As a spirits-focused Substack, our opinions and experience on Mexican beverage culture not only come from time spent behind the bar, but from years of personal and business research, writing about spirits for other publications, and hours in the field, watching all of the magic happen in person.

We recently packaged this knowledge into a podcast called Que Penca. Assembled by our production team at TODOS Media, the podcast features Fred Sanchez, owner of Cultura Maguey, and Chuey Jimenez, president of the PNW Agave Club. Perfect for anyone obsessed with mezcal on a technical level, the podcast tackles difficult subject material. As two insiders of this rapidly growing industry, we get their takes on topics that others are afraid to address publicly – is selling mezcal outside of Mexico considered cultural appropriation? Are influencers making it all worse for the industry?

Season one took off from the comfort of our studios in Portland, Oregon, and continued at the source — In Oaxaca, with notable producers and contributors to the mezcal industry. If you’re tired of hearing from the same circle of people in the agave spirits world and want to hear from the makers themselves, this is where you should start listening.

Season one is available now on Todos Media’s Substack.

TODOS MEDIA

Que Penca: Episode 1

In this premiere episode of the Que Penca podcast, we discuss the education and promotion of mezcal outside of Mexico. When it's created and sold outside of Mexico, is it considered cultural appropriation or cultural exchange? Get into this heated debate with our hosts Fred Sanchez, owner of Cultura Maguey, and Chuey Jimenez, founder of the PNW Agave Cl…

Listen now

a month ago · TODOS Media

After three years, I felt ready to move on and grow in my skillset; I eventually landed a role as an associate editor at Imbibe Magazine. Self-described as “liquid culture,” the publication is mostly about alcoholic beverages, with some aside stories on tea and coffee. At the time, I thought I had a decent working knowledge of popular spirits brands and a general sense of what differentiated a good cocktail from a bad one. However, little did I know that my coffee knowledge would actually serve me well when it came to learning about the world of spirits.

In my time writing for the food and beverage industry, I’ve come to learn that every industry actually has its own circle of popular recurring events, trusted establishments, and all-star contributors to the scene. I caught on pretty quickly to who the “all stars” of the cocktail world were, from Julie Reiner (Clover Club) to Jim Meehan (Please Don’t Tell) and Donn Beach (the “godfather” of tiki culture). They would all gather annually at events like the Charleston Wine & Food Festival or Tale of the Cocktail to talk shop and update each other on the latest industry developments. When it came to individual beverages like beer, wine, and whiskey, each one had its own sub-categories of the like.

And while the creation of complexly distilled liquors like mezcal and whiskey were admittedly a little hard to grasp (there’s a reason why people get specialized certifications in making these drinks), I coincidentally became the most drawn to cocktails and wine—the latter of which proved to have a surprising amount of similarities to coffee.

Maybe it’s because I lived an hour away from Oregon wine country, maybe it’s because I simply love the taste, but I eventually became enamored with the fermented grape juice. The wine industry loves using this phrase that I think coffee should take notes from: “sense of place.” When you taste a wine, you also get a taste of “the land” it came from. And no, that doesn’t mean it’s going to taste like dirt… sort of. If a wine was grown in volcanic soil, that will be reflected in the wine’s heightened minerality and acidity. If the vines had to struggle against harsh winds and rocky soil, you end up with really bold, heavy-bodied wines.

In a similar way, coffee is also reflective of the “terroir” it came from. Coffees grown in volcanic soil also end up tasting just as bright and intense. Beans from Ethiopia tend to taste like blueberries—not just because of their processing methods (which is another rabbit hole you could go down if you wanted to learn how processing affects coffee) but also because of the high altitudes they’re grown at. Columbian coffees will even differ in flavors from region to region, ranging from sweet and nutty in the northern parts to more acidic and floral in the south.

It became invigorating to write stories about cocktails and wine using the similar terminology I had picked up from the coffee world. I understood how to write about flavor notes and pairings, and how sensory phrases like aroma and mouthfeel could be used to describe the many differences between a martini and a margarita. I loved learning about the deep history and romance of Italian spirits, as well as their own range of complex botanical ingredients, whose flavors begged you to want to know more.

