If you’re like me, you wear a novelty eyepatch you won playing skeeball at Chuck E. Cheese in 1987 and you’re obsessed with tequila. Plenty has been written about those former qualities, but here I’d like to expound on the latter. As tequila’s global popularity rapidly rises, it’s imperative that newly interested parties step into this delicious world with their novelty eyepatches off and their eyes open. We’ll start with something relatively simple.
Mixto is bullshit.
Yes, when I was young and my eyepatch shiny and new, I had my share of Jose Cuervo gold. As it has with many others, it gave me a bad impression of tequila that lasted until I was much older and finally tried the good stuff. What I didn’t know then was that Cuervo gold, and many others, is really only half tequila, known as “mixto”. In the heavily regulated world of tequila production, tequila can only be made from the blue agave plant. Due to a shortage of blue agave in the mid-20th century, the Mexican government declared that tequila could be processed with as little as 51% blue agave sugars. You can bet your skee ball swag that any tequila not labeled as “100% blue agave” uses this bare minimum in their product.
Now, setting aside the increase in hangover-inducing congeners you get from the additives comprising the other 49%, just ask yourself this: Would you rather eat a hamburger made of 100% beef or one mixed with 49% fillers? Your hundred percenter doesn’t have to be kobe beef, but I’d bet that it being actual beef would be a minimum requirement to consider it a real hamburger, right? What I’m basically trying to say is that mixto is the tequila equivalent of dog food. Sure, it’s technically tequila, just like Rebecca Black is technically a singer, Dane Cook is technically a comedian, and George Bush became president with less than half the votes of the American people. Leave the mixto to the college kids.
What’s that you say? You buy crappy mixto because you can’t afford real tequila? Poppycock. Poppyscrotum even. For Margaritas, I buy a 100% agave tequila that costs $20, about $2 more than the same size bottle of Cuervo right next to it on the shelf. Zapopan is a 100% agave tequila and will only run you a paltry $10. It’s not great, but it’s definitely better than mixto. Granted, when you order a margarita in a bar, your choice is probably going to be between mixto and an overrated and overpriced “premium” tequila like Patron. Call it an upsell, call it a ripoff, call it Fred Grandy if you so desire, but I will happily pay 50% more for a margarita that tastes 100% better.
Now some advice for a more advanced tequila experience: Don’t shoot!
If you’re looking to get drunk real quick, do what you gotta do, but why take something that tastes as great as tequila and hurry it past your taste buds like an embarrassing one night stand? And forget lime and salt. Are you sick? The practice of taking lime and salt with tequila began in 1918, when tequila was used as medicine to combat the Spanish Flu. Did it work? Not so much. Now it’s just a gimmick. If you want lime and salt with your tequila, have a margarita.
Tequila is great neat, and this is where the three basic varieties of tequila require explanation. First, you’ve got your blanco, also known as silver, or plata, which is freshly distilled and aged no more than two months. It has the strongest bite, which is why most people shoot it, but it also has the strongest agave flavor. Agave purists tug on it like the fine spirit it is, letting the piquancy have its way with their taste buds. Tequila can be a bit one dimensional at this stage, so until you’re well-versed in that dimension, you’ll probably want to leave it in your margarita. Next you’ve got reposado, meaning “rested”, which is aged for up to a year, but more often closer to six months. The aging process allows the tequila to develop smooth, rich qualities, as well as take on some of the color of the barrel in which it’s aged. Reposado is still fairly young, though, and retains a strong agave flavor and some of the sharp essence of a blanco. It’s definitely good straight, and is also an ideal ingredient in a cocktail where you want the unique flavor of tequila, but don’t want it to take center stage.
Finally, there’s añejo. Añejo is tequila aged for at least one year. If it’s aged for more than three years, it’s often labeled as extra-añejo. Añejo is much more smooth, dark, and rich than reposado, and yes, it costs more. My favorite easy-to-find brand is Herradura, which will run you about $45. Chinaco is another favorite, which you can find at well-stocked liquor outlets for about $50. The extra-añejos cost more, with the premium varieties of the aforementioned brands going for between $200 and $300 a bottle. I’ve settled on El Mayor extra-añejo, at about $80, as my special occasion bottle. Otherwise, I’ve got a dozen other añejos in my home bar, ranging in cost from $25 to $60, each with its own attributes and eccentricities.
Añejo is the culmination of the health of the agave and the soil in which it’s grown, the processes of cultivation and distillation, and the type and quality of aging vessel. These factors all come to light with age, and provide the distinctions between brands of añejo, much more so than tequila’s less aged varieties. When these factors are all nearly perfect, the result is the stuff that dreams are made of.
If you’re a wine or whiskey drinker, añejo is where you stop thinking of tequila as the main ingredient in spring break chunder, and begin to appreciate its most subtle qualities. You don’t mix it, you don’t put ice in it, and for the love of God, you don’t shoot it. You pour it into a narrow bowled tequila glass and you watch it glide down the sides like syrup. You sniff it. You tongue it. You sip it. You let it sit in your mouth, filling your senses with its unique characteristics. Pepper, chocolate, fruit, caramel, oak, vanilla, cinnamon, maple. I’m not much for the flowery language of spirit tasting, but if asked whether I’m going to drink a great añejo or fuck it, I’d be hard pressed to choose. So, don’t be surprised if you find me whispering breathlessly to a bottle of Herradura Seleccion Suprema, wearing nothing but a thin film of sweat, my special love-making gloves, and my trusty eyepatch.
Photo by Gary N.
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