When the Lights went out in Logoche!
A Mezcal Pilgrimage Gone Wrong—And Right.
I was running on fumes.
A full week before our 2025 Oaxacan mezcal adventure, I couldn’t flippin’ sleep more than 3 hours per night. Who knows why? The thrill of the upcoming hunt? The logistical madness of wrangling mezcalero appointments? Maybe it was the subconscious terror of leaving something vital behind—like my mobile voiceover setup. No matter. The mission was clear: mezcal, and no Espadín.
Destination: Logoche. My favorite mezcal region.
I had drawn a hard line. "No Espadín on this trip!" I declared to Fred and Bryan, my fellow mezcal travelers. My cellar already held more Espadín than I could drink in a decade. This was a journey for the wild stuff, the intriguing and mysterious sylvestres. The ensambles, the cabos, the quiotes… But mezcal, like an old friend who knows you better than you know yourself, had other ideas.
First, we had to bring the carne. For two years running, Don Tomás García Cruz and his sons—Nicolás, Eliazar, and Juan—had laid out a feast for us when we visited. This year, it was our turn. Max Rosenstock from Neta Spirits tipped us off to a roadside carnicería outside Miahuatlán, where we loaded up: five kilos of cecina, two kilos of chorizo, all packed into a flimsy Oxxo cooler, an object destined for a tragic fate.
First stop: the palenque of Hermogenes Vásquez García and Paula Aquino Sánchez, whose mezcales I rank among the best on Earth. Max had just gotten married there the day before, and the aftershocks of the party were evident. Mogen was moving slow, but he and Paula still managed to line up an arsenal of liquid dynamite for us:
Bicuixe by Paula
Tepextate by Mogen
Cabo y Quiote de Espadín by Paula
Madrecuixe by Paula
Jabalí by Paula
Bicuixe by Mogen
Madrecuixe/Bicuixe/Espadín ensamble by Paula
Madrecuixe by Mogen
Tobalá by Mogen
Espadín by Mogen
Espadín by Paula
Cucharillo by Paula
It was a beautiful conclave. The Logoche terroir, the unmistakable fingerprints of Paula and Mogen in every sip. But we had learned our lesson from past visits:
Do not let Mogen decide how much to pour!
He'll fill your glass to the brim if you let him, and then the day is over before it begins. We made our boundaries clear. He begrudgingly complied.
And then, treachery. That damned Cabo y Quiote de Espadín—too good, too exquisite. Paula explained the process—using the first four to five inches of the penca nearest the piña, normally discarded, to extract new dimensions of flavor. And just like that, I broke my own vow. I bought the Espadín. Fred did, too. We were weak. We knew it. We conceded.
But we needed more: Mogen’s Tobalá, his Madrecuixe, Paula’s ensamble, her Cucharillo. Then, instead of bidding farewell, Mogen and Paula piled into our van and rode with us to Don Tomás’ palenque, just a minute or two away. Word had spread that we were bringing carne, and apparently, the previous day's wedding spirit demanded one more feast.
The beginning was as expected—greetings, a shaded table, veladoras of mezcal passed around. But then, something went wrong. Horribly, bizarrely wrong. My ex-wife used to say she had never seen me drunk in 13 years of marriage. Others have echoed the sentiment. Whether due to tolerance, restraint, or sheer luck, I had always remained standing. Not today.
One moment, I was engaged. The next, I was a downed satellite, losing signal. My wife later reported that my eyes had begun some kind of deranged gymnastics. Fred put it simply: "One minute you seemed fine. The next, it was like you ran outta battery."
Note to Mezcal Maniac: you can’t live on 3 hours of sleep per night for a week AND still expect a normal round of mezcal day-drinking!
Bryan, I’m told, helped me back into the van while everyone else kept sipping. I remember sitting in there, thinking I might vomit. Then, in a heroic lunge toward fresh air, I annihilated the Oxxo cooler in a manner that must have been spectacular to behold—one second before purging.
I vaguely recall Don Tomás and his sons coming to check on me, their faces etched with concern. They were saying their goodbyes and expressing well-wishes. Then, the real kicker: I apparently took Nicolás’ hand and kissed it. A gesture normally reserved for cherished female family friends. My wife assured me that despite Nicolás’ initial fright, it was ultimately taken as a brotherly kindness, but Jesus Christ. What were they really thinking? 😫
Can I ever go back?!
From there, it was a black hole. We still had a third stop at the palenque of Los Tres Carnales, but I was a husk of a man. I dimly recall waking up in the van, the darkness outside pressing in, confused as hell. My wife told me I started shouting her name, and she had to come calm me down. Next thing I knew, we were halfway back to Oaxaca City, and I was piecing together the wreckage of the day.
So, the silver lining? I got the full Mogen and Paula experience. Fred and Cecilia made sure I didn’t leave empty-handed, picking up bottles on my behalf. Our shipment from Castores just came last night; so now I’ll take the time to sip, contemplate and decide what I’d like these dudes to ship to me. (Assuming they have any left!)
The next day, for the first time in a week, I woke up rested—mezcal’s brutal lesson burned into my soul. I’m happy to say there would be no repeat performances.
Worst of all? I never got a single bite of that cecina or chorizo.
Next up: our visit to a new mezcal region for us: San Juan del Río!
If you’re new here, I’m Jonathan Lockwood. I’ve lived in San Miguel de Allende, Mexico for 11 years, have a standing Friday mezcal meetup locally and put on mezcal tastings with my wife in our home in the mountains. So if you’re ever passing through, feel free to send me a message. Let’s drink.
Excellent Post & Images— ¡Gracias!
Thanks for sharing, especially details that for me, would have stayed in Oaxaca! Fully understand following up after a wedding. We showed up at Tio Rey a few days after his sons wedding and I still have some unopened custom labeled bottles!