And of course, I could also tell you about how fun it was to drink all of these spirits too. Honestly though, I wish I had more entertaining drunk stories to tell you out from that experience, but by the time I entered this role in my late twenties, I’d like to think I was a “sophisticated drinker” by that point.

Working for Imbibe Magazine continued to strengthen my belief that drinks are as complex as food. Cocktails can have as many culinary ingredients as a food dish, and that balancing these flavors together is just as much of an art form. It’s also probably ruined me from ever being able to enjoy a mai tai at a cheap dive bar or a boxed wine from the grocery store. But hey—for me, as someone who hasn’t made enough money in her career to enjoy a lot of life’s luxuries, I’ll continue to treat nice beverages as such.

This week, we’re joined by Kelsey Glasser, host of the Todos Media podcast and upcoming docuseries Her Way. Kelsey recently spent time in Japan this winter in search of the best

Everyone knows Japan is famous for its food. But few know where many of Japan’s best ingredients actually come from.

Enter: Hokkaido. Where the excitement of Tokyo, the tradition of Kyoto and the chaos of Osaka fade. And where things get colder, quieter, and—if you love food and wine—arguably even more exciting.

Hokkaido is the northernmost island of Japan, and its biggest city is Sapporo. Yes, that Sapporo. But beyond beer, Hokkaido is also the most exciting wine region in Japan right now (hence my pilgrimage). Wine is grown throughout the country, but this frosty island is where much of the current attention is focused.

What I didn’t realize until preparing for my recent trip—and especially once we arrived—is that Hokkaido is essentially the breadbasket of Japan.

The island is famous for scallops, sea urchin, snow crab, squid, and salmon… basically a seafood lover’s paradise (hello, happy place). Because Hokkaido sits where the Okhotsk Sea, Sea of Japan, and Pacific Ocean meet, this confluence of chilly currents creates ideal conditions for marine life. But beyond seafood, they’re also known for lamb, melon (their iconic green Yubari melon looks like a honeydew but tastes like an Amalfi cantaloupe), and dairy.

Yes, dairy. I had never associated cheese and milk with Japan, but Hokkaido is renowned for it. The island is home to Jersey cows producing A2 milk, which is much easier to digest—meaning your girl enjoyed ice cream, cheese, and milk in her coffee for the first time in fifteen years without a Lactaid in sight.

Some standout meals: Sapporo-style ramen (miso butter, corn, grilled scallops—exactly as good as it sounds); Hokkaido milk soft-serve (simple, creamy perfection); ‘Genghis Khan’ style lamb grilled tableside; and a twelve-course snow crab tasting menu (shoutout to Suginome for one of the most fabulous seafood meals of my life).

It’s staggering how much agricultural diversity this one little island produces.

And we haven’t even gotten to the wine!

Wine in Hokkaido (aka: Yoichi)

If you’re interested in Japanese wine, Hokkaido (and specifically the subregion of Yoichi) is the place to start. And to understand it, you have to begin with hybrids.

Hybrids grapes are common here, especially in older vineyards, because until about a decade ago, vitis vinifera didn’t ripen reliably. Historically, hybrids thrive in regions that are too cold and wet for vinifera (like the Finger Lakes or parts of Scandinavia). So Japan has relied on them out of necessity.

Having now tasted over twenty hybrid-based Japanese wines—mostly Delaware and Bacchus, along with Rondo, Muscat Baily A, and local crosses like Kiyomai and Yama Sauvignon—I’m finally getting a sense of them. People describe hybrids as “foxy,” but I don’t get an animalistic note (like you would with brettanomyces). To me, it’s more like candied tropical fruit (ie. artificial passion fruit) with intense, sometimes off-putting notes of asparagus and pink peppercorn. Fun in small doses, but for my taste, I still prefer vinifera.

Luckily, with the climate warming, more vinifera is now being planted. In Yoichi you’ll see Chardonnay, Pinot Noir, and Pinot Gris (not surprising given the similar latitude to Burgundy, much like Oregon), along with Merlot, Chenin Blanc, Cab Franc, and more.

