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Life and Mezcal

My ongoing thoughts on life and liquor

Inspiration for the Mural

October 

People sometimes ask what inspired me to do the mural at The Bebedero. I usually give them some easy response, “It symbolizes different elements of Mexican culture which I admire. Oh, and that’s my wife, Melissa.” That’s what they expect and it’s easy to understand. Most people just want a good one word answer anyway.

But every once in a while, someone asks about the angel in Melissa’s eyes. Then I recoil into myself and a feeling of uncertainty comes over me. You see I then have to weigh the value of that person, whether I think they are respectful enough, or have enough depth of character to tell them the truth. And until now I have never really told anyone the complete truth.

Because the truth is that this big and beautiful mural with the pretty woman, the religious symbolism and all its flowers and children are really all about a death. The death of an unborn baby boy named Theo. My first son.

He died on a Saturday and was born the next Wednesday. I was there for his birth. At Martha Jefferson they call it a white rose birth. The birth of a baby that, for whatever reason, did not survive. A stillbirth. They hang a little white rose outside your hospital room to let everyone know to be extra respectful of the people in that room, because they are experiencing a loss that is particularly difficult. The nurses and doctors were incredibly compassionate and kind to us. When Theo was born they cleaned him and wrapped his little body up in a blanket and put a little knit cap on his head as if they had to keep him warm.

He was perfect. He was small because he had stopped growing but he wasn’t malformed in any way. His little hands had little finger nails. His little eyes had perfect little eyelids with perfect little eyelashes. They would just never open. His little mouth had perfect little lips except they would never cry out. He had a perfect little body with everything a baby needs except it was void of life.

When you lose a baby after birth people cry with you and try to comfort you and say things like, “I can never imagine what you’re going through.” But when you lose a baby before birth they tell you things like, “Oh you can have another one and that will make up for it.” As if one life so easily replaces another. They mean well but for some reason people think there’s no way you could have grown attached to this life since you never met them in person. They equate a death of a baby in utero to a miscarriage.

But my wife was eight months pregnant when our baby died inside her. We had felt him kicking, seen him in ultrasounds, listened to his heartbeat. We just hadn’t met him yet.

We lost Theo on the Saturday before Thanksgiving and four months later I finished the mural you see on the walls at The Bebedero.

The first thing I painted was the image of my wife with the angel in her eyes. The angel had just finished whispering her a secret. At the time of painting the mural I didn’t know what the secret was or even why I felt like painting an angel in her eyes. Sometimes, you do things and you don’t know why you do them. You just have to have faith that there is purpose behind your actions. Art is very much like that. You never know what the piece is going to end up looking like when you first apply brush to canvas. The only thing you can do is have faith that you’re going to like it when it’s done. And with every stroke you give purpose to the piece that unfolds before you.

When I started the mural my heart was very heavy with grief. Our little family was still aching with sorrow. When I finished a month later, there was a semblance of purpose behind the piece, but still nothing clear. The only thing I knew for sure was that the angel in my wife’s eyes was our lost child, Theo. The secret he shared was yet unknown. Until now.

You see, three months ago my wife, Melissa, gave birth to our second son, Vandal, and he is healthy and happy and everyday enriches our life more. When Theo died I had never experienced pain like that. It was the worst thing to ever happen to me. But Vandal is the best thing to ever happen to me and I now know that he is the secret the angel whispered to Melissa in the mural.

Why do I bother to reveal this now, during Dia de los Muertos? Because, aside from the symbolism which is obvious in the mural, aside from the cultural relevance and its relation to a Mexican restaurant, aside from that, the mural is my alter to the lost loves of our lives and the hope of purpose behind it all.

That is why Dia de los muertos is such a special holiday. Because at some point in everyone’s life we will lose someone we love and that loss will cut us so deeply that it will make us question whether there is really any purpose behind life at all. Is there really any meaning behind all of this pain? Any justifiable reason for the loss of a baby? Is there really any point to endure when life can be so hard and you can lose so much? Why do we go on?

As for me, I go on with faith that there is purpose behind it all. After Theo’s death, I threw myself into building The Bebedero. Melissa focused all her energy on finishing her dissertation. Now we have Vandal. Somehow, we have found purpose in our pain.

So what inspired the mural? The same thing that inspires everything that grows and becomes beautiful.

Faith.

A good one word answer.

Salud!

And a happy Dia de los Muertos from all of us at The Bebedero

-river

Poison, Purification and Pulque

March 15, 2017

“What’s your poison?” is a phrase commonly heard from bartenders. It essentially means, “What do you like to drink?” and more abstractly, “How do you want to die?” This phrase implies that drinking alcohol is killing you. I completely agree with this saying and full heartedly endorse what it represents. Killing yourself a little each day is the only way to live.

