Andrew Mah

Heading down the dusty, sun-drenched Route 190 in the Mexican state of Oaxaca (pronounced whoa-ha-kaa), they’re hard to miss: rows upon rows of green, sword-leaved agave plants. Unlike the prickly pear and barrel cacti that grow random and wild among the dirt and scrub brush of the surrounding countryside, the agave grow in tidy rectangular plots and are impossible to miss — every few minutes our bus whizzes by another plantation. That’s because they are this region’s biggest cash crop: the source of that drink used by shamans in rituals and by binge drinkers looking for a lost weekend: mezcal. It is often confused with tequila, but they are not the same drink (see sidebar).

Diego de Jesus, our effusive, cherub-faced guide on this journey through the Mexican outback, points to the agave fields and goes on to describe how mezcal is the elixir for all occasions. In a singsong voice he explains, “You drink it when you are sad, and you drink it when you are happy. You drink to celebrate!” He adds the latter with a Buddha-like wink and an addendum that the people of the region often find excuses to celebrate.

It’s a pleasant sentiment, but I’m reminded that mezcal is most famous for being that drink: the one with the worm in it; the one college kids slug back to prove their machismo during fraternity rites of passage; the one socially estranged authors use to liquefy both writer’s block and brain cells. Malcolm Lowry described it as causing gruesome hallucinations in his classic 1930s treatise on alcoholism, Under the Volcano. There’s a lot of mythology surrounding mezcal, and most of it has to do with its reputation as a backwater moonshine. I learn, however, that in recent years this Mexican firewater has been fighting for respectability.

Though produced in various parts of Mexico, mezcal is most famously made here in the state of Oaxaca, located in central Mexico, where the country reaches its narrowest point. With just 200 kilometres separating the Pacific Ocean from the Gulf of Mexico, de Jesus tells me that this is a popular route for drug runners trying to cross coasts.

The region is also known for its gastronomy — here you’ll find a rich assortment of cheeses and chiles, and moles that are richer and darker than in any other part of Mexico — as well as its country artisans who work out of family homes and villages making handwoven textiles, brightly coloured wood-carved animals or alibrijes, and the distinctive silvery-black pottery found only in this part of the world.

The region’s best-known product, however, is mescal, which is more than a cash crop like potatoes and coffee beans. It’s woven into the very culture, finding its way into wedding toasts, church ceremonies, pre-dinner aperitifs and late-evening nightcaps. Here, you see brightly painted mezcal shops in every city and town, and most restaurants and bars carry a bewildering array of local varieties. Meanwhile, small distilleries with adjacent agave farms are almost as ubiquitous as the ever-present Corona billboards that dot every mile of Oaxaca’s rural highways.

We stop at one these distilleries: the Rancho Zapata, home of the Mezcal Benevá brand, one of a handful that exports internationally. The ranch is surprising, featuring a long, burnished rectangular bar, sparkly water fountain and a classy open-air restaurant with attractive, traditionally garbed señoritas serving tortillas and tamales alongside shot glasses of mezcal. It’s an unexpected oasis just off the major highway, surrounded by nothing except dusty, open countryside.

The owner, Don Pedro Mateo López, stresses his dedication to the authentic old-school production of mezcal. Like so many of the makers in the region, he is part of a family tradition that spans generations.

Shedding their moonshine past, family-run distilleries like his are largely responsible for mezcal’s improving reputation. Inspired by the same model that helped turn the acquisition of rare single-malt Scotch whiskies into an obsession among a generation of spirit connoisseurs, local mezcal producers are working to give their products an air of exclusivity.

To begin, mezcal makers have started applying stricter production standards, including using high agave content and marking their bottles with appellation of origin. The drink also got a major boost in 2005 when the Mexican government began officially certifying mezcal, introducing a level of standardization necessary for international sales and export.

Meanwhile, mezcal’s roots within small-production, traditional factorias is being promoted as a selling feature. Collectors are encouraged to discover high-end single-village bottlings and artisanal brands, each with its own distinctive flavour borne of regional variations in climate, flora and production methods.

