Standing in the courtyard of Frida Kahlo’s Casa Azul in a suburb of Mexico City, I am glued to the spot by a phantasmagoric papier-mâché installation representing the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse. It’s the Day of the Dead, and Mexico is in the mood to party. The festivities are marked with colorful paper-cutout flags and a traditional ofrenda (memorial altar) of orange marigolds, votives, and spun-sugar skulls. What I’m most intrigued by, however, are the little vessels of tequila reverently positioned beneath the macabre art display.
Like many North Americans, I was baptized a tequila drinker in a slushy acid-green margarita big enough to bathe a burro. Now I’m on a mission to learn to appreciate tequila the way Mexicans do. At night, I get a tasting lesson from the Four Seasons Hotel bar’s in-house expert, Ricardo Martínez-Melo, who mentions that several of Mexico’s top tequila scions are returning to artisanal production. He suggests that I head for the agave fields of Jalisco, 350 miles west of Mexico City, to meet the next generation of distillers, who are literally tapping their agricultural roots. Consider the state’s significance to tequila culture: the fields, pre-Columbian ruins, and colonial haciendas have just been listed as a UNESCO World Heritage site, and the spirit itself was sacred to the Aztecs. Along Jalisco’s Tequila Trail, more than 146 registered distilleries produce 50 million gallons of the liquor a year.What I’m on the hunt for, however, is the Latino equivalent of a single malt—60 percent of what’s exported to the United States is below-premium or even mixto, meaning blended with cane sugar and caramel coloring. Mixto is the stuff that typically winds up in frozen margaritas.
As my commuter flight to Guadalajara begins its final approach, I gaze down on the peaks of the Sierra Madre Occidental and on the fertile Atemajac Valley, which is dominated by Agave tequilana weber azul. One among 136 species of agave (a spiny succulent distantly related to the lily and aloe plants) grown in Mexico, this slate-blue century plant is, strictly speaking, the only kind used to produce tequila.
After landing, I check in at Villa Ganz, a 10-room hotel with an adjoining garden off Avenida Chapultepec. The manager, Sally Rangel, is extremely knowledgeable about restaurants in this handsome commercial district; she steers me to folksy El Sacramonte, where I order cream soup topped with chicharrón (pork cracklings) and chicken stuffed with cactus. My waiter plays mixologist, serving Herradura blanco tequila on the rocks, laced with Squirt, a Mexican citrus soda. This version is too sticky-sweet for me, so I ask for a second, plain blanco with a side of the house sangrita, a traditional blood orange–juice tequila chaser that cleanses my palate after a spicy dish of pork pibil.
The next morning, I wake up with a surprisingly clear head. Double-distilled premium tequila lacks the toxins that lead a road crew of blue devils armed with jackhammers down the brain’s motor-neuron highway. A local assistant to San Francisco–based tequila "ambassador" Julio Bermejo who conducts private-distillery tours drives me northwest on Highway 15 to the town of Tequila. On either side of the hilly road, stands of gnarled mesquite frame the hazy blue farmland that stretches away to the Río Grande valley floor.
As we wind down a canyon road, I catch a honeyed whiff of roasting agave, a scent that pervades the narrow streets leading to the distilleries lining one side of Tequila. In town, adobe houses are painted shades of ocher, pink, and terra-cotta. A modest brick church occupies the central plaza, which is dotted with tourist shops selling casks of bootleg and outdoor stands serving fresh tortillas. On a cobblestoned lane, I stop first at old-fashioned El Llano, where fifth-generation distillers Jaime and Eduardo Orendain craft their label Arette. (Tequileros seem to be equally passionate about horses; Arette was named after a famous Olympic jumper raised in Guadalajara.)
The brothers mass-produce Don Eduardo at a larger, modern plant, but at this original facility—bought by their grandfather in 1926—space is so tight that the Orendains must halt fermen-tation while bottling, because there is no place to store the finished tequila until it is shipped. The white-oak Tennessee whiskey barrels used to mature Arette reposado (rested) and añejo (aged) are stacked in a warehouse across the street. Jaime, a burly man with a trim beard and cheerful grin, leads me to a pine-paneled tasting bar next door, where he lines up several bottles. "Anyone can make millions of gallons of tequila," Jaime says. Arette production, however, is restricted to 25,000 cases per year. As I sip a delicate, smoky six-year-old añejo, Jaime mentions that he collaborated with Georg Riedel to design a tequila flute for the glassmaker’s luxury crystal line—shot glasses aren’t good enough now.
At the end of town, sturdy iron gates with a curlicue sign identify La Villa, the ancestral Sauza hacienda. Driving past walled kitchen gardens and an ornamental lake, I spot workers soaping down a handsome pair of chestnut thoroughbreds. Guillermo Sauza reopened the family estate and named it Los Abuelos (the grandfathers) to honor his forebears. The distillery, relaunched in 2002, is even smaller than El Llano, with a stone milling wheel and two copper stills to brew 300 cases from agave grown on the property. Just inside the wooden doors, a ceramic Virgin Mary hangs on the wall next to a drawing of Mayahuel, the Aztec goddess of agave, whose worship encouraged unlawful inebriation and dancing. (Some things never change.) Opposite this building is a natural cave that doubles as a barrel stockroom and tasting den. I try a sweet blanco with hints of prickly pear. Unaged blancos can be throat-searing, too harsh for the yanqui palate, but Sauza’s version is milder, fruitier—a persuasive argument for small-batch production.
