The Art of Making Mezcal in Oaxaca
When I heard that Jonathan Barbieri was coming to the Bay A
rea, I canceled a date with my boyfriend, Scott, to meet the
founder of Mezcal Pierde Almas at a pop-up taco event in
Oakland. I had recently developed a taste for mezcal de
pechuga, a specialty holiday mezcal distilled with seasonal
fruits and raw chicken breast, and I knew he produced a
high-end, artisan version called coñejo, made from wild
rabbit. I was dying to know what the mezcal-misted meat
tasted like afterwards.
rea, I canceled a date with my boyfriend, Scott, to meet the
founder of Mezcal Pierde Almas at a pop-up taco event in
Oakland. I had recently developed a taste for mezcal de
pechuga, a specialty holiday mezcal distilled with seasonal
fruits and raw chicken breast, and I knew he produced a
high-end, artisan version called coñejo, made from wild
rabbit. I was dying to know what the mezcal-misted meat
tasted like afterwards.
“You wouldn’t want to eat that,” he said, staring into the
clear glass copa of mezcal cradled in his palm. “Even if
you use a big turkey breast, by the time you finish distilling
it with mezcal, the pechuga is shriveled up to the size of a
walnut.”
clear glass copa of mezcal cradled in his palm. “Even if
you use a big turkey breast, by the time you finish distilling
it with mezcal, the pechuga is shriveled up to the size of a
walnut.”
He took a sip of coñejo, swallowed slowly, and lifted his
gaze, mischief dancing in his eyes. “Now, what’s really
delicious is when you take all that fruta criolla from the
still, stuff it inside a pig, and cook it in an underground
pit. That’s what you want to eat.”
gaze, mischief dancing in his eyes. “Now, what’s really
delicious is when you take all that fruta criolla from the
still, stuff it inside a pig, and cook it in an underground
pit. That’s what you want to eat.”
And that’s how I found myself making a batch of mezcal de
pechuga a few weeks ago at a backwoods still in Southern
Mexico. The whole process required two visits to San Luis
del Rio, a remote, 350-person village perched on the slope
of a knife-edged mountain in the Tlacolula region of Oaxaca.
Scott and I delivered the fruit on the first trip, then returned
two days later with the pig.
pechuga a few weeks ago at a backwoods still in Southern
Mexico. The whole process required two visits to San Luis
del Rio, a remote, 350-person village perched on the slope
of a knife-edged mountain in the Tlacolula region of Oaxaca.
Scott and I delivered the fruit on the first trip, then returned
two days later with the pig.
When it comes to liquor, mezcal is as local—and as labor-
intensive—as it gets. The agave plant from which it is made
is grown on-site or foraged from local hillsides. Of the 100 or
so agave species—known locally as maguey—about 50 grow in
the state of Oaxaca; the most common type in mezcal-making
is espadín. Depending on the species of agave, it can take five
to 25 years for the plant to reach maturity.
intensive—as it gets. The agave plant from which it is made
is grown on-site or foraged from local hillsides. Of the 100 or
so agave species—known locally as maguey—about 50 grow in
the state of Oaxaca; the most common type in mezcal-making
is espadín. Depending on the species of agave, it can take five
to 25 years for the plant to reach maturity.
A ripe maguey heart, or piña, can weigh as much as 40
kilograms. Workers harvest them by hand, with machetes,
and burros haul them down impossibly steep hillsides to t
he mezcal production facility, or palenque. There, they are
roasted in an underground pit for a few days, then dug up
and cooled before being chopped into big chunks and
transferred to a grinding circle called a molino, where t
hey are crushed and shredded beneath a tahona, a stone
wheel turned by a horse with a little encouragement from a
human.
kilograms. Workers harvest them by hand, with machetes,
and burros haul them down impossibly steep hillsides to t
he mezcal production facility, or palenque. There, they are
roasted in an underground pit for a few days, then dug up
and cooled before being chopped into big chunks and
transferred to a grinding circle called a molino, where t
hey are crushed and shredded beneath a tahona, a stone
wheel turned by a horse with a little encouragement from a
human.
