The start of my journey is one that would carry me deep into the culture, tradition and mystique of the most remote corners of Mexico – a journey that would help me find paradise, get me beat up, find me a wife, and bring some of the finest mezcals to the rest of the world. That journey began one morning in 1994 when I was just trying to find some breakfast.
My buddy Dylan and I were in Oaxaca looking for a taqueria — something a little bit hidden, unknown, maybe even a little bit dirty. As we crossed the zocalo and ducked down a narrow privada, we were overrun by a parade of young Oaxacaños who had just graduated from trade school and were celebrating with banners, fireworks, and (this is the scary part) gasoline cans.
The fifty or so graduates grabbed us, pulled us into the street, circled us and shoved at us … the gasoline cans! They chanted, “Toma! Toma! Toma!” They wanted us to drink? Gasoline?
With nothing to do but acquiesce to that kind of peer pressure, we raised those gasoline containers high and drank. What hit my lips was so smoky and powerful that, momentarily, I thought it might actually be gasoline. In fact, it was my first taste of mezcal.
I was used to tequila, with its mild flavor and lower alcohol content. Mezcal was different. Mezcal was like a slap to the face duck-diving an icy California winter wave — sure it hurts a little, but you savor the sting because you know how good it feels once you’re on the other side.
That first encounter with mezcal, like so many after it, fueled an adventure like nothing else can, except maybe gasoline itself. We were swept away with the party and washed through the streets of Oaxaca, stopping every short while to drink the powerful potion those gas cans held. We, not really hard drinkers, drank mezcal shot after mezcal shot before breakfast where I grew accustomed to the flavor, and I enjoyed it as much as a young, naïve American man could.
When I awoke late that afternoon in my cot, dazed and confused, and saw Dylan sound asleep on the cold tile floor with a smile curling the corners of his mouth so that you might have mistook that dirty, mosaicked tile floor for a plush bed, I didn’t know that that day would eventually bring us to where we are now, sharing the wonders of mezcal with you. Today we share mezcal one sip at a time in beautiful bottles, not chugging from a gas can!
That day, I fell in love with Oaxaca. I spent many years exploring its remote beaches, looking for hidden waves and uncompromised culture. Luck and vague stories brought me to a wild island west of Puerto Escondido, where I found an unbelievable wave and a quiet town of 300 mostly Afro-Mexicanos, with full-on island aloha. Surfing uncrowded, barreling waves and feasting on fish, I knew I had finally found my version of paradise.
Dylan and I opened a little beachside bar. Then luck struck in the guise of an ear infection. In the little rural health clinic while sitting in the waiting room, feeling so much pain I was hoping to have my ear removed, out walked the nurse and instantly my ear pain faded, only to be replaced by a powerful heartache. The nurse was the loveliest woman I had ever seen. It was at that moment a familiar wave of connection washed over me for a person I had just met. And yet, I knew from that brief encounter that we would spend our lives together.
To make that dream come true, I needed courage. Lots of courage. It took all my courage to wait for her to finish work every day so we could walk hand in hand on the beach until dark. It took all my courage to pretend to be an English teacher with the nurse as my first pupil. It took a little mezcal (exactly four shots) to give me the courage to absorb the news that she was already engaged to be married to a man who lived in the provincial capital.
But el amor es todo, and I spent the next six months courting her like we were living in the Victorian era. That’s how everything works in rural Mexico – slow, well-considered, and proper. But worth doing.
Simultaneously, I was learning to love mezcal. All the more so because the family of Valentina (that was her enchanting name) produced that lovely clear elixir in the hills above her town in the heart of mezcal country.
To say I was absolutely blown away by the quality of mezcal that Valentina’s father was producing is an understatement. For more generations than they can remember, going as far back as 500 years, their family has crafted mezcal. Once that liquid touched my lips, the thirst for the craft and excitement to share it fueled my journey and would eventually lead us to Mezcal Vago. At first, I bought many liters and sold them on the beach in my bar as I dove headfirst into this new world of a spirit I had only just discovered, eventually learning more about the craft. I traveled all over Oaxaca searching out lost and hidden palenques. I tried mezcals from many mezcaleros comprised of different magueys and made with wildly varying techniques. I built up my collection, my knowledge, and my palate. I learned that, though high in alcohol content, when made just so, mezcal could be so smooth. It could be savored sip by sip, on its own, no need for a shot or mixed in a cocktail. I realized nothing is on par with mezcal as far as subtlety of flavor and variety of tasting note.
Finally, one sweltering afternoon, fate found me. Doom found me. As the crowd watching the cockfight going on in front of the clinic dispersed, the man Valentina was supposed to marry marched up. We were two roosters. Our spurs came out. He had arrived unexpectedly from the capital. And I don’t think he liked being told in faltering Spanish by a gringo in a cowboy hat that Valentina wasn’t his anymore — but not to worry, that there are plenty of fish in the sea..
I’m a lover, not a fighter, but I did what I could. I did not back down. I had romanced his girl. He had come for revenge. I let him use my face as a heavy bag, although I’m pretty sure he hurt his fist on my face. He belted me in the head until la policia showed up. They permanently expelled him from the island.
Slowly but surely, the wounds healed. Valentina is a nurse, after all. And I won her love. Despite the win, I was terrified of asking her father, Aquilino, for her hand in marriage. Her stories of a strict, intimidating, gun-owning father did not quell my fears.
One hot, dry, late-summer day, I made the long trek up into the mountains, through the cactus forests, through the dry arroyos and finally waded across the river to her ranch with my plan of asking for her hand.
When the moment of truth came, mortified, Valentina was rendered speechless. I was left to my own devices, with my poor vocabulary. We walked to the bodega where Aquilino poured us jícaras of mezcal from his special reserve, surely with a glint of anticipation and enjoyment in his eye that I did not catch as I was so preoccupied with my imminent speech. Nearly ready to start, I took a sip of mezcal for courage. I was absolutely bowled over by the power of it, gasping for air as my throat closed. This was no ordinary mezcal but the puntas, the very first part of the liquid that comes out of the still. Around 130 to 140 proof, it takes some getting used to.
I was feeling less than manly, but when I recovered, I bucked up, sung my tale of love and our prophetic plans for the future. He listened quietly to all I had to say and in the end, replied simply, “you are adults, I trust your decisions, and I am here for you as family.”
We picked out a fat goat, marinated it with chilies, onions, garlic, oregano and avocado leaves, roasted it underground and commenced the celebration. It was one to remember. As I became part of her family, witness to their mastery in crafting mezcal, I knew the time had come to share these beautiful mezcals with the world.
With my old friend Dylan, and my father-in-law Aquilino, we formed Vago, a company that exports Oaxaca’s finest, most undiscovered mezcals. In creating Vago, it was and continues to be, our best intention to bring a variety of unique and incredible mezcals from the most remote areas of Oaxaca to the world. No one mezcalero is alike, and it is with great joy that we can share their craft with you.
As you enjoy this drink, I want you to savor the taste, the texture, and the kick. I want you to forget how far I’ve come to bring it to the rest of the world. I want you to focus on the flavors.
I won’t forget. I’ve got the scars. I’ve got the wife. And now, we’ve got a daughter, Ami.
