sit on one side, the women on the other. Above us, there are a couple of dozen brightly-coloured piñatas arranged around the courtyard for the ninos to smash up later.

There are two bands (a huge brass band and a smaller mariachi band,) and the hosts deliver a bottomless supply of Coronitas (miniature Corona beers) to the tables, along with a feast of fresh tortillas, beans, rice, salsa, and various roasted meats. A juez (judge,) named Raoul, is appointed to pour out the mezcal, and he makes his way around the party bearing a tray with a bottle of mezcal and several shot glasses.

The mariachis start playing Larga Distancia, the classic song where two trumpeters serenade each other long distance. As the trumpeters approach the huge party from opposite sides of the compound, we sip our mezcal and toast the hosts and their new grandchild. Everyone seems to be having a great time tying one on with abandon. In Zapotec communities, drinking alone is looked down upon, but at fiestas, where everyone is together, it's encouraged.

How many Americans, I wonder, realize that the tequila in the margaritas they love so much is actually rooted in a sacred drink, reserved for special occasions like this one?

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