When the shredded piñas begin to resemble clumps of horse
hair, they are transferred to hot-tub-sized wooden
fermentation vats, covered with water from the stream,
and left to ferment naturally for at least several days and
up to a few weeks. When the bubbling stops, the workers
transfer the mash to a wood-fired alembique for several
hours of high-maintenance distilling. Mezcaleros often
spend the night by the still, babysitting the fire to maintain
the perfect flame.
hair, they are transferred to hot-tub-sized wooden
fermentation vats, covered with water from the stream,
and left to ferment naturally for at least several days and
up to a few weeks. When the bubbling stops, the workers
transfer the mash to a wood-fired alembique for several
hours of high-maintenance distilling. Mezcaleros often
spend the night by the still, babysitting the fire to maintain
the perfect flame.
Mezcal is ready to drink as soon as it comes out of the
still, but pechuga requires even more work. The mezcal
is added back to the still with fruit, nuts, and spices and
eft to rest for 12 hours or more. The next day, a chicken
or turkey breast is suspended inside the still for another
another round of distillation, so that the evaporating spirit
captures the soul of the bird as it rises. Typically served at
weddings and other special occasions, pechuga is
traditionally distilled only in November and December,
when the fruta criolla is ripe and abundant.
still, but pechuga requires even more work. The mezcal
is added back to the still with fruit, nuts, and spices and
eft to rest for 12 hours or more. The next day, a chicken
or turkey breast is suspended inside the still for another
another round of distillation, so that the evaporating spirit
captures the soul of the bird as it rises. Typically served at
weddings and other special occasions, pechuga is
traditionally distilled only in November and December,
when the fruta criolla is ripe and abundant.
So, on a Tuesday morning in mid-November, Scott and I
procured a dozen kilos of ripe fruit at Oaxaca City’s main
wholesale market, the Central de Abasos. More accurately,
we chased Pierde Almas’ perky, 38-year-old warehouse
manager, Lorena Pavón, through the market as she
bargained for bulging sacks of heirloom pineapples,
apples, and bananas at a breakneck speed. She expertly
navigated a seemingly impenetrable labyrinth of unmarked
stalls stocked with elaborately displayed produce, live
animals and butchered meat, plastic jugs of homemade
pulque, and hundreds of hand-woven rugs and baskets.
At one point, she shooed us aside to allow a small raft of
ducklings to pass, kept in formation by a short man
tapping a tall stick on the ground.
procured a dozen kilos of ripe fruit at Oaxaca City’s main
wholesale market, the Central de Abasos. More accurately,
we chased Pierde Almas’ perky, 38-year-old warehouse
manager, Lorena Pavón, through the market as she
bargained for bulging sacks of heirloom pineapples,
apples, and bananas at a breakneck speed. She expertly
navigated a seemingly impenetrable labyrinth of unmarked
stalls stocked with elaborately displayed produce, live
animals and butchered meat, plastic jugs of homemade
pulque, and hundreds of hand-woven rugs and baskets.
At one point, she shooed us aside to allow a small raft of
ducklings to pass, kept in formation by a short man
tapping a tall stick on the ground.
We quartered the fruit, packed it into baskets, and drove
it three hours southeast to San Luis del Rio, where we met
Maestro Gregorio “Goyo” Velasco Luis, a 38-year-old
master mezcal distiller for Pierde Almas. The “Maestro,”
as mezcaleros are known, greeted us at the far edge of
town, where we climbed into the back of his one-ton work
truck for the final, off-road trek to the palenque.
it three hours southeast to San Luis del Rio, where we met
Maestro Gregorio “Goyo” Velasco Luis, a 38-year-old
master mezcal distiller for Pierde Almas. The “Maestro,”
as mezcaleros are known, greeted us at the far edge of
town, where we climbed into the back of his one-ton work
truck for the final, off-road trek to the palenque.
Twenty minutes later, we emerged from a shallow riverbed
into a sun-dappled clearing in the trees centered around a
pair of copper stills, a dozen vats, and a molino. A head-
high pile of blackened maguey hearts flanked an open
roasting pit lined with still-warm coals. The air hung heavy
with wood smoke and the sweet musk of fermenting agave,
bubbling away beneath a thick layer of masa—a doughy,
mud-colored substance that forms on the top of the mash.
