Kosher Eucharist / יוקאריסט כשר

(title credit goes to Achewood)

I bring you today the second entry in the newly-minted “Michael Drinks Mildly Exotic Liquors and Reports” series on Kosher Eucharist, since we at KE feel it’s important that our readership be presented with strictly unbiased accounts of various alcohols by someone who hates nearly everything. Last time I covered cachaça, a Brazilian firewater teetering on the cusp of sudden and insufferable popularity, and now the moment has come to contend with mezcal, that notorious proletarian cousin of tequila, that Mexican agave distillate whose preeminent feature, besides its incendiary aroma, is the inclusion of the gusano or worm, a generously-sized moth or weevil larva floating reproachfully in a Davy Jones’ locker of sinister amber brew.

I was at the supermarket on a routine gin run, and I saw that its liquor store had just started stocking a single brand of mezcal, Monte Alban, a supposedly 100% agave Oaxacan product containing a fat white worm. Feeling adventurous, and also slight pangs of withdrawal, I decided that the supermarket’s open-minded liquor stocking policy should be rewarded, and I put the mezcal in my basket. The checkout girl, apparently unaware that such a zoologically-enhanced potation existed, asked me what it was. “It’s basically tequila,” I said, “but even more likely to make you go blind.”

Around the Monte Alban bottle’s neck was a small brochure which purported to recount the history and traditions of mezcal, which I quote below (with my comments in bold):

You are holding in your hands one of the most legendary drinks in the world. (Just like absinthe, except favored by raging, pumice-livered drunks instead of sad-eyed, fin-de-siècle-nostalgic youths with Toulouse-Lautrec prints on their walls.) Its mystique, created over hundreds of years, follows it to this day. What is it about Mezcal that has given it such an avid following? (The foolishness of man perverteth his way.) What makes it so unique? (The rustic charm of paint stripper wedded to the price of mid-level tequila.)

Mezcal dates from the middle of the sixteenth century, when the Spanish conquistadores had conquered the New World. When they ran out of their traditional rum, the battle-scarred fighters (or more accurately, the spread-highly-contagious-foreign-diseases-then-sit-back-relax-and-worry-about-what-to-distill-scarred fighters) looked for something else to celebrate with. (The native women were understandably reluctant at that point). The (surviving) Aztecs near the mountaintop settlement of Monte Alban in Oaxaca had cultivated a certain species of agave cactus for juice which they would ferment into what they called pulque. The Spaniards, wanting something much more potent than pulque, began to experiment with the agave. First, they chopped it up to be cooked. The juice was then pressed out, fermented for several days, and finally distilled. The result was Mezcal.

Traditionally, every bottle of true Mezcal made in Oaxaca Province contains an agave worm (since 1940, anyway). Since the agave worm inhabits only the species of cactus that Mezcal is made from the agave worm signifies genuine Mezcal, made the traditional way. The worm isn’t there for looks. (It’s fortunate that this was clarified, since most people agree that a dead grub floating in embalming liquor is the very pinnacle of aesthetic splendor.) It is meant to be eaten. Because it is believed by many (note the subtle, lawsuit-skirting qualification of that statement) that within the worm lies the key. Some say it unlocks the door to a world of wondrous experiences (such as a night in county lockup on charges of urinating in public while screaming “I JUST ATE A FUCKING WORM! FUCK YOU!). Others say it sets free a spirit of celebration (such as urinating in public while screaming “I JUST ATE A FUCKING WORM! FUCK YOU!). Still others say that eating the worm locks in the enchantment and excitement of Mezcal. (”I JUST DRANK A SHITLOAD OF LIQUOR THAT HAS A FUCKING WORM IN IT! FUCK YOU!”) The worm then holds different keys for different people (like your high school janitor, except the mezcal-preserved worm has, on average, a lower BAC). And there’s only one way to see what yours will open. (If I drink enough mezcal in one evening to make it all the way down to the worm, I’m betting the black-market price of my corroded liver that all that’s going to be opened is my digestive tract.) Try it.

That I was dealing with a mezcal distillery apparently unaware that agave is not a cactus should have alerted me that something sinister was afoot.

