The red rocket whined as it redlined its way up the steep hill. There were five of us crammed inside; the red hatchback Toyota Yaris was all our fixer, Carlos, had available – even though he had promised us a SUV. While I was bobble-heading with fatigue in the front, the squished team in the backseat had their eyes peeled like a group of Navy Seals. Our driver, Dalton, looked down for a second to change the music, and then…
‘TOPE!’ everyone yelled.
I opened my eyes as he slammed on the brakes. The red rocket fishtailed as the tires locked up, and we slid the last few metres until he deftly let off the brakes and straightened the wheel. The chassis slammed into the tope with a cringe-inducing crunch. We all flinched… then laughed it off. This was driving in Oaxaca.
We were on our way to Oaxaca’s palenques (agave farms and distilleries) to meet its mezcaleros, the men – and they are mostly men – who make mezcal, the alcoholic drink made from the agave plant. I’d already had a four-day crash course in all things mezcal courtesy of my host in Oaxaca, who filled me in on some of the many intricacies of the complex spirit as we cruised from dive bars (cantinas), to nice bars, to marketplaces, to restaurants, and back to his apartment – where he had an impressive collection of over 25 varietals.
But now we were off to see where it was made – which is how I found myself trundling through a hot, humid and mosquito-infested river valley in the middle of nowhere. Our journey became an endless succession of ups and downs, thick humid heat waves and then brisk mountain air, as we inched further and further into the Sierra Norte Mountains. Finally, after five hours, we reached Mezcal Tosba.
The opening to the driveway was barely visible, smothered in foliage. We turned left off the main road, slowly making our way down the treacherous and narrow loose-gravel path into the palenque. We were nearly halfway to the valley floor by the time we reached the main structure that housed the bulk of the mezcal operation – essentially a concrete slab formed like an elongated single-story barn split down the middle into two sections.
The left side was more operational and contained the fermentation vats and stills, and the right side was more of a “lounge”. There was the kitchen, a bar/countertop area, dining table, grill, coolers, a few plastic chairs and one hammock. And standing by the grill was renowned mezcalero Edgar Gonzalez Ramirez.
After a few welcoming words, our glasses were filled with a new batch of espadín. I have to agree with Judah Kuper when he wrote ‘mezcal was like a slap to the face from a beautiful woman’; it burned the throat yet somehow soothed the soul. The freedom from the bumpy roads was reason enough to celebrate.
We toured the property, and I learned of the different agaves present on Edgar’s land. The story behind Mezcal Tosba is truly remarkable: they were one of the earliest mezcalero-owned brands and are now very respected and sought after in America. After the tour we returned to the lounge, where the drinking and conversation ensued well into the night. We were regularly visited by a one-eyed horse who never missed an opportunity to walk right into the lounge when the small gate was left open.
As the night progressed, I was still nowhere near being able to name or identify the different agaves, but the production process was becoming clearer. It helped that we sat around the massive fermentation vats and watched as they started the fires underneath the stills. I took photos and watched them work as the mezcal started to work on me. My throat burned from the alcohol, but I was revelling with newfound admiration for their passion.
‘Man, this is so cool,’ I said to the crew of guys who worked with Edgar.
The guy nearest me spoke English and asked, ‘How do you mean?’
‘Well, this is the first time I have ever seen anyone do this, so to sit here and drink mezcal, and watch you make mezcal, it’s special.’
He translated to his friends and then asked: ‘So you like the mezcal, amigo?’
‘Very much,’ I said with a nod and smile.
‘Well, you should try some of this…’ he said, pointing to the spigot coming straight off the still.
I took a deep breath and bent down to drink from the still. When I exhaled, it actually felt like I was breathing fire. They all laughed and patted me on the back, an informal rite of passage.
Edgar told me it must have been around 75 per cent alcohol. Artisanal mezcal is usually distilled (AKA “pulled”) twice and, unless it’s a clay pot batch, they cut the heads (the liquid that first comes off the still) and tails (what’s left at the end) of the pulls to only get the most desirable flavours and alcohol content.
There are many more lessons to be learned from spending time in Oaxaca; as one of the most biodiverse states in Mexico, the plant and animal life translate into cultural richness unlike many places on Earth. Each region has a wealth of different artisans, ingredients and spirits; and nature is embraced as the root of all things.
Thankfully, there has been a shift bringing Americans closer to the roots – whether it’s farm-to-table dining, small-batch spirits or locally made goods. This shift has helped mezcaleros gain the attention and respect they deserve while simultaneously improving the economic outlook for countless families in rural Mexico. I encourage you to visit Oaxaca and to tour the countryside in search of your new favourite varietal: there are thousands of options. But if you can’t, then I implore you to back mezcalero-owned brands like Tosba to further support the development of artisanal mezcal.
As the mezcaleros say, ‘Para todo mal, mezcal. Para todo bien, tambien. Y si no hay remedio, litro y medio!’ (For everything bad, mezcal. For everything good, as well! And if there is no remedy for what ails you, then drink a litre and a half!)
Mezcal Tosba, Domicilio Conocido, 68830 San Cristobal Lachrioag, Oaxaca, Mexico; mezcaltosba.com
Born in Brazil, Chris Dodds grew up between the beaches of Rio and the American Midwest. Today, he’s a staff writer and photographer for Surfer Magazine
