My First Mezcal in Oaxaca
I thought I was just trying mezcal. Turns out, mezcal was trying me.
By the end of my month in Oaxaca in 2020, I hadn’t just tasted mezcal—I had survived it, studied it, and maybe even earned its respect.
This wasn’t the first time I tried mezcal. Actually, it wasn’t even my first time in Oaxaca.
I had visited Oaxaca almost exactly a year prior with a group in college. We only visited for a few days during this undergrad trip, and I’m almost positive we were treated to some mezcal samples and maybe even a mezcalita. But that warm-up round was nothing compared to the merciless crash course in mezcal I’d get a year later.
One week into my month in Oaxaca, I was invited to a going-away party for someone from the idiomas department at the university where I was studying Spanish. I didn’t have many friends yet and I wasn’t exactly comfortable with my host family at that point, so I figured this party would be a great excuse to get out, even if I only knew one person there.
That one person was a dear Oaxacan friend I’d made during my first visit a year earlier, which was a huge relief considering I still spoke almost no Spanish and felt completely in over my head. So I hopped in a taxi with my only friend, and we made our way to the fiesta.
I remember meeting a few people as we passed through the portón and entered into a gorgeous, lush garden. I felt comfortable enough introducing myself in Spanish—that part came easily. I was guided into a kitchen where people were scurrying around, prepping meats for the carne asada and hauling buckets of beer out to the garden.
I was introduced to the hostess, who greeted me with a warm smile and said, “Hoy, vas a aprender cómo hacer guacamole casero.” Then she put me straight to work, walking me through each step with hand gestures and multiple repetitions of her instructions in Spanish. I was definitely out of my comfort zone, but grateful to have something to do in the kitchen—way better than being in the garden stumbling through small talk that would’ve only reminded me how limited my Spanish still was.
After the guacamole lesson, I found my friend again and we grabbed a couple of seats at the long, banquet-style table in the garden. There were plenty of drink options, both alcoholic and not. I went with a beer—it felt like the safest choice, something to take the edge off without risking drunken embarrassment in front of people I’d just met and could barely understand. Soon we were feasting on grilled meats, cebollitas, handmade tortillas, chorizo, and a handful of other dishes I didn’t recognize but that instantly captivated me.
After the meal ended, two bottles of mezcal appeared and were poured into copitas for everyone, a prelude to the toasts honoring the department member whose departure we were celebrating. By now, my nerves had mostly settled. Oh, we’re doing shots—perfect. The first speaker gave their toast, we all echoed a cheerful “¡Salud!”, and I tossed back my mezcal in one go.
I’m not sure what registered first—the gasps from everyone around me, shocked that I’d downed my mezcal so quickly, or the burning that started in my mouth and raced down my esophagus.
My first mistake.
No one seemed sure whether to be impressed or horrified, but they kindly informed me that mezcal is enjoyed a besos—in small sips, like little kisses—not in one aggressive gulp. It’s a smoky spirit meant to be sipped slowly—with intention, with respect.
So as the toasts continued, I adjusted. I drank my mezcalito a besos and was quickly rewarded with a refill when I reached the bottom of my copita. Seeing how much I was enjoying it, my friend slid his glass over to me—he wasn’t much of a mezcal fan and decided to stick with beer.
By then, I’d found my rhythm. The burn didn’t bother me anymore. This really isn’t so bad.
Suddenly, I was being coaxed to the front of the room and handed a microphone. It was time for me to make a toast—to a stranger I didn’t know, in a language I barely spoke. I’m pretty sure I temporarily blacked out as I was pushed toward the front of the group. I managed to get out a shaky “Gracias por tenerme aquí” before the panic fully hit. Everyone encouraged me to keep going and to switch to English, so I did. I thanked everyone for having me, said how great it was to be welcomed even though I didn’t know anyone, and that I was looking forward to the rest of my time in Oaxaca. The group applauded, and I quickly made my way back to my seat—eyes peeled for the bottle of mezcal, ready to drown my embarrassment—hoping no one noticed how red I’d turned during my impromptu performance.
After the toasts, everyone was definitely feeling the mezcal—that’s when the karaoke machine made its grand entrance.
Oh no.
No way am I getting put in the spotlight again.
I slipped toward the kitchen doorway, hoping to stay out of view of the singers and their audience. My friend must’ve noticed my retreat because he came over to comfort me.
“You did well,” he said reassuringly.
I thanked him, only half believing it.
That’s when the karaoke crowd started scanning the room for me.
“¡¡JORDAN, CÁNTANOS UNA!!”
I ducked behind my friend, who immediately betrayed me by pointing and shouting, “¡Aquí está!”
You traitor.
If I was going to make another mezcal-fueled performance, he was coming down with me.
“You have to sing with me,” I pleaded. “It’s only fair.”
He begrudgingly agreed, and we queued up the one karaoke song I always keep in my back pocket for moments like this:
Bohemian Rhapsody by Queen.
Admittedly, it’s my go-to karaoke song for two reasons:
I actually know all the words.
By the time the chorus hits, everyone is so fired up and singing along that no one is really listening to me anyway.
And that’s exactly how it went—drinks in hand, everyone dancing, screaming the lyrics at the top of their lungs, cheering me on for joining the fun. I hadn’t planned on being the center of attention a second time that night, but honestly, it turned out to be one of those chaotic, mezcal-fueled moments I’ll never forget.
The party had taken place on a Sunday night, which meant I needed to be up at 7 a.m. the next morning for a Spanish grammar class. I felt awful—a little hungover from my first mezcal-induced ass-kicking and exhausted from lack of sleep. Thankfully, the salsa de huevo con tortillas at breakfast was slowly bringing me back to life.
“¿Entonces anoche conociste al mezcal?” my host mother asked.
“Sí,” I replied, half-awake and wishing I could crawl back into bed to suffer in peace.
It wasn’t exactly the welcome to Oaxaca I’d expected—but honestly, I couldn’t imagine a better way to get to know the city, its people, and this magical agave spirit. I may have started the night as a clueless outsider and ended it slightly tipsy with a karaoke mic in hand—but if that isn’t the best way to say “Welcome to Oaxaca,” I don’t know what is.