Our attitude towards alcohol is a paradox. On one hand, we worship this intoxicating substance. It even has a central role in the Christian belief system. After all, the blood of Christ is wine. On the other hand, we are always condemning alcohol as the downfall of all humankind. We condemn it because let’s face it; it is a poison. The definition of poison is “a substance that is capable of causing the illness or death of a living organism when introduced or absorbed.” True in form, alcohol destroys virtually every organ it touches throughout the body: the esophagus, the stomach, the liver and the brain. Every stage of ingesting liquor is fatal. I’m pretty sure jock itch is the only disease that you can’t get from drinking too much; At least not directly. But can you imagine how empty life would be without it? There is a virtue in poison. There is purity in dangerous living. What would be the point of life if you only do what is good for you?

Yes, alcohol does a lot of damage to the body and mind. Sure, you can often end up very sick or even dead from alcohol poisoning, but did you know you could also die from drinking too much water? It’s called water intoxication. It causes swelling of the brain due to over-hydration. Look it up.

The point is, I think we need a little good old-fashioned damage in our lives. We need things that put us out of our minds for a little while.

The adage “Everything in moderation,” holds true, but I prefer Oscar Wilde’s belief, “Everything in moderation, including moderation.”

Every once in a while you got to poison yourself a little too much; occasionally you should drink way too much Tequila and projectile vomit like a broken fire hydrant and wake up horribly sick.

Have you ever prayed for God to kill you so that you would stop vomiting? Have you ever hugged a toilet like you’re going to fall off the Earth if you let go? Do you remember how great you felt after that trip to hell was finally over?

If you have, then you should be able to appreciate the importance of a good purge: A magnificent full body wrenching that causes all those greasy late night fast food burgers to come storming out of you like a legion of demons during an exorcism. After such an ordeal, you feel like angels have bathed you in divine light. You see, you’ve poisoned yourself to the point of near death, and you lived through it. You are grateful to be alive.

That is the gift of a good poisoning.

Poison forces the body to reject everything it doesn’t need. It clears the pathways and empties the vessel. This is something the ancient crafters of fermented agave drinks understood. You don’t have to take my word for it. In her article “Blood, Water, Vomit and Wine: Pulque in Maya and Aztec Belief,” scholar Lucia Henderson explores this topic through ancient glyphic, iconographic, and ethnographic evidence. Apparently, ancient Mesoamericans not only tolerated the act of vomiting from consuming too much alcohol, they fully embraced it.

Before the Spanish came to Mexico, native peoples already had alcohol. Many people believe the Spaniards brought the processes to create alcohol to the ancient Mexican peoples, but the truth is they brought distillation technology. The ancient Mesoamericans had already figured out how to ferment the juices of the agave plant into intoxicating liquor. It’s called pulque today, but in the language of the Aztec empire, it was called octli. This was the first intoxicating liquid of the North American continent.

Pulque is fermented but not distilled. Once it is distilled, it becomes mezcal. Mezcal distilled from the Blue Weber agave is tequila. Ancient Mesoamericans used to consume large amounts of pulque, especially during religious rituals. Its alcohol content was lower than modern day liquors, but the customs of drinking it were essentially the same, intoxication until evacuation.

The difference between then and now lies in how this act is perceived. Pulque was consumed during sacred rituals and overconsumption was encouraged, especially when there was an abundance of pulque available. Because pulque is a fermented drink, it has a relatively short shelf life. The more pulque there was, the faster they needed to consume it. The act of over consumption was physically beneficial for the body. Vomiting was encouraged for it’s purging effect and continuing to drink afterward was also encouraged. According to Henderson’s article, “after they were drunk they vomited and were purged, which left them cleansed and hungry…Some of the old men say that this was very good for them, that it was a medicine for them and cured them; because it was like a good purge.” This purging was embraced as a purification of the body and viewed as spiritually necessary for the growth of a healthy human.

Of course, you can take it with a grain of salt if you like. I mean, these were the same folks who believed in human sacrifice. Though, who knows if they were wrong about that? Maybe dead virgins do appease the gods. I don’t personally know any gods, so I can’t say for sure. But what is clear is that this practice has survived colonialism and traveled across cultures. Henderson points out that communities in the Lacandon jungle in southern Mexico continue to engage in this custom: “Lacandon men drink bowl after bowl [of balché] until they throw up, then begin drinking again.” But indigenous communities in the Lacandon jungle are not the only ones who follow this ritual.

What I find fascinating is that to this day overconsumption of tequila is often still associated with vomiting much more than other liquors. Millions of college students all over the world are keeping this sacred ritual alive every weekend. Binging and purging, binging and purging with little knowledge they are participating in a sacred ritual millennia old. They probably don’t even know that the notorious practice of butt chugging also has roots in Mayan and Aztec culture (Henderson talks about pulque enemas on page 59 of her article). Ah, our little drunken anthropologists keeping the ancient culture alive and well. Let the purification begin!

