Last night was my first back in Oaxaca de Juarez after a winter of oilfield work above the Arctic Circle. I’d just finished a quick meal on a cactus-studded rooftop terrace and was hankering for an after-dinner drink. Problem was, I didn’t know where I could get my almost-shaking hands on a bottle of mezcal.
I was in a neighborhood on the far side of the city from where I bunked last year, so I recognized some of the murals — a chimp in headphones, the yin and yang axolotls, a Madonna with a Molotov cocktail — from my last go-round, but I didn’t know the cobblestoned streets shop-by-shop.
I sallied forth and ducked into a tiny shop named Los Abuelos hoping to gather intel. Granma and Grampa stood behind a counter festooned with Cheetos, chicharrones, and candy. Looked like between them they’d lived through at least two hundred years. Summoning every bit of courtesy I knew in Spanish, I asked where I might buy a bottle of good mezcal.
Grampa shrugged. He didn’t know, but Granma did. There was a bottle in the store, and it was good.
Grampa looked at me and shrugged again.
Granma rummaged behind the counter for a minute or two before pulling a dusty bottle out from under a burlap sack like a slow-motion Arthur yanking Excalibur from the stone. The bottle was a monster, easily a liter and a half. The word mezcal was hand painted in white on a red banner. Below it, a cactus, a maguey, and a campesino rested on a field of green that read Recuerdo de Matatlán.
Good sign: Matatlán is known as the world capital of mezcal. Just ask Wikipedia.
Granma watched me as she wiped dust from the bottle with a corner of her apron. I must have looked doubtful, because she said, “Es bueno.”
How much? Two hundred fifty pesos. About twelve fifty US. Too good to be true. Had to be. Not wanting to look a gift horse in the mouth, I wondered aloud…
Could I sample it?
Granma nodded, wrapped her arthritic knuckles around the cap, and twisted it off. It took her a minute, but she poured the cap full without spilling a drop, set the bottle on the counter, and passed me the cap.
I sniffed. Sipped. Nodded.
Granma looked smug.
My friend, a local, looked skeptical.
I passed her the half-full cap. I waited for the expression on her face to change, and when it did, I handed Granma the money.
Only then did I remember to ask about glasses. Granma sold me two styrofoam cups for a peso each. I thought she could have thrown them in for free, I didn’t press the point. The night was young and I was eager to end my nearly twenty-four-hour battle with sobriety.
Jim’s Taco Fund (trying not to be a starving artist)
If you’ve ever tossed some coins to a subway saxophonist or a juggler working a stoplight, please consider sending a few bucks my way — $5 covers a day’s worth of tacos, $3, buys me a coffee!
When it comes to mom and pop stores (or independent restaurants) where things look sketchy, the food there will either be horrible or amazing.
Fun piece Jim. One of these days I may have to try me some mezcal. 12 years in Mexico and I've only had some tequila and a few other odd drinks of pulque. Maybe time to expand a bit...