Thom Bullock - The Mezcal Experience: A Guide to Mezcal and Tequila

Father and son work together in Miahuatln, Oaxaca

~

Next stop was San Luis del Rio where a very old fellow named Ignacio makes his mezcal. Made it then, anyway. I hope he still does. We were greeted from the car by his three daughters. Strong, young, pretty, they were in charge. They led us from the road down a trail between fields, straight into the back yard. There was a tin roof, some posts and beams. Beneath them was Ignacios palenque, slightly sunken, dug down into the earth. We climbed in.

Production was on and the stills were kicking. Thick ropes of grey smoke whipped and shrouded the scene. Our eyes stung and poured incessantly. The wood fires flamed beneath the old copper pots; unchanged since eighth-century Persia, they bubbled and clanked, black and green. An enormous man, tall, bald, squarely built, his body thick and seventy years old, limped past me heaving some huge and heavy object, my mind too blown to know what.

Fermentation was deemed complete by the maestro and the mash now had to be distilled to avoid altering the flavours from those that he knew he wanted for this batch. Round the clock they would go, seventy-two hours of this. Smoke, fire, sweat, heat. Boggling aromas from the strange brew. Every palenque has not only a Virgin de Guadalupe on the wall, but a hammock or an old spring mattress on the floor as well: if the buzz of the mezcal isnt working any more, its probably best to have a quick lie-down.

We sat down. On a kind of mud couch cut into the side of the palenque wall. Someone brought me another gourd bowl, the same size as beforeas big as a salad bowlonly this time the mezcal was hot. This was las primeras quinientas gotas, or the first five hundred drops. It was so clear, almost like a mirror, perhaps an effect of all the oil. Silver comes to mind.

I was told to sip, but to be careful! This was puntas, heads, in the high 70 percentages of alcohol by volume; about 150 or 160 proof. I took a sip. Actually a gulp. It started as a sip but it became a gulp. It was delicious. And came with a physical rush that advanced through my body, the physical sensation and the drunk high both, almost exactly at once.

Meanwhile, Ignacio had come in, tiny and bent with an old stick, not, it has to be said, unlike Yoda. Bright-eyed and clearly still strong. He invited us next door into his house. In we went and sat in a sharing silence ramped up by the rocket fuel wed necked moments before. Ignacio spoke. Don asked if we understood his words. He was talking about the sky, the earth, the rain, las plantas. He was really waxing, carried by some animus within. Up he went. I listened intently, not understanding the language but understanding all the same.

Then we were to make our last stop of the day. It was across the river. It hadnt rained for a spell so we could make ittheres no bridgeand Don had some business to do there. It was with Ignacios two sons.

The view around us was again timeless, serene, still but full of life. We could see far. Ill never forget sitting there at the table. One of the sonsthey were in their mid-forties and looked like twinsgave me a bamboo shoot cut at the knuckle and full of mezcal, along with a shot glass to stand the shoot in. I liked that.

Their palenque was handsome. Again, sunk into the earth but with much higher ceilings, made of palm leaves. There was more light. Perhaps because they were not in production, it was orderly. Glass flagons stood in rows. Beautiful it looked, really. I have a wonderful picture of one of the sons standing in it. He is very tall. Upright. Everything there had that about it.

~

Eventually it was time to go. You could tell by the light. I felt entirely clear-headed, energized, calmer than I could recall ever feeling before. I didnt want that to stop. Don offered to take us to dinner in Oaxaca City. I cheered. At least silently.

We pulled into the cobbled streets of centro and walked in triumph, our return from beyond. Wed seen the other side. We had connected with something so vital and meaningful and brilliant and truly, actually righteous. I could cry recalling how whole it made me feel.

We sat at our table. Don plonked down a five-litre (one-gallon) plastic tub of puro right there square in the middle. Job done. Great day. Day one.

~

Whether I found mezcal or it found me, I was especially well prepared to appreciate it when we finally did cross paths. I came to adulthood on a steady diet of, among other things, alcohol and records. And mezcal spoke to all of it.