Love'n'Hate Number Five: Mezcal

A shameless plug for Del Maguey Mezcal,
Taos artist Ron Cooper's other project.

The first night I was in Mexico, I was drinking Mezcal. It was a social thing, really - people were really into drinking it with one another, pretty much all of the time. But it was pretty strange that *I* would be drinking Mezcal, since as a general rule, spirits tend to make me crazier than I am and I know this, and, as a general rule, I tend never to drink straight shots of anything. And I've known for years (since college) that drinking Tequila is a bad idea for gregoryp(tm) - so why did I make an exception in Mexico?

I tried to kid myself into believing that Mezcal was a higher grade of tequila, and that it really *did* possess some kind of spiritual or "higher" properties than it's lowlier cousin. There were a couple of times when it seemed like I had a special kind of high going on - but there were just as many times, maybe as many as three or four - when my experiences with Mezcal were just a little too special, featuring complete blackout drinking that I have zero memories of - though lots of people were willing to tell me all about what I did when I was that gone.

One particular night was really something - I had a dream that I was in the ocean in the middle of the night, playing in the waves, perhaps even on Playa Zicatela, aka "the Mexican pipeline" and a dangerous place to be in the water in broad daylight stone-cold sober. In the dream, I never felt "wet" per se, which is the only thread that allows me to hang on to the belief that I actually *was* dreaming and I hadn't had a blackout notion to go in the water all by myself, only to wake up and then somehow convince myself it was a dream.

Mezcal is that weird. Not to say that I didn't enjoy some of it - the crema Mezcals were a really excellent way to waste away an afternoon with friends and seemed a lot less inclined to bring one to any real harm. My friend Antonio, when I began to explain this sort of half-fear half-fascination I had going on, eagerly suggested I read "Under the Volcano" by Malcolm Lowry, which I understand is a vivid account of trying to drink one's self to death with Mezcal in Mexico. I haven't yet read it - I probably should before I go back, for while I eventually swore off the stuff completely for safety's sake, I also developed a taste for one particular local Oaxacan brand called Don Francisco Cafe Mezcal, aged to perfection with coffee beans and sugar. My goddess...if I could've brought some back, I'd be drinking it right now.