A handful of young men mingled around the running still, t
ending the fire and checking the flow of freshly distilled
mezcal into plastic jugs.
into a sun-dappled clearing in the trees centered around a
pair of copper stills, a dozen vats, and a molino. A head-
high pile of blackened maguey hearts flanked an open
roasting pit lined with still-warm coals. The air hung heavy
with wood smoke and the sweet musk of fermenting agave,
bubbling away beneath a thick layer of masa—a doughy,
mud-colored substance that forms on the top of the mash.
A handful of young men mingled around the running still, t
ending the fire and checking the flow of freshly distilled
mezcal into plastic jugs.
Goyo selected a piña from the maguey pile and carried it
to the grinding circle, where he hacked it into chunks with
a machete. He handed me a piece and said in Spanish,
“This is espadín. Taste it.” I ripped off a fibrous strip
and bit into it. It tasted like smoky, malted sugar cane, t
oo ropy to chew and swallow but sweet and juicy enough
to warrant the attempt.
to the grinding circle, where he hacked it into chunks with
a machete. He handed me a piece and said in Spanish,
“This is espadín. Taste it.” I ripped off a fibrous strip
and bit into it. It tasted like smoky, malted sugar cane, t
oo ropy to chew and swallow but sweet and juicy enough
to warrant the attempt.
“Tobalá,” he said, handing me another chunk. This one—a
wild variety of maguey in danger of over-harvesting—was
nearly as juicy, but slightly less sweet. The third type tasted
tart, tipping toward sour, with a woody texture. “Tepextate,”
he said, with a grin. This wild maguey can take two to three
decades to reach maturity, making it one of the rarest and
most expensive varietals. Even after distillation and bottling,
mezcal de tepextate manages to maintain its gamey
character.
wild variety of maguey in danger of over-harvesting—was
nearly as juicy, but slightly less sweet. The third type tasted
tart, tipping toward sour, with a woody texture. “Tepextate,”
he said, with a grin. This wild maguey can take two to three
decades to reach maturity, making it one of the rarest and
most expensive varietals. Even after distillation and bottling,
mezcal de tepextate manages to maintain its gamey
character.
When the distillation run ended a few hours later, Goyo’s
work crew dove into the task of cleaning out one of the
copper stills in preparation for the pechuga. Using water
pumped from the stream and a long-handled, curved
paddle carved from coconut wood, they scooped, swept,
and hosed out the still before plugging the drain with a
wooden peg and wet maguey fibers.
work crew dove into the task of cleaning out one of the
copper stills in preparation for the pechuga. Using water
pumped from the stream and a long-handled, curved
paddle carved from coconut wood, they scooped, swept,
and hosed out the still before plugging the drain with a
wooden peg and wet maguey fibers.
With a long rubber hose, they siphoned mezcal from 55-
gallon drums into the 250-liter still, then added several g
allons of sugar water before Goyo stepped atop the still to
add the fruit. He gave the mixture a stir with the coconut
paddle, replaced the copper bell on the alembique, and
sealed it with maguey masa.
gallon drums into the 250-liter still, then added several g
allons of sugar water before Goyo stepped atop the still to
add the fruit. He gave the mixture a stir with the coconut
paddle, replaced the copper bell on the alembique, and
sealed it with maguey masa.
The sun was setting, and the fruit needed to rest overnight
before Goyo could add the turkey and distill the liquor
one last time. But I didn’t want to leave before meeting
the guajolote, or heirloom turkey, that would be sacrificed
the following morning. It was tied to a tree in the shade.
before Goyo could add the turkey and distill the liquor
one last time. But I didn’t want to leave before meeting
the guajolote, or heirloom turkey, that would be sacrificed
the following morning. It was tied to a tree in the shade.
“What is the turkey’s name?” I asked in Spanish.
Goyo shrugged. “Thursday’s pechuga?”
Two days later, we returned to the palenque with Barbieri
and ten waiters from Casa Oaxaca, one of Oaxaca City’s finest
restaurants, eager to learn more about the mezcal they
served to their dinner guests. Goyo’s crew greeted us at the
river’s edge and helped unload chairs and tables, plates and
silverware, napkins and tablecloths, a case of wine, and t
en pounds of Oaxacan cheese, which was served as an
appetizer.
and ten waiters from Casa Oaxaca, one of Oaxaca City’s finest
restaurants, eager to learn more about the mezcal they
served to their dinner guests. Goyo’s crew greeted us at the
river’s edge and helped unload chairs and tables, plates and
silverware, napkins and tablecloths, a case of wine, and t
en pounds of Oaxacan cheese, which was served as an
appetizer.
