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Fire & spirit: A night of Mexican whisky

At an open-fire restaurant in Mérida, five native spirits prove corn’s newest calling

The late fishing writer John Gierach said coffee and whisky taste better in a tin cup. Around a campfire alongside a cold trout stream, sure. But in Mérida, when sipping artisanal Mexican whisky while held in the purgatory between a fire and the hottest night of the year, handmade ceramic born of flame is called for.

Sean Sant Amour, one of the owners of Anima, Mérida’s only outdoor open-fire restaurant, and La Botilleria, an artisanal, small-batch Mexican spirit shop, invited me and a few other men — restaurateurs, chefs, sommeliers — to sample the latest in Mexican whisky. We were guided by Othón Canales, a spirit expert and bar owner from Mexico City, and Anima’s chef, Daniel Ron, who worked with Othón to pair a different meat with each spirit.

Corn is the lifeblood of Mexico. With 59 varieties of heirloom corn that can be dated back thousands of years and many more hybrids and mixes, Mexican distillers have been experimenting with the grain for about 10 years to create a new category that is relatively unknown and unsung in the country.

At 6, we gathered around the firepit in the middle of the restaurant. The city was experiencing a heat wave, so it’s hard to say if faces or backs were hotter as we settled on the low stone wall around the BBQ pit. One of the more lovely things about an open fire is that it dulls the senses to everything around it. Though surrounded by happy people in a buzzing restaurant, the din quickly faded as the fire was stoked and Othón lined up the five whiskies to taste. In keeping with the campfire approach, the meat was served on a passed wooden platter and eaten by hand. In spirit and meat tasting, singed fingers and juices running down your face is la alegría de vivir.

First off was the Juan del Campo Verde. A mixture of blue and pink corn grown in Querétaro, it boasts subtle mineral and earthy notes that make it an easy-sipping whisky. It was paired with a rich brisket, which pushed the spirit to the top of the palate, while the meat covered the tongue with fat. This combination was more like a race to see who would last the longest.

Faces wiped, Sierra Norte Maiz Blanco, a single-barrel whisky made with white corn grown in Oaxaca, was next. Notes of buttered corn, spices, and green corn husks that linger on the tongue, the accompanying bone-in short rib brought out a unique earthy tang that turned sweet with the pairing. Upon Daniel’s recommendation, we tasted the meat first, followed by the whisky. 

Though immersed in carbonized smoke from the fire, our body temperatures found an equilibrium between the heat of the night and flames, and we grew more comfortable on the warm stone.

The crackle of the next serving hit our ears first. Slow-cooked pork belly was finished on the grill to crisp the fat. It was paired with Revés Rojo from Ensenada. Aged for three years in oak barrels and rested for three months in wine and port barrels, the whisky was velvety smooth, with clear notes of dried dark fruits followed by vanilla and caramel. 

Prieto y Prieta is made with four different corns from Oaxaca: red, purple, yellow, and white and was the only 100% corn whisky we tasted. This mixture gives the spirit a unique profile with elegant cherry notes on the nose and subtle tobacco under. On the palate, the power of the corn resembled a sweet and spiced dessert with a tart acidity and dry finish. We needed something heavy to counter, so ribs were the order with their in-your-face profile. The flavors blended and brought out the best of both: the earthiness and strong protein flavors from the meat and a nose of earthy and roasted sweet corn for the whisky.

The heat, meat, whisky, and smoke saturated our minds, and we were taken to that place where you give pause and strong consideration as to whether you should have that last drink. Before sensibility won out, Othón presented the final and most Mexican of the whiskies, Revés Negro. This distillery dispenses with port or wine barrels and rests the whisky in mezcal barrels for three years. Its light oak, vanilla, and caramel notes give way to ripe berries, tobacco, and chocolate with a smoky and earthy finish. Perfectly paired with a 12-hour slow-roasted lamb seasoned with nothing but salt and pepper, the mezcal undernotes tamed the gaminess of the lamb and drew us closer to the flames.

We ate and drank the night, burning our faces on the fire and fingers and tongues on roasted meat and whisky. In a mix of Spanish and English, we talked of things men have always talked of around fires, channeling our fathers, eating food as they once did and drinking golden spirits only dreamed of years before.

Late, when the stories were all told and weighed and the restaurant empty, we sat quietly watching the embers die, gently nodding to ourselves.

~~~

When my nephew turned 9, I took him on his first camping trip. After setting up our tent and eating dinner, we sat by the campfire, and I settled back with a whisky in a tin cup, and he opened a juice.

“What do we do now?” he asked.

“We can talk if you like or tell stories,” I replied, “but mostly, we just stare at the fire, and every once in a while, we nod.”

His head moved up and down in the smallest way as he gazed at the fire.

“I get that.”

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