A Bad Mezcal-culation

In December of 2009, when the Three Jews visited me in Mexico, Weitz insisted on having Mezcal. "Our trip won't be complete," he said, "unless we have some mezcal before we go."

I tried to warn him that he probably wouldn't enjoy it. "Nonsense," he said, with the confident air of someone watching a bartender crack an egg into his drink. "We're in Mexico and we must drink mezcal. I'll even pay for them."

Wow. Pay for them?

"Yes."

All of them?

"Yes."

Oh wow. These were uncharted waters. Guessing he was serious, we all went to a bar and ordered one mezcal each.

The mezcal arrived at our table. We toasted something that was probably worth toasting and then each took a sip. Then we turned to Weitz to see his reaction.

He grimaced. Took another sip. Grimaced again. Sadness took seed in his eyes.

"It's not good," he said. "It's not good."

He put it down and ordered a beer. And so I had to finish his and I had to finish Josh's and now I have to give Adam props for being the sole gringo to stomach our death drink.

I bring this up because, according to the NYT, other gringos have begun to appreciate mezcal, which is the country mouse to tequila's city mouse. Given what we all know about tequila, this is a telling metaphor indeed.

The lede of the article itself can only have been written after drinking much mezcal:

"I feel almost as if I have to whisper my feelings about mezcal. It is so immersed in legend and colorful misrepresentation that it’s a shame to spoil it all with truth. And yet the truth can be so richly rewarding that I may as well shout it out."

Here's to writers and editors drinking on the job!

In any case, mezcal is not a bad drink. It is cheap and usually unrefined, and bad ones will make it seem like you just took a mouthful of liquid dirt.

But the good ones? The good ones are awesome. With the good ones, as the NYT writes, "You get a briny, vegetal burst, with Tabasco-like hints of vinegar, salt, oily smoke and earth, and an uncompromising purity."

So, yeah, that's not bad. When the three Jews were there, I tried to find the bar where I had previously had the rattlesnake-infused mezcal, which was served from a huge, 7-gallon jar that contained a 25-foot rattlesnake curled at its bottom. To just see the jar is unnerving enough -- but to actually drink mezcal that has been sitting in a jar with a dead snake for years, well, that's Mexico.

Alas, I couldn't find the bar, probably because the last time I was there I had consumed two glasses of rattlesnake-infused mezcal.

But no matter. Some day, and perhaps sooner than we think, some enterprising young American will decide that, if America can stomach the Skinwich (not actually on the menu yet, but easily fashioned due to the Skittlebrau Principle), America can stomach Mezcals aged in jars with dead animals.

And when that day comes, the first round is on me.