Mezcal Mania and the Mythic Pursuit of the Perfect Pour
From Palenque to Speakeasy: A Jubilant Journey Through Oaxaca’s Liquid Gold
Wednesday, February 26th, 2025
It was supposed to be a "non-palenque day." But do non-palenque days prohibit us from going to visit a friend? Hell no! And if said friend happens to live on a mezcal palenque, hey, that’s purely coincidental!
And what is a non-palenque day anyway? A day for rest, for decompression. But in this game, that’s just a lie we tell ourselves to maintain some illusion of control. The truth is, you can take the Mezcal Maniac out of the palenque, but you can’t keep the palenque out of the Mezcal Maniac.
And so we found ourselves making a pilgrimage to see our friend Plácido Hernández.
Barb stayed behind for a well-earned mental recalibration, while Cecilia needed her fix of centro. That left just the male maniacs: Bryan, Fred and me. When we cabbed in, Alastair, our man in Mitla, was already there—eyes gleaming, ready for action.
Plácido’s Espina Dorada had transformed yet again. Several years of steady expansion, fueled by the relentless pursuit of mezcal perfection. New buildings, new equipment, a sprawling bar area—each addition a monument to his mastery. And we weren’t the only mezcal moths drawn to the flame.
He wasted no time, pulling out the heavy artillery: Arroqueños, Cuixe, Tobalá, Tepextate, a clay-distilled Sierra Negra. Then he dropped something startling—an Espadín/Madrecuixe ensamble distilled with roses, for god’s sake. But he knew what I craved. The Barril. Brutal, unforgiving. He guessed high 50s ABV, but when I got it home, the truth was more terrifying—64.3%! This was pure, uncut Zapotec madness in a garrafon. A lesser man might have panicked, but I saw it for what it was: a beast to be tamed.
Using my Calcohol app, I brought samples down to 52%, 49%, and 47%—a civilized experiment in controlled demolition. Would you believe it? Even the 52% was still a sharp-fanged animal. The 49% holds promise, but I will take my time. Some of the full-force chaos will be preserved for my personal revelry, but the rest? It needs to be dialed back before it ends friendships.
Bryan claimed the Tepextate, and Fred grabbed the Arroqueño Corazón. Another successful “non-palenque day.”
As always, his wife Soledad greeted us with her serene presence, daughter Yessica had returned from studying abroad in Germany, and son Saul, long absent, was there to say hi too. A family built around mezcal, rooted in something deeper than commerce—this was blood, sweat, and smoke-bound devotion.
Then there was René Juárez—my partner in mezcal crime, the man who once ruled Casa Murciélago Mezcalería in San Miguel de Allende before launching his own underground temple to Mexican spirits. He had returned from Oaxaca with wild tales of a mezcal speakeasy run by a guru—an oracle of the craft, steeped in wisdom and tradition: Mabi Cuishe. He insisted I had to go. He demanded it.
And so, we marched: Fred, Bryan, Cecilia, and I. The place was called Toloache, and we barely had time to get our bearings before a familiar face greeted us—Cain Bohorquez, maestro mezcalero of Catorce Fuerzas Miahuatlán. His reputation preceded him. I had sipped his savage creations before, but now, here, we were in his world.
Mabi arrived, and the talk went deep—straight into the mezcal rabbit hole. No pleasantries, no bullshit. Just raw knowledge exchanged over glistening glasses of Tobalá, Madrecuixe, Tobasiche. An Ensamble of 5 agaves. Then one of 9 agaves. My god, how many more? We weren’t just drinking—we were communing with spirits, both distilled and supernatural.
The walk back to the Airbnb was a zigzagging, half-conscious journey through a city that pulsed with midnight energy. We stumbled past a garage where a band was jamming to something festive and free. They saw us, grinned, waved. We acknowledged their righteous racket and carried on—drunk not just on mezcal, but on the unshakable knowledge that tomorrow would take us even further into the abyss.
Santa María Ixcatlán awaited, and it would be a day that burned itself into our bones forever.
Before retiring, I slipped out to the terrraza, snapping a shot of the city in all it’s luminous glory. I love Oaxaca.
My constant refrain: if you’re coming to San Miguel de Allende, I’d be stoked if you looked me up. Happy to meet you in centro if our schedules allow—or even to have you over for a rip-roaring mezcal tasting at our house in the mountains.
I’m here.
¡Excelente! Informative and fun, I'm enjoying your style, Jonathan!