"I have this tiny chef who tells me what to do" - Alfredo Linguini
"I have this tiny chef who tells me what to do" - Alfredo Linguini
Days 30 through 40: Spirit guides named Richard, drinking mezcal with purpose to find purpose, talking with people, talking with myself, and being the pawn of some little chef.
I apologize in advance for my excess of run-on sentences, all the miss-used commas, and the part where I used the word ‘maybe’ 13 times in a row. Thinking of my Eat, Pray, Love holy trinity, this post is mostly a dedication to eating, and then little bit to praying, if you can call it that. No love this time, sorry guys.
On Meeting Your Heros
When I wrote my proposal for the Mexico portion of my trip, I only knew one person here: Richard, a friend of my high school Spanish teacher. Four years ago, we video called, he gave me recommendations, I put his name in my proposal, a pandemic happened, and life got in the way. Then, two months ago, I sent him a (somewhat panicked) emailed telling him I was coming in hot.
I’m blurry on his origin story, but he’s a Texan who, one way or another, ended up in Oaxaca and married a local Zapotec woman, Sarahi. He and his wife now collaborate with indigenous artisans to help them develop economically sustainable businesses to retain employment and culture while reducing migration out of Oaxaca. Their group’s mission statement is: “Catalyzing and connecting rural communities for a more just and equitable world.” (Tejiendo alianzas)
Whether he knew it or not, Richard was the Oaxacan spirit guide I carried around in my head for the four years I waited to leave. Out of my five original locations, only Mexico has remained, and I think he is partly to blame. France turned to Spain, India and Greenland got removed, Peru might become Argentina, but Oaxaca never wavered. Richard and I had only exchanged 5-6 emails, but I would tell people, “I know a guy who’s going to help me in Oaxaca.” Technically the truth, I did know the guy. I did not know if he was actually going to help me.
On a rainy Wednesday, we ducked into a craft brewery - a very rare find in Oaxaca. I think Richard suggested it for the fermentation theme, but I can’t drink beer. Turns out, Richard can’t either. My medical history has been the subject of much interest in Mexico and I get to describe the failures of my weak small intestine on a weekly basis. Either everyone here is incredibly curious or I’m desperate to tell people. In any case, I’m unable to tell the difference and I dole out details without pause. I bring this up because Richard and I talked about our guts, and the faults therein, for no less than 45 minutes. I told him my theory of how all my problems started with the worm I must have swallowed when I ate too many grapes in Oregon, he told me how getting older is the process of learning new things you can’t eat. This only further confirmed that he was my Oaxacan spirit guide after all. We went on to discuss Oaxaca as a gringo, the changes in mezcal, sustainable development, and he offered to introduce me to some mezcaleros.
The day we met represented the end of my first month in the city of Oaxaca, and the first completed month of my fellowship. It’s easy to say I’m here to learn about food and fermentation, it’s hard to fill the 16 waking hours I have each day. I’ve tasted the tacos and the mole, I’ve drank the tejate and the pulque, when does my enlightenment come? Earlier that day I wrote, “I haven’t been feeling the best today, just really lost and confused as to what exactly I was supposed to be doing here. I guess the short answer is finding purpose.” Sometimes I just wish this purpose was easier to find, or it found me for a change.
I shared this crisis of faith with my feeble-gutted Texas angel. He did not have my answers either. The act was cathartic nonetheless, and I do believe it marked a change. He’s a spirit guide after all, so he has access to the strings of fate that I can’t pull.
Following our discussion I decided to take a more focused approach to my time here in Mexico. Blindly walking through the labyrinth of Mexico is thrilling and delicious until you realize you’re lost. My plan was to have dedicated weeks, diving deep into a single topic, until I found my thread out. My first week was mezcal, my second would be markets, my third would be coffee or pulque or… I wrote the 15 questions I wanted to answer about mezcal and I made the rule that I would do a mezcal tasting every day for the week. Very tough work, I know, but if not me, who?
As a last note on Richard, when talking about the rise of mezcal brands in the US he said, “It’s a gold rush. It’s a bunch of speculators trying to exploit a cheap resource. You hear them whisper about some secret they found in the countryside, which is really a family.”
On Tasting Mezcal as a profession
In wine tasting, there’s a little bucket that professionals use called a ‘spit bucket’. It allows them to sample without impairing their senses at the cost of looking silly. In tasting mezcal, there is no bucket. You must swallow to understand the full sensory affects. The way it does or doesn’t burn your throat, the way your breath feels as you exhale, the final flavors that linger. This isn’t said, but I think the act of getting intoxicated is also important here. The mezcal is sometimes 50 proof, the samples are always an ounce, the person leading your tasting will often take part (for ‘Man is nostalgia and a search for communion’). In many ways, you cannot adapt it to be something it isn’t, to separate the art from the act. I find that beautiful and fundamental and entirely human. I also find it gets me drunk at 1pm.