The turkey was now gone, the pechuga was barreled up and
ready to drink, and the mezcal-marinated fruit sat nearby
in a five-gallon bucket, surrounded by bees. Several feet
away, flames rose from a freshly dug pit at the edge of the
clearing.
ready to drink, and the mezcal-marinated fruit sat nearby
in a five-gallon bucket, surrounded by bees. Several feet
away, flames rose from a freshly dug pit at the edge of the
clearing.
Barbieri lugged a bin to the table and pulled out a clear
plastic sack packed with pig parts.
plastic sack packed with pig parts.
“Originally, I planned on stuffing this sucker,” he said.
“But the butcher suggested breaking it down so it would
cook faster.”
“But the butcher suggested breaking it down so it would
cook faster.”
A suckling pig had been cut into recognizable portions,
including two perfect head halves, in profile. A thick red
paste coated every surface, nook, and cranny.
including two perfect head halves, in profile. A thick red
paste coated every surface, nook, and cranny.
“We marinated it overnight in a sauce we made made with
orange juice, peppers, and some spices. It should only take
a few hours to cook, once we get it in the pit.”
orange juice, peppers, and some spices. It should only take
a few hours to cook, once we get it in the pit.”
Working together, Barbieri and Goyo lined the bottom of a
galvanized wash tub with moist, green coconut wood, which
they covered with banana leaves before nestling the pig into
place. Goyo spooned in fruta criolla, which Barbieri tucked
into ears, under knuckles and beneath ribs, along with
machete-chopped onions and garlic. When they could fit no
more fruit into the pig nest, they covered it with another
thick layer of banana leaves, and topped that with outer
layers of piña from the maguey pile.
galvanized wash tub with moist, green coconut wood, which
they covered with banana leaves before nestling the pig into
place. Goyo spooned in fruta criolla, which Barbieri tucked
into ears, under knuckles and beneath ribs, along with
machete-chopped onions and garlic. When they could fit no
more fruit into the pig nest, they covered it with another
thick layer of banana leaves, and topped that with outer
layers of piña from the maguey pile.
Goyo covered the flames with split wood and roasted maguey
hearts, laid down a metal grill, and lowered the bucket into t
he pit, onto the flat surface. After covering the makeshift
oven with a woven mat, the work crew surrounded it with
logs, spread a tarp over the top, and shoveled dirt over t
he entire pit, trapping everything—including the smoke—
inside.
hearts, laid down a metal grill, and lowered the bucket into t
he pit, onto the flat surface. After covering the makeshift
oven with a woven mat, the work crew surrounded it with
logs, spread a tarp over the top, and shoveled dirt over t
he entire pit, trapping everything—including the smoke—
inside.
Goyo strode over to a 55-gallon drum sitting in the shade
of a tree and asked if I wanted to taste the pechuga.
of a tree and asked if I wanted to taste the pechuga.
He dipped a bamboo tube known as a venencia into the
barrel and bobbed it up and down before retracting it and
directing the tip into a traditional copa—just a round gourd
cut in half.
barrel and bobbed it up and down before retracting it and
directing the tip into a traditional copa—just a round gourd
cut in half.
I couldn’t say whether the flavor of mezcal de pechuga
is more heavily influenced by the fruit or the feathered
bird. Quite honestly, it didn’t taste like either one. But
something certainly made a difference, because this mezcal
was silky smooth, as if the harsh edges had been rounded
off and polished.
is more heavily influenced by the fruit or the feathered
bird. Quite honestly, it didn’t taste like either one. But
something certainly made a difference, because this mezcal
was silky smooth, as if the harsh edges had been rounded
off and polished.
“What’s the alcohol percentage on this batch?” I asked.
Goyo filled his copa with pechuga, submerged one end of
his venencia, and placed the other end in his mouth. He
sucked some liquid up into the bamboo tube, then blew
it back into the copa.
his venencia, and placed the other end in his mouth. He
sucked some liquid up into the bamboo tube, then blew
it back into the copa.
“Forty-seven [percent].”
“How can you tell?”
“The bubbles,” he said.