Stapled to the brochure was a little spice packet along with instructions stating: “Mezcal is traditionally drunk like Tequila: that is, with a lick of salt and a bite of lime. For true tradition, use the mixture of sea-salt and spices attached to this brochure.” Of course, the salt ‘n’ citrus tequila cruda is actually not the traditional way to drink tequila - it is, by and large, an invention for tourists - but I decided that anything that would temper the sledgehammer in the teeth that is a shot of mezcal was probably advisable. I filled my faithful Route 66 shotglass, I readied a slice of lime, I took a lick of salt, and I sent the whole shot of mezcal hurtling with violent intent towards my esophagus. Now, I am a man who can consume and hold his liquor with aplomb, a man who can down a stiff martini like so much water if so inclined, so please understand the significance of the fact that I gagged. Oh, I kept it in and I swallowed it, but I gagged. And I reeled. The lime slice lay forgotten as my stomach microbes began to die a million tiny, screaming deaths. I have, in my early-college salad days, taken a shot of 151 rum, and I promise you, a gut slug of unadulterated mezcal is worse.

I reasoned to myself then that perhaps by-the-gulp was not the best method of downing larva-infused agave juice, Monte Alban’s strangely non-traditional take on tradition be damned. I poured another shot and resolved that I would get through this one like a man - with polite, wincing sips. And that, surprisingly, turned out to be somewhat less corrosive, placing the mezcal just on the Ciudad Juárez side of the Rio Grande of palatability (the key to getting it down smoothly, I think, is to not smell it). It is surprisingly sweet, and I couldn’t begin to describe its flavor - so I went looking for someone who could. And thus I discovered that even mezcal, a liquor that could reasonably be sold in the same aisle as 409 and Clorox, has not escaped the condescendingly refined palates of the Liquor Cognoscenti:

Consider this review of a Oaxacan variety from the Beverage Tasting Institute, a publisher of buyers’ guides for wine, beer and spirits. It wrote of the mezcal: “A granular attack leads to a slightly sweet, light-to-medium-bodied palate with a bright, tart, berry, herb and chipotle pepper notes, with a true, floral agave character.”

Excessive, use of, commas blooms coquettishly to reveal a puckish, yet invidious, incomprehensibility which gives a dutiful-yet-faintly-reluctant handjob characterized by notes of industrial solvent, preserved invertebrate, salsa verde and oenophilic pretense.

I don’t know how a liquid could ever be considered “granular,” although the word “attack” is a not entirely inaccurate depiction of what mezcal does when it hits your lips, to say nothing of your higher cognitive functions. And of course “chipotle pepper notes” were only mentioned because the chipotle is a Food That Is Mexican, and “bean and cheese burrito notes” seems faintly racist.

But drinks are meant to be savored, not grimaced through, so I thought I’d make an honest attempt to class up and render drinkable mezcal by giving it the same treatment its cousin gets in bars and Mexican restaurants the world over. I mixed a Mezcal Sunrise.

Now, a Tequila Sunrise is about the most reliable method I’m aware of for masking the flavor of the rotgut tequila served in your average Mexican joint, other than simply forgoing tequila-based drinks altogether in favor of Negra Modelo (this is a good idea). And since all tequila is is un-larvafied mezcal made in Jalisco using only blue agave, I figured what’s good for the goose is good for the Oaxacan engine degreaser.

Well, I was wrong.

Perhaps Monte Alban is just a lousy mezcal - it does run for $20 in the kind of liquor store that sells five flavors of Pucker and only one kind of rye - but, much like cloud cover or chatty company, it goes a long way towards ruining a Sunrise. The peculiar sweetness, the “enbalmy” character that Roast Beef remarks on in the above-linked Achewood, manages to completely overpower a full glass of orange juice and a shot of grenadine, two liquids never noted for lacking distinct flavors.

So what have we learned?

a) If you’re going to buy liquors with a high capacity for inspiring terror - mezcal, arak, coconut rum - don’t scrimp. More money means less ocular degeneration. Except in the case of coconut rum, which you should simply never buy because it is distilled Ortho Tri-Cyclen.
b) Don’t shoot it, sip it. Shots are tacky anyway.
c) Mezcal seems to make about as poor a mixer as single malt scotch, although for a different reason. If a liquor can’t play nicely with orange juice and artificial pomegranate syrup, it probably shouldn’t be let outside.
d) Stick with gin.

Aren’t you glad I’m here, finding these things out so you don’t have to?