Salud!

-river

Tequila and You, the Healing Process

February 14, 2017

A lot of people hate tequila.

Can’t even smell it.

But the reality is that they probably embarrassed themselves after drinking it one time and now they blame tequila for their shame. You remember your bad tequila experience right? Everyone’s got at least one. Some, like myself, have many.

It probably went a little something like this. The night started off great, you looked good, you had your mojo working and then after three beers, a glass of red wine, two shots of whiskey, a long island some greasy guy bought for you and your friend because they were on special, oh and the two fruity sweet drinks the local muscly mixologist in the tight shirt with the perfect nipples made especially for you, you decided to close out the night with a shot of a really cheap tequila, most likely, Cuervo Gold. Your back teeth were already floating and your vision was blurred but your friend, more wasted than you, convinced you that it was a good idea. “Come on, just one more for the road!” As soon as that cheap hooch hit your throat it was already coming back up wasn’t it? Maybe you got it down completely and even held it in until you got to the bathroom. Or maybe it came right up into your hand in front of everyone at the bar as you raced to the toilet. Then you spent the rest of the night projectile vomiting all over ol’ perfect nipples’ restroom.

Hours passed while you dry heaved and prayed for death until the bartender demanded that you and your friend leave so he could close the bar. Maybe he had to help carry you out to the cab and your friend, that bitch, didn’t even help you clean the vomit out of your hair. Now that cute bartender you were flirting with all night thinks you’re a hot mess and a total lightweight. The next day you were feeling pain that wasn’t even on your body. Even the walls hurt.

Of course you blamed it all on the tequila.

“Jose, you evil bastard!”

You were doing just fine before he came along. Right?

Now you can’t even smell tequila without flash backs of cold porcelain splattered in vomit, and an evening slathered in high school shame.

“It’s all tequila’s fault!”

Never mind the four shots of cheap liquor you sucked down in that long island. Never mind that you mixed several different kinds of liquor, wine and beer through out the night. Never mind that you didn’t bother to eat anything before you went out or drink any water to stay hydrated in between the nipply bartender’s fruity concoctions. None of that matters because tequila is somehow more intoxicating than other liquors. Tequila is brewed with evil and bottled in suffering.

You and tequila just aren’t meant to be together. Right?

I know how you feel. We’ve all been there.

When I was eighteen my friends and I decided it was a great idea to drink a whole bottle of Cuervo Gold and have a chili pepper eating contest. I was finding chunks of tequila infused jalapeño in the crevices of my bathroom for weeks. I don’t think I ever got the smell out of the carpet in the hallway.

I blamed tequila for years, but tequila was not the idiot in my story, and I bet tequila was not the idiot in your story either.

So if it’s not tequila’s fault, who’s to blame? We are. We can no longer blame tequila for all that vomit and self-loathing. We need to mend our relationship because tequila and mezcal are delicious liquors and we deserve to be able to appreciate them. We have to go beyond that one bad experience toward a brighter future with this exquisite spirit. . We need to stop mistreating Tequila. We need to start the healing.

Tequila is a wonderful liquor with a fascinating history that predates the Spanish settlement of Mexico. It’s the first liquor of North America crafted from the gorgeous Maguey, a plant steeped in Mexican mythology and culture. It’s supposed to be sipped and enjoyed, not guzzled and chased. Tequila is as fine a liquor as any Cognac, Scotch or Bourbon. You’re supposed to enjoy it. You’re supposed to appreciate it.

The way to appreciate something is to understand it. To understand something, education is key. Learn something interesting about tequila and mezcal. Such as: did you know that it takes seven to fifteen years for an agave plant to grow to maturity? This is the point when it will produce the right amount of sugars and starches to produce a high enough alcohol content to make tequila. Isn’t that fascinating? You shot it back like it meant nothing. These crops take seven to fifteen years to grow and you shoot it down like some cheap grain alcohol and then you chase it with lime so you don’t have to taste it. If you’re only goal is to get wasted why don’t you just pregame an enema of Everclear you knuckle-dragging mouth breather.

Show tequila and mezcal some respect. Enjoy them slowly. Let this nectar of the Gods roll around on your tongue for a second. Experience all of the complex beauty. If you do you will taste sands and spice, sweets and flowers, smoke and herbs. You will change your impression of Mexican liquors and hopefully get over that embarrassing tequila moment. It might even open your mind to all the things you’ve been unwilling to try because of one bad experience. Who knows, maybe you’ll even try new things you have always been afraid of.