But even though vitis vinfera can now ripen here, I would hesitate to call these wines “ripe.” I’ve never experienced so many wines under 12.5% alcohol—often closer to 11%. Familiar grapes like Pinot Noir taste truly different at such low abv. More than once, someone in our group wondered if a wine was “off” due to its unfamiliar green aromas. But it wasn’t off—it just wasn’t as ripe as the 14% Pinot Noir we’re now used to in Oregon and France. Rather than fruit, you smell earth. Rather than berries, you smell leaves and stems.

It’s made me rethink which regions we still call “cool climate.” After Japanese wine, places like Oregon, Burgundy and even Austria and Germany now feel much warmer by comparison. The Pinot Noir and Chardonnay here must resemble what Burgundy tasted like fifty years ago. Very cool to experience.

Japanese Cult Wines

The most iconic producer in Japan is Takahiko.

If you’ve been following my Instagram stories, you know I’ve been trying to drink as much of his wine as possible. His wines are deeply respected, desperately sought-after, and nearly impossible to find, even within Japan.

His tiny domaine sits in Yoichi, and everything he makes is rooted in place. Likely influenced by his years working in Burgundy and the Jura, Takahiko sees himself as a farmer first. His wines are true expressions of Yoichi’s cool, forested, maritime terroir.

He works with minimal intervention—wild fermentations, no additions, sulfur only if absolutely necessary—yet the wines are clean as the morning air. No volatile acidity, mousiness, or funk. Just savory, precise, understated powerhouses with a distinctly Japanese sense of umami and restraint.

We tasted the ’23 and ’24 Nana-Tsu-Mori Pinot Noir from his four-hectare vineyard planted on sandy volcanic soils. Though young, both were lifted and delicate, with forest floor, juniper, and tart cranberry notes. His 2016 Passetoutgrain (Pinot Noir and Zweigelt) was a lesson in cool climate aging potential… ten years old and still taut, energetic, and easily capable of evolving for another decade.

We also tried a tiny-production bottling called O-Lie—a playful blend of the bottoms of his barrels (both white and red). It sounds gnarly, but was surprisingly delicious, like a croissant paired with watermelon juice.

I’ve been hunting for a bottle to bring home, but every wine bar that pours Takahiko has just smiled and said: Impossible.

Another fascinating pour came from Domaine des Montilles (the iconic Burgundy house) which I had no idea had started a project in Hokkaido. They planted vineyards in 2016 (the first foreigners to do so in Japan) and released their first vintage in 2023. The Kerner we tasted was elegant and lip-smacking, like it came straight from Alto Adige: barely ripe white peach, jasmine, lemon sorbet. I’m excited to crack open the Chardonnay and Pinot Noir in my suitcase!

Where to Drink

Even in Sapporo, good wine at restaurants is rare. The standard throughout Japan remains sake, beer, and whiskey with meals. To drink well, you seek out wine bars.

Thanks to our friend Dennis, we found two standouts: Wine Bar Veraison and Natural Wine Bannachu.

Veraison is run by Sayuri, who appears to be the godmother of Hokkaido wine. She’s had her shop for seventeen years, knows every producer personally, and has literally written the book on Hokkaido wine (though sadly there’s not yet an English translation). Her underground bar is filled with local gems you won’t find elsewhere.

Bannachu is a tiny speakeasy tucked up a staircase, serving only Hokkaido and Jura wines. (Talk about my happy place!). As tempted as you know I was by gorgeous Jura Savagnin, I stuck with Japan… Pinot Noir, Chardonnay, skin-contact Pinot Gris, and aged Hokkaido cheese that was a dead ringer for Manchego.

Though we only spent three days in Hokkaido, they were some of the most memorable of the trip. The flavors were singular. The climate, too: eighteen degrees, snow nonstop. Sapporo is one of the snowiest cities in the world, yet completely prepared (heated sidewalks, warm buildings, snow plows operating constantly).

