Para todo mal, mezcal

Para todo mal, mezcal. Para todo bien, también.
“For all that’s wrong, mezcal. For all that’s right, mezcal too.”

It’s one of those Mexican sayings that just makes sense. There’s another one in Oaxaca that says mezcal isn’t drunk, it’s kissed. You take small sips, let it roll over your tongue, feel the smoke and sweetness mingle. It’s not meant to be rushed. Like the people who make it, mezcal takes its time.

Long before it became a staple on fancy cocktail menus from New York to Tokyo, mezcal was the drink of the working class. It was what farmers and miners drank after a long day’s work, what families poured at weddings, baptisms, and funerals alike. It was a drink for every occasion, good or bad—hence the saying.

Mezcal is made mostly in Oaxaca, a state that holds nearly 80% of Mexico’s production, though other regions like Durango, Puebla, and Guerrero have their own proud traditions. The process starts with the maguey, or agave plant—Oaxaca’s spiky green gold. And not all agave is the same. The espadín is the most common variety—it grows faster and suits larger productions—but some, like the tepextate or tobalá, take 25 to 40 years to mature. Imagine the patience that requires, waiting four decades just to begin.

Each species has its own flavour profile, influenced by soil, altitude, and weather—just like grapes for wine. The plants are harvested by hand, their hearts (piñas) roasted in underground pits lined with volcanic stones, then crushed, fermented, and distilled. That slow roasting over wood and stone gives mezcal its distinctive smoky notes—the thing that sets it apart from tequila.

And just like in any craft, there are scales. Some mezcal is produced in big palenques (distilleries) that export around the world. But many of the most beautiful mezcales come from small, family-run operations.

One of my favourites is run by four siblings—three are engineers and one is studying business administration—who all migrated for their studies. When they came back home, they decided to revive their grandfather’s abandoned palenque, bringing with them everything they’d learned: engineering, biochemistry, agriculture, and a deep sense of responsibility for their land. They’re experimenting with sustainable production methods, replanting endangered agave species, and keeping their family’s legacy alive in the most thoughtful way.

When you visit these smaller palenques, it’s not just about tasting mezcal, it’s about tasting heritage. You walk among the agave fields, see the earth ovens still smoking from the last roast, and then sit down for lunch at the family home. Maybe their mother cooks mole negro or memelas on the comal, maybe she pours you a shot of mezcal and smiles as if to say, bienvenido a casa. You can taste the mezcal right where it’s made, sometimes even in a freshly mixed cocktail. The one I had at this palenque was a secret recipe, so instead, I’ll share my personal favorite with you: the Mezcal Mule.

Mezcal Mule Recipe:

• 50 ml mezcal (smoky espadín works great)

• 15 ml fresh lime juice

• 5 ml agave syrup (or simple syrup)

• Ginger beer to top

• Ice and a slice of lime or candied ginger for garnish

Fill a copper mug or glass with ice, pour in the mezcal, lime juice, and syrup, then top with ginger beer. Give it a gentle stir, sit back, and sip slowly—it’s the kind of drink that makes the world slow down just a little.

It’s easy to think of mezcal as a trendy drink now, but for me, it will always be something more. I always drink it with respect and intention, being mindful of every “kiss”, almost like a ritual. A story of patience, land, and family, and the kind of wisdom that knows balance: between good and bad, work and rest, fire and earth.

Para todo mal, mezcal. Para todo bien, también.