Speaking as someone who has had bad tequila experiences and overcome them, trust me when I say, it’s better on this side. It took me going to Mexico for a year and studying the beautiful history and process of Tequila to learn this appreciation, but now that I have, my life is fuller. I drink mezcal everyday, and I never wake up sick and riddled with shame, even though I still love muscly mixologists with tight shirts and perfect nipples.

¡Salud!

-river

I want to hurt you.​

January 15, 2017

Some people accuse me of masochism simply because my body is riddled with tattoos, brandings and scarification. And while it’s true I have sat through some painful alterations of my skin with no more logic behind the reasoning than, “Why the hell not?” I wouldn’t call myself a masochist. I just believe everyone could use a little controlled suffering in his or her lives. A little torture can give you perspective. Physical pain can be spiritually healing. Take it from someone that knows, a good branding can do wonders for your outlook on the world.

How does this relate to cocktails and liquor? Well, as a bartender I think cocktails and liquor should hurt too. This might just be my own masochistic flavor, but I get tired of drinks that taste like fruit punch and sunshine. I’m sick of elderflower bitters and strawberry infused chartreuse. I hate watching a bartender spend twenty minutes muddling, zesting, stirring, and garnishing a drink just to have it taste like a Safeway birthday cake. Sorry, a strawberry chartreuse Safeway birthday cake.

All the liquor reps go on and on about how sweet and smooth their new product is. Liquor companies boast about triple and quadruple distillation processes that make their liquor as easy to drink as water. Why? Who likes the taste of water? Is water the flavor I should be going for with my cocktails? I like my liquor to hurt a little. And hurting a lot is good too as long as it’s good quality. “Abnormal pleasures kill the taste for normal ones.” I think Henry Miller said that. And I’m inclined to agree. Give me some abnormal pleasures. Let’s expand our comfort zones to include suffering. That’s how you overcome pain. You learn to enjoy it.

This is probably why I mostly drink Mezcal. Mezcal never tastes like Safeway birthday cake. You can’t describe Mezcal like it’s wine, “Full bodied with hints of fruit, vanilla and lilacs.” It’s more like, “This tastes like my mouth is full of cactus, fire ants and rust.” I love the taste of rust. If you’ve ever had the pleasure of good and cheap Raicilla it’s more like old Band-aids and tire fires. These are the flavors I love. I want every sip to be an experience, a perhaps painful, but definitely memorable experience. I want the liquor I drink to burn my nostrils and water my eyes.

That’s how I want my drinks to be. I don’t just want sweet and fruity. Give me pungent and earthy. Give me spicy and bitter. I want to taste vinegars and old rubber. If it has to be sweet, pair it with burning. If it has to be salty pair it with metals. American tastes are too simple. “How would you like that, sweet, savory or salty?” because those are the only flavors our food comes in.

I lived in Thailand for a couple years and was amazed at how many different flavors you could get in just one dish. And the ingredients were so varied on every flavor level that you never really had the same meal twice. Opposite flavors combined to create delectable and unusual taste experiences.

Another thing that fascinated me about Thai cuisine was their use of every part of the plant or animal. I ate chicken hearts, livers, intestines and feet. Amazing stews with blood for broth (I’m not sure where the blood came from, but it was damn good). Fruits and vegetables were eaten at every stage of growth from root to fruit. And the Thais don’t share our prejudice of strange creatures. They’ll eat anything. While I was there I ate fried crickets, scorpions and cockroaches like potato chips. They were delicious.

There is so much in the world to experience, why would you limit your life to only the comfortable things?

This is my logic behind the cocktail menu at The Bebedero. Drinks like the Pico de Gallo, which is a mixture of pineapple, Serrano pepper, cilantro and cucumber with Sal de Gusano on the rim. Sal de Gusano is salt made with the ground up agave worms. Some cringe until they taste its potent smoke and herbaceous flavor. It’s difficult to describe the flavor to you as very few things taste like powdered agave worms. And that’s my point; you can’t experience new flavors with the same old ingredients. You have to be willing to push your comforts out of the pleasurable into what you think might offend you. You have to test the levels of pain to find out what is truly pleasurable.

So when I say I want to hurt you, please understand I mean it in the best possible way. I want you to experience the harshness of a good Mezcal, the complexities of a rare Espadin, the bitter desert salts of a small batch Pechuga. I want you to understand the strange beauty of worm salt on the rim of a bizarre soup of fresh herbs and fruits. That’s not so bad, right?

So I’m starting this column to introduce some of the great and strange flavors I’ve come to experience in my nineteen years of tending bar all over the world. Come with me and we’ll taste sweet tequilas and harsh mezcals, rare sotols and painful raicillas. We’ll toast to a full life with drinks rimmed in grasshoppers and worms.

We have much to discuss.

¡Salud!

-river

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