Puerto Escondido Part 4: Mezcal! Oh Smoky Child of the Agave
I was forced to leave a lot of stuff behind to make room in my bag for all the mezcal, which after much tasting and little prodding I realized I must bring to share with my people of the north, far as they were near the hinterland of Canada. Specifically, a passionfruit infused blend that I knew my mother–with her enthusiasm for margaritas–would love to try. It had been prepared for me with a squeeze of lime and a pinch of grasshopper, and it was electric delicious. It tastes like a margarita with its hair on fire.
The whole mezcal thing was kind of an accident. In the past I had never really enjoyed the liquor, which has a smoky flavor that to me is to tequila what scotch is to whiskey. But some weeks earlier I had been living in the surfer-infested La Punta neighborhood (which I will describe shortly) where I was performing music every Saturday at a bar that seemingly had no name (again, more on that shortly), at which they would pour me a shot of mezcal between every song. Suffice to say that the last songs of these epically long three-hour sets were rather raucous and sometimes a bit sloppy.
But the mezcal! Oh smoky child of the agave, rich in flavor and effect. I can shoot you, sip you, lick you—hell I would snort you. I really like mezcal.
As we were walking from the marina through a neighborhood called the Adoquin—a barrio that is primarily attended by locals and a few tourists who come to browse the street market—Diana spotted a little mezcal store she wanted to check out. None of us knew then that this shop would alter the course of our drinking habits forever.
It turned out to specifically sell mezcal by a producer called La Reliquia, and on this particular day it was being manned by Alejandro, an effervescent fellow who most definitely loves his work.
Within moments he had coaxed us into a round of tasting, during which he elucidated us on the finer points of some dozen varying mezcals. Not only their taste, but the genuinely fascinating manner in which the agave is cultivated, which would take up an entirely different article, and will.
While the experience vastly improved my understanding of the liquor, I did not buy any mezcal on this particular visit, my logic being that I simply didn’t have any room in my bag.
Some days later, we were walking by another mezcal shop when Diana mentioned that she wanted to grab another bottle. In we went, and lo and behold, Alejandro was working this location as well.
We didn’t argue when he suggested another round of tasting, and this time the “tastes” were noticeably larger—more on par with a typical shot. What’s more, this time he broke out the good stuff—a delicious, ultra-smooth variety they kept in a decanter.
It was then that he showed us the passionfruit mezcal, and my clothes’ fate was sealed. T-shirts, shorts, and a particularly beach-worn pair of swim trunks would be abandoned to make room for a fifth of the fruity stuff along with an assortment of sample bottles which I claimed would be used for gifts, but will probably drink myself.
Postscript: I drank them myself.