Three Palenques and a Funeral: A Wild Day in San Juan del Río
Navigating a funeral, ferocious distillations, and small town hospitality in the heart of Oaxaca’s mezcal country.
Mea Culpa: A Mezcal Maniac Correction:
In a previous version of this article, I wrongly identified a certain palenque as that of Rodolfo Juan Juárez—when in reality it was the palenque of maestro mezcalero Joel Antonio Juan. My deepest apologies for my error!
February 25th, 2025.
We had never been to San Juan del Río, population 1400, an hour and 45 minutes east of Oaxaca City. My comrade-in-quaffing, San Miguel de Allende’s Corvus Nichols, had long ago introduced me to the mezcales of this legendary outpost, their spirits lurking in my memory.
Organizing a mezcal trip is a lesson in controlled chaos—no matter how well you plan, something always threatens to go off the rails. Some mezcaleros are talkative, eager to discuss their craft. Others speak in cryptic riddles, or worse, not at all. And internet access? A cruel joke in the Oaxacan hills—sometimes generous, often non-existent.
So when a day unfolds as planned, you can consider it an act of divine intervention. The plan: a hearty breakfast at Empanadas Zenaida, a pilgrimage to San Juan del Río, three palenque visits, and a triumphant return to Santiago Matatlán for dinner at Azul Adobe. Success likelihood? A rock-bottom 4%. But miracles do happen.
Our driver, Ciro Villa, scooped us up at 7:30 AM. We made quick work of the road to Empanadas Zenaida, where we faced down massive empanadas, their tortillas somehow finer, silkier than the rest. And then, to San Juan del Río, winding along a surprisingly smooth road that must have been constructed recently.
But fate, ever the prankster, threw a funeral into our path. The entire town, or so it seemed, had gathered at the precise corner where we were meant to turn left. Mourners had traveled from as far as Tijuana. A blockade of grief and tradition. We were stranded. Then, like an apparition, a face emerged from the crowd, heading us off at the “passed.”
"Jonathan?" he inquired, peering through the window.
It was Rodolfo López Sosa, our first scheduled maestro mezcalero, standing two kilometers from his own palenque, ensuring we didn't veer off into oblivion. We stood among the mourners for a good half-hour, nodding at curious glances, before slipping away into the hills.
They call him "El Profesor," a title earned both in the classroom as a school teacher and at the palenque as a maestro. At 65, Rodolfo is a third-generation mezcalero who learned the alchemy of agave from his father at 12 but only embraced full-time distillation in 2005. He estimates 21 mezcaleros toil in these hills, most juggling multiple livelihoods.
In addition to making distillations for a number of brands, his own, "Profesor Mezcal," has found an audience in Canada, accompanied by a gloriously alluring, spaghetti-western-style promo video. See below…
But the real magic unfolded at his palenque. We drank in the view and then the mezcal—Espadín, Tobalá, an añejo of respectable strength. And then, the monsters: a 68% Espadín and a 63% five-year añejo, each sip a controlled detonation in the bloodstream. His wife, María Magdalena, ensured we didn’t perish on the spot, feeding us hearty snacks to fortify our resolve.
We departed, bottles clinking, for another Rodolfo.
This next one was a legend in my own mezcal folklore: Rodolfo Juan Juárez. Corvus had introduced me to his work years prior—eye-watering, mind-bending mezcales. That Bicuixe! Only 41 years old, this palenque master.
And what a palenque we found!
(above) Remedios de Mayahuel, palenque of Joel Antonio Juan
Previously I had believed this was “Voces del Río,” Rodolfo’s palenque. But that was a mistake. We had gotten lost entering San Juan del Río, and when someone kindly directed us to a mezcal destileria, we thought it was Rodolfo’s. In point of fact, it was “Remedios de Mayahuel,” the palenque of Joel Antonio Juan, who was going to be our third stop of the day. More on his magnificent mezcales in a moment.
Remedios de Mayahuel was multi-level, chaotic, alive. Workers hacked at piñas, roasted them, crushed them, a symphony of destruction and creation.
Soon Rodolfo JJ emerged to orchestrate a tasting in his portion of the structure, rolling out a parade of fine spirits: Espadín, Tepextate, Tobalá among them. I seized a Coyote I couldn’t resist. Bryan succumbed to the Tepextate and a Sierra Negra/Arroqueño ensamble. Fred clutched a certain precious Espadín, his eyes full of knowing. He had no anti-Espadín bigotry this trip.
Then, something rare. Agave Montana, smuggled from the northern state of Tamaulipas, distilled into something clean, flavorful and subtly sweet. A mezcal of whispers, not shouts. And it’s mine.
Months earlier, I had asked Rodolfo JJ if he could recommend a place for lunch. Instead, he invited us into his home. His wife laid out a feast: Barbacoa de Pollo in a broth as rich as Carlos Slim. Tortillas made from agave quiotes. And, of course, cold Dos Equis. A proper Oaxacan banquet.
Our final stop: maestro mezcalero Joel Antonio Juan, owner of the palenque showcased in these photos. A helpful soul, guiding us through the labyrinthine roads to his palenque when in the planning stage.
Same palenque? Not at all. But the size of the structure is so large that both “Voces del Río” and Joel’s palenque, “Remedios de Mayahuel,” are adjoined-but-separate.
Joel is Rodolfo’s cousin, and his skill as a maestro mezcalero was obvious. With his wife Marisela and their six-month-old son Itan in tow, he laid before us eight distillations—along with some of those delicious quiote tortillas. The standout? The Ensamble de 7. An unholy alliance of Coyote, Tepextate, Mexicanito, Arroqueño, Sierrudo, Tobalá, and Jabalí. A beast of a mezcal, but somehow, impossibly, balanced. Bryan and I also lost our composure over his Sierrudo.
And so, against all odds, the day unfolded as if scripted by divine hands. The mountains were luminous, the mezcal divine, the company impeccable. The last challenge? Making it back to Matatlán for dinner.
We made it.
At Azul Adobe, we devoured tlayudas that could wake the dead, washed down with frosty beers. Then, somehow, back to the apartment before nightfall. A flawless victory.
And, most impressively, no brain crashes, nor any humiliating drunken kisses upon a mezcalero's hand.
A triumph worthy of the gods.
There’s plenty more to come on this year’s mezcal adventure. But a reminder: if you’ve any plans to stop through San Miguel de Allende, where Cecilia and I live, drop me a line. Love to sip with you at any one of the many local mezcal joints—or we’ll put on a tasting you won’t soon forget at our home in the mountains. 🤘
Jonathan, this post was singular in illustrating your skills as a travel writer. You drew me in early, wrote a beautiful storyline and in the ultimate compliment, made me long to be there with you and your friends. A superb bit of prose.
Ooh looks perfect.