Oh—and one more example of the fabulously thoughtful convenience of this country: luggage transfer. I bought fourteen bottles of wine in Hokkaido, packed them with bubble wrap and prayers, and instead of hauling them across Japan, sent them straight from my hotel in Sapporo to the Osaka airport—where they’re calmly waiting for me when I get to the airport to fly home. Talk about convenience.
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The first time most people try tejuino, they don’t like it. It’s cloudy. Slightly fermented. Sweet, sour, and somehow savory all at once. It’s served cold but never crisp, refreshing but not clean. There’s lime, salt, sometimes chile, sometimes ice that’s already halfway melted. It’s often poured into plastic cups, handed to you on a hot sidewalk, and squeezed with lime by someone who’s been doing this longer than you’ve been alive. For many people, the reaction is immediate: what is this supposed to be? That confusion is intentional.

Tejuino comes from Jalisco, and also from corn, heat, and time. Long before it was a street drink, it was already doing what fermentation has always done best: taking something ordinary and bringing it to life. This process wasn’t meant to be refined. It wasn’t designed to be consistent. It was never supposed to be clean or polite. Since pre-Hispanic times, tejuino has lived in an uncomfortable in-between space — not quite a drink, not quite food, not quite alcohol. Its corn was allowed to change, sweetness turning slightly wild. Acidity showed up uninvited. It was flavor without a dress code. Calling tejuino “liquid history” sounds romantic, but the truth is messier than that. This drink survived through colonization, industrialization, soda, beer, and now kombucha — not because it adapted to trends, but because it stayed stubbornly the same. It kept being poured on sidewalks. It kept being adjusted daily depending on heat, humidity, and whoever was making it that morning. Tejuino has never asked to be loved. It doesn’t explain itself. It doesn’t sand down its edges to make you comfortable. It tastes the way it tastes, and that’s non-negotiable.

Today, fermentation is fashionable. Natural wine. Wild ales. Sour beer. Canned Tepache... Tejuino has been doing this quietly for centuries, without labels, without branding, without trying to be cool.

So yes — it can be reinterpreted. It can be served cold and clean behind a bar, measured, strained, dressed up just enough to meet a different context. But it will always stay the same. The reinterpretation only works because somewhere else, in the heat, someone is still pouring it with imperfect dirty ice, squeezing a lime by hand, and not worrying whether you get it or not. You don’t drink tejuino to quench your thirst. You drink it to participate in something that existed long before taste became a preference.

When I became the bar manager at Bar Comala, I’ll admit I had a little bit of imposter syndrome. Having recently come from a space that wasn’t as… for lack of better wording… elegant or craft as Comala, I knew it was important to go back to the structure of time-honored classics when I began designing drinks here.

El Alquimista is one of the first drinks I created for the menu, which is loosely structured around two things—a Hanky Panky and my love for anything with Fernet in it. It’s making a comeback to the menu this week after workshopping it with my regulars over time, who have all wondered after sipping it: “Why haven’t I tried something like this before?”

In line with the Hanky Panky’s formula of equal-parts gin (I’m using a London Dry), sweet vermouth (Cocchi di Torino), and Fernet Branca, El Alquimista has all of this and more—Strega as a yellow chartreuse substitute and Mazot bacanora.

Bacanora is a type of mezcal from Sonora, and on the nose, it’s got funk—almost like a hard parmesan cheese. But it’s also floral with some slight botanical notes. At the time, during my first few months, I had been tasting through our selections with our bar manager Mau, who was my source of information along with my own outside studies. I remember tasting this with him and thinking, “Whoa. That’s crazy.” But I always kept coming back to it.

El Alquimista has so many layers. It’s complex. The Fernet Branca accentuates the drink’s botanical notes. The first thing you smell coming through this drink is the funkiness of the Mazot, but then on the palate itself, the cocktail, it’s like an alchemy of all these flavors and it’s just a layering of everything. And it’s just a smooth transition of all these layers. You taste this all the way through. It’s definitely one of my favorite drinks I’ve made for the bar.

El Alquimista was a way for me to include Fernet in a drink, which is my personal requirement for any menu I’m creating drinks for. But secondly, it’s a way for me to change people’s minds about mezcal and its flavor profiles. Let’s be real—not everyone can drink mezcal straight. But if we could present it in a way that people love it and come back to it, then we’re doing what we should be doing here.