At the Rancho Zapata, we learn a bit about what makes these local mezcals special. Behind the ranch’s facade, it’s as if we’ve stepped back 100 years; out back, there are no temperature-controlled stainless steel vats or compressor gauges. Instead, we find a flat yard, along with several brick-and-plaster rooms with wooden tubs, a giant millstone and a distillation apparatus that looks like something out of Mad Max: Beyond Thunderdome.

In the yard, there’s a stone-lined pit where, de Jesus explains, the hearts of the agave plants, called piñas, are brought. The piñas, so called because they look like pineapples on steroids, are dropped into the pit and buried with wood-fire-heated rocks. The entire pit is covered with agave leaves, palm-fibre mats and a layer of earth, and left to bake for two or three days. It’s this slow, underground baking that gives mezcal its distinctive smoky flavour.

Once cooked, the piñas are crushed under a chest-high millstone dragged by a donkey, and the resulting pulp is piped into wooden vats to ferment for several weeks before being distilled and finally aged in white oak barrels.

“Everything is just natural,” says de Jesus, noting that the fermentation process is done in the old style, without the aid of chemical accelerators or additional sugars. “That’s why you have no headache,” Diego promises with a light tap to his temple.

Of course, there’s also the worm. Slightly smaller than a baby’s pinky finger, the maguey worm, which lives on the agave plants and is actually a moth larvae, is pickled and added at the bottling stage. Though some mezcal brands are opting to omit the worm, these days, mezcal con gusano (with worm) is still an easy find.

The reason behind the odd tradition of the worm is hazy. The popular theory is that the worms found their way into bottles of mezcal in the 1950s as a marketing gimmick aimed at American travellers looking for a cheap thrill. Others say the worm gives the mezcal a unique flavour.

Back at the bar, de Jesus adds another theory as he digs one out of a great big glass jar and drops it on his tongue for all of us to see. “It’s the Oaxaca Viagara,” he says, swallowing with a toothy grin.

Later, a group of us head out into the historic quarter of the town of Oaxaca to experience a traditional mezcal bar. We arrive at La Casa de Mezcal, which features swinging doors reminiscent of a Wild West saloon. Before we enter, de Jesus remarks that mezcal cantinas have historically been for men only but that this is changing. He reassures the women in our group that we should be fine here.

Inside, it’s dim, and there’s the loud thump-thump of Latin pop music. Clumps of men and women drink lazily under lurid three-metre-high murals depicting the slaughter of the Aztecs by Spaniards. A man sitting beside a bloody-fanged jaguar warrior sends a “hola” de Jesus’s way. There’s also a side-bar, ostensibly for touristas, where an “American-style” jukebox is playing country music.

The vibe is a relaxed one, the equivalent of a loud neighbourhood pub or after-work bar. The place convinces me that for all its recent airs, mezcal is still very much an amigo drink — something savoured among friends with toasts and tearful confessions.

As for the drink itself, it’s explained to me that, traditionally, mezcal is intended to be sipped rather than slugged back in a testosterone-induced single quaff. Orange or lime wedges dipped in maguey worm salt are options to cut through the harsh bite.

“You drink it slow so you can really taste it,” says Sarai, a Mexican tourism rep and my vivacious companion on the adventure. “The shot — I think that’s an American thing to get you drunk,” she adds with a laugh.

The drink itself is sharp-edged and smoky and has a surprisingly complex flavour for such a strong drink. Like tequila, it has that warm, slow burn that spreads out from your throat and through your chest. It’s a good drink, I decide, though I remain skeptical of one local’s assertion that it can cure a stomach ache. “Para todo mal, mezcal; y para todo bien, tambien,” he toasts. I shrug, but I suppose it’s to be expected: just a bit more of the mythology surrounding this fiery beverage, whose newfound elevation remains yet deeply rooted in a people and a way of life.

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HEAD: Mezcal versus Tequila