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When Mezcal Was Moonshine: Oaxaca’s Unofficial 1980s Prohibition

It’s been said more than once by vaunted drinks writers, everyday fans, and “maestro mezcaleros” alike: “Mezcal tastes like time.”

Usually, that sagely pearl refers to the long lives of agave plants, the myriad flavors they pick up along the way, or the creative alchemy deployed to elevate those flavors within the bottle. Distilling mezcal is an art with centuries of legacy.

But time is not always a triumphant march from good to better. In living memory, mezcal has faced some pretty tough setbacks, like environmental headwinds, economic downturns, and even de facto prohibitions. Some mezcaleros, who prosper from their spirit’s rising global popularity today, grew up in a world where mezcal was suppressed by government meddling. And their parents and grandparents could be imprisoned for producing it at all.

“I went to the mountains to produce my mezcal,” says Rufino Martinez, a now-elderly mezcalero, “otherwise they would destroy the equipment and seal the stills.” VinePair interviewed Rufino and several other small-batch mezcaleros in Oaxaca as part of a special three-part “Cocktail College” podcast series, “Mezcal’s Untold Past, Soaring Present, and Fragile Future.” In his interview, Rufino told us (originally in Spanish, which we’ve translated) of a complicated web of rule, corruption, and violence that drove significant numbers of mezcaleros into hiding during the 1960s and ’70s.

This web was the result of decades of attempted alcohol reform in Mexico. While the U.S. experienced national Prohibition from 1920 to 1933, Mexico never enacted such a blanket ban on alcohol sales. Even so, anti-alcohol campaigns were a common feature of Mexican society through much of the 20th century, and led to a patchwork of shifting laws all over the country. At local and state levels, officials often tried to steer society by influencing what Mexicans drank, how much, and when they drank it.

Beverages like mezcal and pulque, which had stronger working-class and indigenous roots, saw the worst of it. Reformers branded them as backward, low-class, and unsanitary, while traditionally European options like wine and beer were heralded as civilized and pure.

“[Mezcal] was very criminalized,” Rufino, who also goes by Tio Rufino, says. Men he called “alcoleros” would come and search his palenque (the Oaxacan term for a mezcal distillery), seizing any mezcal they found and destroying his equipment. While they claimed to be authorities, Rufino never really knew what governing body or organization they actually represented. The only way to stop them, it seemed, was to pay for some kind of “permit.”

Several mezcaleros interviewed in the podcast series spoke of such permits. The terms and prices naturally varied from town to town. Fees might be collected monthly or even daily, a charge for each and every shift worked in a palenque. The rates were steep. It was often hard to tell whether the fees went to legitimate government coffers or the pockets of a local corrupt official. Penalties for working without the permits could sometimes mean imprisonment, not just loss of equipment.

Some mezcaleros could still eke out a living this way. An unknown number were forced to stop producing mezcal entirely. Others, like Rufino, took to the Oaxacan mountains. He set up clay pot stills in an abandoned mine far from his home, where the alcoleros couldn’t find him. His only light was a lantern he brought with him, which was itself nearly blocked out by the smoke his stills generated.

Rufino was no isolated case. Other mezcaleros we spoke to for the podcast mentioned secret hillside palenques, and scholarship shows that similar clandestine mezcal production has permeated 20th century Mexican culture at least as long as any regulations suppressing it. Whether motivated by entrepreneurship, a commitment to local traditions, or a way to make ends meet during desperate times, there have always been mezcaleros willing to shepherd their spirit through tough times.

But experiences like Rufino’s are more than history or trivia. They have helped define mezcal as we know it today. Note that Rufino set up clay pot stills in the mine. Prohibition measures made distilling with clay pots a standard practice in Santa Catarina Minas, a small town about 25 miles south of Oaxaca’s capital, because they could be so easily repaired after authorities destroyed them. And even now, when mezcal is coveted instead of suppressed, the community maintains that defiant legacy.

Rufino still works with his nephew, Luis Arellanes Cruz, a maestro mezcalero based in Santa Catarina Minas. Arellanes Cruz still uses clay pot stills, and though he could invest in modern copper or steel equipment, he has no plans to. Small batches and ceramics are part of what keeps his mezcal distinctly local.

“They’ll offer you a metal still,” Arellanes Cruz explains, “… and if you have the money, you pay for it and it’s going to give you a load of mezcal. But try that mezcal and it won’t taste like the mezcal from here.”

In other words, mezcal’s many stories have defined its character as much as technology or ingredients. They’re yet another kind of time you can taste.

The article When Mezcal Was Moonshine: Oaxaca’s Unofficial 1980s Prohibition appeared first on VinePair.

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