Recipe

1 oz. Cocchi Rossa
1/2 oz. dry gin
1/2 oz. mezcal (we used Mazat bacanora)
1/4 oz. Strega
1/4 oz. Fernet Branca
dash of saline solution (salt water)

Combine ingredients in a mixing glass with ice and stir until chilled. Strain into a coupe glass.

Para todo mal, mezcal. Y para todo bien, también.
(For all bad, mezcal. And for all good, too.)

I started drinking mezcal sometime in 2013. I kept a $25 bottle of Del Maguey at home; my introduction to the spirit. I liked it quite a bit, but not nearly as much as whiskey. What I loved about whiskey was the range between a $30 bottle of something good versus a $60 bottle of something great.

I didn’t really understand that range in mezcal until I tried Chichicapa, once again from Del Maguey. It was the only decent mezcal available in Oregon at the time, and it changed my entire perception of the spirit. That was around 2015

In 2016, I was working for Airbnb on the launch of a project called “Experiences.” En route to what would be my first trip to Havana via Mexico City, I had the idea of buying a bottle of mezcal at one of the duty-free shops right before boarding my plane.

To my surprise, they didn’t say anything about it at customs upon my arrival in Havana. The next few days were spent filling up a smaller flask that I carried with me at all times. Anytime I went anywhere or met someone, I poured a little mezcal for them. They were always as fascinated as I was.

Somehow, I had purchased pechuga mezcal. I figured that if it was the pricier of the options, it was going to be the best. That logic didn’t fail. This was like nothing I had ever tasted before.

Pechuga is a mezcal that is redistilled with whatever is in season—often fruits, nuts, and spices that are locally grown in that community. Also, a raw turkey breast (or chicken). This is not an infusion, this is distillation. The ingredients hang from above the still in a mesh bag or cheesecloth, and as the mezcal distills, it picks up all the scents and vapors. By the time it comes out the other end, you can taste far more character than what originally went in.

But I didn’t know any of that back then. I just thought to myself: Dang, this is sweet but also savory? Amazing.

When I wasn’t working, I spent most of my free time walking from bar to bar, listening to the stories of lifelong bartenders at places like Los Frailes, La Taberna, Bodeguita del Medio, Fundación Havana Club. Lots of history and lots of mojitos. Occasionally, when I was comfortable enough to share my mezcal with them, I would pour some in a shot glass and watch their reactions to it. It was magical.

The day before I was set to leave—which happened to be the night before the election, a Monday to be exact—I met a young man named Alfre, who I had been trying to connect with since the day I arrived. Get this: Alfre owned a café and bookstore that doubled as an art gallery and raised money to run a shelter for abused dogs. His books, however, were not for sale. They were all loaners for those in the community, like a library, but limited to whatever books he could get his hands on. It was a beautiful passion project for him, very much in line with all of the incredible things that I came to love about that place during a short-lived time of hope and change.

We talked for a few hours. I asked him if he was excited about what was around the corner. He paused for a second, smiled, and asked me what made me so sure that Hillary Clinton would be the next president. Just like every other American at the time, I told him this was the one, this was it. Hillary was going to open up all of Cuba to the world. It was already in motion. Airbnb being the first big tech company present was just the start. Three days before, I had met a number of engineers from Google who were set to start working on a project that would run underwater fiber cables and give everyone free internet.

He smiled, lifted his glass filled with mezcal, and said to me in Spanish: “A que no nos revienten más el corazón.” (Don’t let them burst our hearts again.)

The next day, I woke up hopeful and ready to be back in time for an election party. I poured a little of what was left of that mezcal into my “mouthwash bottle.” The rest I left for my Airbnb host. It wasn’t a lot, but it was something.

By the time I arrived in Mexico City, my flight got delayed. Hour after hour—3.5 to be exact—I sat at the airport bar, watching the news in Spanish. It wasn’t looking good for Hillary. By the time I got to LAX, the whole thing was official. Trump would be our next president.