Goyo explained that smaller bubbles indicate lower
alcohol levels, while larger bubbles—which tend to
burst quickly when they fall to the bottom of the
glass—indicate higher ABV. Using a venencia, any
mezcalero worth his worm salt can identify the proof
of his spirit within a degree or two of accuracy.
alcohol levels, while larger bubbles—which tend to
burst quickly when they fall to the bottom of the
glass—indicate higher ABV. Using a venencia, any
mezcalero worth his worm salt can identify the proof
of his spirit within a degree or two of accuracy.
While the pig cooked, Barbieri led the waiters on a tour of
the palenque and broke out four bottles of Pierde Almas to
sample. The waiters started off sipping and comparing
different varieties, but quickly progressed to shots and
challenges of one another’s manhood. When the bottles
were empty, they surreptitiously refilled them directly
from the still.
the palenque and broke out four bottles of Pierde Almas to
sample. The waiters started off sipping and comparing
different varieties, but quickly progressed to shots and
challenges of one another’s manhood. When the bottles
were empty, they surreptitiously refilled them directly
from the still.
By the time the smell of roasted pork permeated the
palenque, only half of the waitstaff remained standing.
The maître d’ teetered out of his chair twice before
his colleagues carried him to a dilapidated hammock
strung up next to the still. The woven material had split,
leaving a gaping space under
his head, so they fashioned a sling out of banana leaves
to prevent his accidental strangulation.
palenque, only half of the waitstaff remained standing.
The maître d’ teetered out of his chair twice before
his colleagues carried him to a dilapidated hammock
strung up next to the still. The woven material had split,
leaving a gaping space under
his head, so they fashioned a sling out of banana leaves
to prevent his accidental strangulation.
Goyo and his crew dug up the basin, pulled it out of the pit,
and peeled away banana leaves to reveal a perfect puzzle of
pig meat falling from the bone.
and peeled away banana leaves to reveal a perfect puzzle of
pig meat falling from the bone.
Barbieri pulled me aside. “As the guests of honor, you and
Scott are entitled to the pig’s head. It’s considered the best
part of the animal, I’m sure you know.”
Scott are entitled to the pig’s head. It’s considered the best
part of the animal, I’m sure you know.”
“As much as I love pig cheeks, I feel it would be more
appropriate for the hosts to enjoy the fruits of their labor,
don’t you think?”
appropriate for the hosts to enjoy the fruits of their labor,
don’t you think?”
“You may have a point,” he conceded.
I filled my plate with a ham hock, a scoop of fruta criolla, and a healthy helping of refried black beans. The pork was smoky, sweet, and succulent; the kind of meat you find yourself gnawing off the bone when you think no one else is looking. The beans had a latent spiciness, prompting me to rip off a strip of an addictive tortilla, hand-made from heirloom corn grown on nearby hillsides.
But the fruta criolla was the star of the show. Despite the fact that we left the skin on the bananas, the spikes on the pineapples, and the seeds in the apples, the fruit was soft, sensual, and satisfying, conjuring images of bacon-wrapped candied yams.
Across the table, Goyo sliced off and savored the suckling pig’s left cheek before scooping out its brain with a spoon and slurping it down with unmitigated glee. To my right, Barbieri had picked his half of the pig skull clean, except for the upper ear and the tip of the snout.
Pulling every last morsel of meat from the bone and sucking it from my fingers, I surveyed the carnage. Of the four waiters who made it to the dinner table, two were slumped over, foreheads in plates. The other two were taking drunken selfies. Several more lay snoring in a heap, beneath a mango tree. The head waiter was passed out on a wood pile, next to a an equally hammered member of Goyo’s work crew.
Barbieri chuckled at the body count. “I was a little worried we wouldn’t have enough pork,” he said. “But it looks like I may have underestimated the resilience of our guests.”
I remarked that the return trip would be hard on them. The curvy mountain roads were nauseating enough when sober.
Barbieri nodded. “Tomorrow will be even worse, when their hangovers kick in. Here in Oaxaca, they call it la cruda realidad, or the harsh, cruel reality. Some people are inspired by the spirit of the pechuga. For others, it is absolutely overwhelming.”
TOPICS: agave, alcohol, booze, fruta criolla, liquor, maguey, mexico, mezcal, mezcal de pechuga, Oaxaca