I would go in the middle of the day so that there weren’t as many people and it’d be easier to ask questions. I thought tastings would be a good place to learn about mezcal because it’s a setting that is inherently transactional and educational. You’re free to ask questions without getting stuck in the moral pickle of taking without giving. It’s like paying an entrance fee for a museum but it’s interactive, it all happens in your mouth, and there’s a lot less walking.
In all honesty, I wasn’t a huge fan of mezcal prior to arriving. I liked the idea, not the taste. Like all hard alcohols, it tastes like spicy water and hurts to drink. The flavor is pain and the tasting notes are alcohol. The tastings were helpful in teasing this apart a bit more. Alone, mezcal still tastes like mezcal to me. You can’t get around the fact that, at its core, it’s fire water. However, side by side and with a little guidance, you can begin to see which are fruiter, which are smoother, which are smokier. Plus, it’s all subjective, and the more you drink, the easier, the tastier, and the ‘clearer’ it becomes.
Experiences are the building blocks of opinions, which are the currency of social life. I’m not going to share my boring notes on what tasted like what, just know I now have opinions, and wasn’t that the goal all along?
Mezcaloteca
My first stop was Mezcaloteca, which collects mezcal from about 100 producers. One of the two owners, Patricia, walked me through a tasting of four mezcals. The first was from an agave called Potatorum, which takes 10-12 years to mature, and was made by Mezcalero Armando, who ferments the agave mash in cowhide. The second was made from Mexicano, the third from a mix of agaves, and the final from an unclassified agave.
The boom in mezcal started about 20-30 years ago, reaching the US ~10 years ago, and Europe ~5 years ago. To help standardize between the ways of producing mezcal, the legal distinctions of Mezcal, Mezcal Artesanal, and Mezcal Ancestral were created. Mezcaloteca choose instead to use Mezcal Traditional for all their mezcals. Like the issues with organic certifications in the US, many small producers use ancestral or artisanal methods, but don’t meet the rigid definitions of the legal classifications. Patricia said they use traditional because each producer is using the traditions of their area, which vary quite widely, often outside the legal classifications.
“What changes have come along with the mezcal boom”
Patricia, paraphrased: With the mezcal boom came the demand for monovarietals. Historically, all mezcal would have been a mix from whatever agave the producers came across. With increased interest came more demand for specialty batches.
“How have small producers been affected”
P: Small producers haven’t changed all that much. Big brands have come in to buy land, which in Oaxaca is protected, and end up paying people to cultivate agave for them before watering it down like tequila. The smaller producers only produce small amounts for their communities to drink, and as a result aren’t too affected.
“Are there ecological problems with harvesting wild agave”
P: Often people don’t leave any to reproduce. Agave is harvested before it flowers, not giving it time to spread seeds. This also affects the animals which rely on it. The agave is harvested on communal lands, meaning outsiders can’t harvest it, but that doesn’t stop them from paying locals to do it.
“How is climate change affecting agave”
P: Agave like when it’s dry and hot. The issue we have is with water and the changes we’re seeing with the rainy season starting earlier and earlier. Usually the rainy season starts the end of May, this year it’s already started. The idea is to harvest before the rain, and an earlier rainy season means less time to harvest.
“What do you like about mezcal?”
P: The complexity, all the things that make up mezcal, the culture, the complexity. The fact that it’s a mix of cultures.
“What do you see as the future of mezcal?”
P: “It’s very sad.” The problem is ecological, as they’re not doing anything to preserve the wild agave. Sometimes people replant, but very few do this. Another issue is resources. They need a lot of wood, water, and agave - all of which are resources which are having problems “not on the side of mezcal”. The future is likely that of tequila: monovarietal, less flavor, more chemicals in the soil, more chemicals in the water.
“Has the popularity of mezcal been good or bad?”
P: It could be a good thing if we had conscious consumers. The harm comes when the message of mezcal and its history is lost because the consumers don’t care. If they were educated “that mezcal is special for these reason”, that’s a better way. It’s not just a drink for people who want to have fancy cocktails.
Day 2: El Mezcalería Cuish
My second stop was Mezcalería Cuish, named after the agave. Diego, my guide, was about my age and came from the Sierra Norte, in the northern part of Oaxaca. I sat down to do a tasting of 3 mezcals, and after a question or two he’d bring down another bottle I had to try to understand, and then one more to contrast it, and then one last one, and then one to really finish strong. Diego tried every one alongside me while still having four hours left on his shift.
All the bottles had the phrase: El Mezcal se toma a besos / Mezcal is drunk with kisses.
Often, the cooked agave hearts will be crushed to a mash by a huge stone wheel (tahona) pulled round by a mule, donkey, or horse. Animal ethics aside, it’s an impressive process which can be seen on the side of the road as you drive through Oaxaca. One of the mezcals we tried however was crushed con mazos de madera / with wooden mallets in a style called tecnica tumbado. Afterwards, the pulp is left to ferment in the sun for three months before distillation. To Diego, this was the style that was most representative of Oaxacan mezcal. He said while they could produce more mezcal in this style, it would no longer be accessible to the community for the price, so they don’t.
“How are wild agave managed?”