To make things worse, I missed my connecting flight back to Portland, and there wasn’t another flight out until the next morning at 7am. And so I spent the night at the airport, from 10pm until boarding at 6am. I didn’t call anyone in my family in hope of them making the hour-long drive over to pick me up. I didn’t ask my LA friends if I could crash at their home for a few hours either. I just sat there in disbelief, refreshing the browser, hoping for some kind of error.

When that error didn’t come, I drank what was left of that mezcal and accepted my fate.

2018, Colima, Mexico

At this point, I had left my wonderful tech job to open a coffee shop. I was only six months into being an “entrepreneur” when I made my way down to Colima, Mexico after making a large investment in green coffee. I didn’t know much about the state other than that it neighbored Jalisco and that it was quite small. I was invited by Jacob Elster, the founder of Crop to Cup, a coffee importing company.

A few months before we met, he assured me that he could source about 30 sacks of coffee for my little roasting company. At that time, that volume alone would make me the largest independent roaster of Mexican coffee in the US. It made sense, so I decided to come along.

We stayed in a little town called Villa de Álvarez, which happened to be celebrating its annual “Fiestas Charrotaurinas.” Our hotel just happened to be in the middle of it all. The city was central enough to everything, so when we made plans for our first night there, Jake felt it was necessary for us to go to the little neighboring town of Comala.

Comala was legendary for many reasons. The most recent was its feature in Juan Rulfo’s famous novel Pedro Páramo, a story about a man named Juan Preciado who makes a promise to his dying mother to find his real father. And so he goes to the place of his father’s birth, only to realize that everyone he meets and comes across is literally dead. I won’t give away too much, but it’s certainly one of the best literary works by a Mexican author.

I got to the address of what was a hotel in the town square. I looked around the room and its intentionally old facade, but didn’t see much of a bar. I asked the concierge if they knew of it. They simply smiled and pointed at the staircase. A few flights up and there it was: a cute makeshift rooftop bar overlooking the church and the kiosk in the town square.

I spotted Jacob and his team—a couple of gringos and two other Mexicans. For an hour or so, we talked life, coffee, and the politics around agriculture in Colima. It was here where I was introduced to Cervecería Colima, a brewing company with not just great beer but simply phenomenal branding on their bottles. I kept asking the staff questions about the beer, and they began pulling out every bottle they had from them, one after another after another. We drank them all. But also, I fell in love with their brand so much that I met with the creative team behind it all months later when it came time to discuss design for my own coffee bags. They were too good, but also too pricey, so I passed.

At one point, a random man wearing a black sombrero and matching black leather sandals came over to us. He introduced himself and asked if we wanted to try “cosas chingonas” (the good stuff). “Of course,” we all said. He reached into his bag, brought out a plastic water bottle, and poured an ounce or so into our empty glasses. He referred to it as a “distillate of agave,” which was produced in a nearby neighboring town. We lifted our glasses and said “salud,” before he simply walked away.

I’ll tell you: one sip of this stuff, and my entire life changed.

I cleared my palate with a sip of water in disbelief of what I had just tasted. I took a second sip. It was even better. I took a deep breath, watched it dance around the glass. There was a viscosity to it, but also a strong smell of cotija cheese. I stopped the conversation and asked everyone if they could smell it. Everyone agreed—it was stinky, but also very fruity, like strawberries in yogurt. Were we drinking some sort of pechuga? I had so many questions.

It took me a minute, but I got up to look for the man. I could not find him. He just sort of vanished. I asked the staff where he had gone, but nobody was sure who I was talking about. They said occasionally people came up to the rooftop to try and sell trinkets and bootlegged spirits, but no one had seen this guy.

I described to them what he looked like and what he poured out of. Still nothing. As I was ready to give up, someone from the kitchen came out and said, “Oh, that was Manuel, el de la raicilla. He doesn’t work here. He just really loves to share his mezcal.”

“Raicilla?”

I asked where I could find more of it, that particular one. They said you just come back tomorrow or the day after and hope he shows up.

Sure enough, two days later I came back. I ordered a Colimita (beer) and waited for about an hour for this man to show up. Nothing. Disappointed, I went back downstairs and walked around the tiny town, taking pictures of its buildings and cobblestone streets. Every time I saw a bar, I walked in, ordered a beer, and asked about the famous “Manuel el de la Raicilla.” No one had a clue, and so I gave up on my search.

