Mezcal, Moles & Masters — Highlights from Our Biggest Trip Yet
Mezcal, Moles & Masters: Our Biggest Industry Trip Yet
Last month, we led our largest group ever on an unforgettable trip to Mexico. We explored the remote Mixteca Alta in Puebla and the central valleys of Oaxaca, spending time with traditional mezcaleros, learning from the land, and deepening our connection to the plants, people, and process behind every bottle we bring in.
We were joined by key buyers from Denver, Portland, and Oakland, along with founding members of the Pacific Northwest Agave Club and the Colorado Agave Collective. Together, we tasted, hiked, asked too many questions, and devoured a frankly unreasonable amount of mole.
The excitement began on the road from Puebla. As we drove south, quiotes slowly started to replace roadside billboards, stretching skyward like natural monuments. For some of us, this was our first time seeing wild agave in its native habitat. The sheer density of green life across the desert felt otherworldly. It was humbling—and electrifying—to witness firsthand the surreal forms taken by wild agaves and cacti growing untended, just as they have for centuries.
Our first stop was at about 2,000 meters above sea level, in a village called San Luis Atolotitlán, where we were welcomed with a homecooked red mole, spiced to perfection. Before we could lick our fingers clean, David was already peeling a pitaya—a bright red, thorn-covered cactus fruit—using skills clearly acquired through many close calls. It grows from Stenocereus thurberi, one of roughly 55 "organo" species native to the Mixteca.
That afternoon, we joined our friends at Yuku Savi to help fill their stone-lined oven with pitzometl, their signature agave. While we were stacking piñas, our elder Jeff nearly fell into the oven pit—he was fine, but if he weren't so old, we joked he'd make a fine pechuga! Something new that we learned about Mtro. Félix's production is that he covers his agave with branches of the pirul tree (Schinus molle), before sealing the earthen oven. Of course, we needed a taste as we hypothesized about its impact on the flavor of his mezcales.
As we gathered for a proper mezcal flight, our hostess, Doña Antonia, offered to bring us water. What she actually brought was puntas—the high-proof (nearly 80% ABV!) distillate from the first run of a batch—stored in a water jug. Most of us realized it immediately, but played along, assuming she was teasing us. Then she poured herself a glass and took a big swig. Nope. Not a joke.
The next day, we headed to Yuku Zaanchico, Yuku Savi's new agroecological center near Santiago Chazumba. Before anything else, we were invited to honor the land with an offering of our own. Everyone participated—except one skeptic, who would later pay the price with blood (more on that shortly). We tasted mezcal from agaves we'd never even heard of and began to distinguish subtle differences between various subspecies. Then, guided by the team, we planted agaves of our own.
Some of the expressions we tasted left a lasting impression—both for their craftsmanship and their character.
The ride from Tehuacan to Oaxaca was the wildest drive of our lives—cliffs, curves, and heart rates maxing out. That's when we learned the unofficial rule of rural Mexico: time is slow until you're driving, then it's go time. We recovered with the best tlayudas in town.
Famished after a day on the palenque and in the fields, we hit a BYOB teppanyaki spot in Miahuatlán. Safe to say the staff wasn't expecting a mezcal-loving crew of rolling deep after, oh, just a casual 15 tastings. And our friend Brett? The one who skipped the land offering? Let's just say he learned the hard way. While taking photos in an agave field, he caught a terminal spine straight to the arm. Blood sacrifice: complete.
Our final full day brought us to Santiago Matatlán, where we admired Felix Monterrosa's mural on the municipal building and got our hands dirty at the Monterrosa family palenque. Alongside Mtro. Francisco Mateo and his team, we helped load an earthen oven with over eight tons of local Espadín. As we shoveled the last mound of dirt onto the cook, we paused for a group photo—and a powerful moment of gratitude.
Francisco held up his worn hands.
"Some people think we're stupid because we work with our hands," he said. "But some of us have been doing this since we were very young. By now, we are masters."
And just like that, as we prepared for the hot ride back to Centro, the paletero rolled up with a cooler full of ice-cold relief. Couldn't have planned it better.
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