Diego, paraphrased: Oaxaca is one of the most geopolitically difficult places to farm. Ninety percent of the land is communal (ejido*) following the idea that land belongs to the people. Some years there is a lot of agave, some years there’s too little. In communal lands, you can only plant agave that belongs there, endemic to the region.
“How is the changing rainy season affecting mezcal”
Diego: We have a serious moral problem. Oaxaca is what it produces, and it’s very proud of that: its pumpkin, beans, corns, etc. Our best years for mezcal are our driest years, which are our worst years for farms. We can’t have both.
After we had sampled enough, Diego began to wax poetic on the subject a bit of, “Why is mezcal important to you?”
Diego: To me, it’s not just a bottle of mezcal. It’s a bottle of history, of places, of stories. I drink mezcal for the memories. Madrecuishe makes me think of the fields and farms, of the Sierra Norte, and of my mother’s home.
*side note: NAFTA adjacent policies permitted the privatization and sale of ejidal land in 1992, now attributed with worsening rural poverty, migration to the US and factory cities, and the cultural transition towards being a net-importer of produce. All these changes are particularly relevant in Oaxaca.
Day 3: Cafe de Waldo
During the taco fair a few weeks back I started chatting with a fellow gringo, who I’ll call Waldo. He mentioned that he has been in Oaxaca for a few months and just bought a cafe that he wants to turn into a craft cocktail bar. One of the things I’ve been thinking a lot about in Oaxaca is what it means to be a foreigner here. Oaxaca, as a state, is culturally rich and economically poor, supported by tourism and (now) mezcal. People come to see the bright colored buildings, eat the tlayudas and the grasshoppers, and buy a little bit of the culture to bring back with them: an artisan rug, a hand painted alebrije, some ancestral mezcal. Tourism, in its darkest light, is akin to being the parasite keeping its subject just barely alive - the questions being how much juice are you okay with siphoning for yourself. On this topic, a friend wrote: “With cities like Venice, San Francisco, Oaxaca, it seems like there is an abundance of pasts holding up a tiny present and not doing anything to support the uncertain future.”
It’s not my place to say what is right or what is wrong with regards to Oaxaca, tourism, or buying a cafe for tourists in Oaxaca. At the very least, I could ask Waldo his thoughts on it.
He did not have too many.
Waldo has some timely ideals I sympathize with: he wants to create a space where people can pop their own bubbles, can meet new people, and engage with each other. Essentially a third space, outside work and home, where life can happen.
Beyond that, it was clear that we think about very different things throughout the day. Not my place to criticize, so I’ll leave it there. At the very least, he was pleasant to talk to, he made me a lunch, and we sampled some mezcal.
Day 4: Mezcal Alpha Centauri
Through a friend of a friend I got connected with Demetrio, who runs Mezcal Alpha Centauri. He doesn’t make mezcal, but he buys it from a few palenques and sells it under his brand. He needed help with social media and building a website, I needed something to do and he sure looked a lot like a plan. “Things happen quick, and if you really want to know about mezcal, you’ll need to follow me around like my shadow.” He also had an extra room in his house, which was a plus.
So now, I am Demetrio’s shadow.
Are there things I’d like to be doing more than tech supported in Spanish, sure.
Are there things I’d like to see more than emails to Italian customs agents, sure.
Am I going with the flow? Sure.
Am I happy with the flow? I don’t know.
If you can remember all the way back to the start of this post, I was running up against the limits of what I could do on my own. I was hungry for direction, and now I have one, but I guess it’s not the same shade of rose as my daydreams. Maybe that’s life, maybe it’s a wrong decision, maybe I’m indecisive, picky, and nostalgic. Maybe it’s that the grass is always greener and the past is always cleaner.
There have been some magic moments for sure - being driven through the Oaxacan countryside, stopping at remote bars in the hills to check in with his clients, seeing warehouses full of mezcal. He also invited me to join him in Tulum for a mezcal fair which happens in two weeks, which was cool. In between all of this, I am tech support and email-translator. It feels right and wrong, but I’m trying to tell myself that every decision is the right decision.
Or maybe I’m not making any decisions at all.
I’ve often felt down here that I see things, but I’m not entirely present or active. For the film majors out there, I am Linguini getting driven around by Remy: I am looking out of my own eyes, moving my own hands, but I’m getting moved around by something else. I wish that thing was a well intentioned ‘little chef’, but right now I don’t know what it is. Maybe I’m overstimulated, maybe it’s the heat, maybe I’m always dehydrated, maybe it’s the language, maybe I’m in survival mode, maybe that’s life and I’ve just never noticed, or maybe it’s because we’re closer to the equator, and the world spins faster down here.
My project’s theme is fermentation, a key theme of fermentation of which is that it’s largely out of your control. It’s in the hands of something you can’t see nor fully understand, for the constituents are too small and the sum too vast. Maybe my time here is no different.
Whatever, I’m going to Tulum baby.
Wow! I can picture you as a travel eater with a tv show. I KNOW that survival mode feeling all too well. Usually in long periods of time where I was quasi-alone. Crazy to reflect on those times because the brain seems so stunned.