As I walked back down to the town square, I realized how quiet everything was. It wasn’t even 9pm, but there was a strange silence on the streets. All the lights were the same amber color. Some of them did the thing where they fade in and out, but not fully—just enough to add to the mystique of the place.

After a few blocks, I got the strange feeling that I was going the wrong way. And so I looked at the map on my phone and quickly circled back. A few blocks later, I noticed that I kept going further and further from where I had started. I checked my phone once again, only to realize that my compass wasn’t calibrated. And so I went back the other way... again, only this time I went a street over, in hopes of seeing something new.

Eventually, I made it back to the square, jumped in a cab, and continued on my trip. For the next few days, every place we walked into, I asked if they had any raicilla or knew where I could find any. No one knew.

For being my first trip, it wasn’t a bad one. At the end, I did secure those 30 bags of coffee. Thirty-six, to be exact.

However, in retrospect, I like to believe that this was the trip that started it all for me. My obsession with the history of Mexico and the magic of its small towns like Comala. But also, it solidified my obsession with mezcal—more importantly, raicilla.

So much so that I would one day open a place called Comala, specializing in beautiful and rare mezcales like raicilla.

-Angel Medina, TODOS Media

I remember my first mezcal because it was bad.

I was 19, It was late at night in my hometown Guadalajara, at a bar called El Rey del Mezcal. A big old house with French-style architecture in Colonia Americana, packed wall to wall with young people. Two bars, three DJs, security guards at the door. It felt less like a mezcalería and more like a college party spilling into every room of the house.

Their most popular order was simple: a beer and a mezcal, served in one of those tiny sample bottles, the kind that costs almost nothing. I ordered it without thinking too much about it.

The mezcal was terrible.

Back then, I treated mezcal with a kind of distant respect — the way people in Guadalajara often do. Growing up in the capital of tequila, you’re used to taking spirits as shots. Mezcal had a reputation: it gets you drunk fast, it hits harder, it’s dangerous. That first sip did nothing to challenge the myth.

Years later, I learned the obvious lesson: mezcal isn’t meant to be shot. It’s meant to be taken slowly, sip by sip, like a conversation instead of a punch.

The real shift happened at a place called Los Ponchos — now Bar Comala — when I tasted a mezcal that completely rewired my understanding of what mezcal could be.

It was Derrumbes San Luis Potosí, made from Salmiana agave.

At that point in my life, I still avoided mezcal whenever I could. The fear was still there, lingering quietly. But this bottle didn’t taste like what I thought mezcal was supposed to taste like. There was no heavy smoke. It wasn’t aggressive or overpowering.

Instead, it smelled like green serrano pepper and pineapple. On the palate, it had a sharp, almost refreshing acidity. The finish reminded me of cheese, vegetables, something savory and alive. None of that sounds especially “pleasant” on paper — and yet it was fascinating.

I was struck by the idea that a single bottle of mezcal could contain so many flavors, so many contradictions.

That bottle changed everything. Honestly, if I hadn’t tried it, it probably would have taken me much longer to fall in love with mezcal at all.

Eventually, the bar changed names and context, and for a while I was in charge of the cocktail and mezcal program there. Even now, long after stepping away from the bar, my attachment to agave — and to this bottle in particular — hasn’t faded.

Whenever a friend or a guest told me they didn’t like mezcal, or that they were intimidated by it, this was always the bottle I reached for. It’s different. It’s approachable. And somehow, it’s also the most affordable bottle in the entire Derrumbes lineup, which feels like a small miracle.

And if sipping it neat still feels like too much, there’s always a cocktail. Derrumbes SLP shines in mixed drinks, especially in a Mosquito — bright, vegetal, and quietly complex.

-Mauricio Lopez. TODOS Media

Here’s how I like to make it.

Into a cocktail shaker add:

3/4oz Lemon
3/4oz Ginger Syrup
3/4oz Campari
1oz Mezcal

Fill with ice, long shake and double strain into a chilled nick and nora glass. You can garnish with a ginger candy, but I just like to leave it without garnish.

Salucita!