My last stop in Tequila is Mundo Cuervo, a sleek courtyard complex containing La Rojeña distillery, a margarita bar, gift shop, and a regional tavern. Juan Beckmann, a direct descendant of José Cuervo (who was granted the first concession by the King of Spain to produce tequila, in 1795), has just released 600 cases of Maestro Tequilero añejo from agaves harvested before the rainy season, when sugars in the plant are more concentrated. The flavor notes are brazenly hot. Beckmann explains, "Some tequilas become extremely smooth with aging, losing the flavor of agave and the earth, but I wanted this one to have greater complexity." Then I ask why tequila is always included in Day of the Dead ofrendas. "People honor the dead by leaving what they used to eat, usually a little bread and a bottle of tequila, on top of their graves," he tells me. "Maybe it’s a way to bring them back."
On my final day, I want to stomp through the rust-red groves, where spiny plants march in formation. Carlos Andrade, my driver, steers east, skirting river-carved arroyos to reach Los Altos, Jalisco’s other major tequila district. We pass cattle pastures and cornfields on either side of the Love Road, a paved route privately financed by a wealthy Mexico City suitor who fell hard for a local señorita. When the couple quarreled, residents begged her to reconcile with him so the new road could be finished. As Carlos tells me this tale, we actually hit a bump in the asphalt. Outside the town of Arandas, in a patch of six-foot-tall agave, mud cakes my white sneakers as I watch a wiry jimador (harvester) chop mature foliage with a wickedly sharp oval hoe. Green sap oozing from the piña, or agave heart, indicates its ripeness, and I can’t help equating this reaping with a certain grimmer process. He heaves the 100-pound heart into the back of a pickup truck and disappears down the row looking for more.
In the next valley is colonial Atotonilco, home to Siete Leguas. The brand is named for Pancho Villa’s horse, Seven Leagues; a tinted photograph of the revolutionary leader riding his steed hangs in El Centenario, the distillery where pit-roasted agave is still crushed with a mill wheel drawn by a pair of dainty mules. Master distiller Fernando González graciously lets me climb a ladder to see his fermentation vats, brimming with yeasty liquid and topped with pulp that smells like ripening apples. His family used to brew for Patrón, but after a licensing dispute, they decided to concentrate on their own smaller label.
González lives across the street from the distillery, in a wisteria-covered brick town house. His two sons kick a soccer ball on the back veranda while their elegant mother, Isabel, prepares shrimp empanadas with fresh salsa for a six-course lunch at the lace-covered dining table. González explains that he is the youngest of seven and jokes that his father was fixated on the number. He reveals that when he was an infant, his mother used to rub a tiny dab of tequila on his gums, an old Mexican home remedy to soothe teething pain. "Tequila is in my blood," he says, laughing. That’s when he breaks out the good stuff, a potent five-year-old house "extra" añejo in an unmarked bottle, reserved for family occasions. It’s as smooth as cognac. After siesta, he generously hands me a bottle of my own. I came to Jalisco for a lesson in tequila; I’m leaving with a nation’s pride and joy.
Shane Mitchell is a T+L contributing editor.
Touring Jalisco’s artisanal distilleries is an ideal way to immerse yourself in tequila’s heritage. The best way to get around is by private car; for a rental with an English-speaking driver, try Viajes Copenhagen (52-333/629-7957; about $250 per day).
These makers will arrange to take visitors through the entire process, from harvest to bottling.
Hacienda San José del Refugio, Amatitán; 52-333/942-3900; www.herradura.com.
El Tesoro De don felipe
35 Alvaro Obrogón, Arandas; 52-348/783-0425; www.eltesorotequila.com; by appointment.
Fábrica de Tequila El Llano
108 Calle Silverio Nuñez, Tequila; 52-374/742-0246 or 52-333/615-1646; www.tequilaarette.com; by appointment.
House of Cazadores
Km 3, Libramiento Sur, Arandas; 52/333-777-7800; www.cazadores.com.
Los Abuelos/Javier Sauza Museum
The museum is open to the public; distillery tours are by appointment.
22 Vicente Albino Rojas, Tequila; 52-374/742-0247; www.losabuelos.com.
75 Calle José Cuervo, Tequila; 52-374/ 742-2170; www.mundocuervo.com.
360 Avda. Independencia, Atotonilco; 52-391/917-0996; www.tequilasieteleguas.com.mx; by appointment.
Where to Stay
A 10-room inn 10 minutes from Guadalajara’s historic district.
1739 López Cotilla, La Fayette; 800/728-9098; www.mexicoboutiquehotels.com; doubles from $200.
Where to Eat
This bar, in a former bank, has a regional menu and Cuervo tequilas.
55 Ramón Corrona, Tequila; 52-374/742-1079; lunch for two $30.
Doña Gabina Escolástica
Cheerful tavern serving handmade tortillas and hearty stews.
237 Javier Mina, Zapopan; 52-333/833-0883; dinner for two $30.
Local folk art adorns the walls of this upscale favorite.
1398 Pedro Moreno, Guadalajara; 52-333/825-5447; dinner for two $50.