Mezcal simply can't sustain its current rate of rise—and we might be drinking it into oblivion
Over the past decade, no single category of spirit has shot up in stature quite like mezcal. A drink once unheard of in American markets, the Oaxacan spirit has quickly become a high-profile mainstay of any self-respecting bar or bottle shop. Some of those bottles comfortably command the affection afforded to rare bourbons and single malts, and their associated costs. But this surging popularity is also saddled with an unspoken premium, and one far steeper than any price tag can bear. Mezcal simply cannot sustain its current rate of rise—and we might just be drinking it into oblivion.
Standing in the way of that disastrous possibility is Iván Saldaña of Montelobos. The man behind one of Mexico’s most successful mezcal brands approaches the problem more like a philosopher than a businessman. “Mezcal is a very complex product that requires wood, agave, traditional knowledge, clean water, and social and economical deals that allow the entire chain to flow through time,” he warns. “The conditions in which mezcal operates today are not and will not be able to sustain its growth if concrete actions are not taken.”
In its best renditions, mezcal is the result of a precious and traditional communion with the earth. For hundreds of years, farmers have distilled the spirit from wild agave—a handful of native varietals of the same plant used to make tequila—for personal consumption on hillside parcels along the rural outskirts of Oaxaca. The size and scope of these sites (known locally as palenques) were never intended to be scaled up to meet the demands of international distribution chains.
Montelobos’ launch in 2011 was the result of a partnership between Saldaña and the Lopez family, a small producer in the remote village of Matatlán. They were accustomed to making mezcal for community gatherings numbering in the dozens. Now they would be asked to feed bottling lines cranking out cases by the hundreds. “Soon we discovered the location and the access to water and space was very restricted,” Saldaña recalls. His solution was to bring them down from the mountains. “We helped [the father] and his son build a brand new palenque in a facility exclusively dedicated to our brand.”
With better access to essential infrastructure, Montelobos was able to insure a steadier stream of output. But it’s not as if this new operation was some stunning, state-of-the art construct. Unlike its cousin tequila—typically made in more industrial, factory-like settings‚mezcal is defined by its low-tech style of production. Agave hearts are hacked by hand with machetes, one plant at a time. They are milled by a massive, donkey-drawn stone called a tahona, fermented in wooden tubs and fed to a wood-fired still. Temperature isn’t regulated by knobs and gauges, but by feel. The entire process is off-grid.
“Wild agave is being eroded by overexploitation, particularly in Oaxaca.”
Traditionally, the raw ingredient wasn’t even farmed so much as it was plucked from the surrounding landscape. Agave, after all, is a wild vegetation that once grew abundantly in Mexico’s mezcal-producing states of Oaxaca, Puebla and Guerrero. That all started to change when the drink became a commercial commodity. Cultivated rows of the plant—most commonly a dependable varietal known as espadín—now populate the landscape. The persistence of wild agave, meanwhile, is in serious peril, jeopardized by a swelling demand that’s driven the price of bottles north of $200 in many an American liquor store. “Wild agave is being eroded by overexploitation, particularly in Oaxaca,” Saldaña laments. “We are living in a real ‘gold rush’ as prices increase and markets grow. I think the use of wild agave should be banned as a general rule for commercial brands—those that export and sell within the mainstream urban market.”
It’s a bold assertion, one to which you certainly won’t see Ron Cooper adhere. His brand, Del Maguey, put mezcal on the map so far as craft spirits are concerned. Some of his most sought-after bottlings are built from wild harvests, which he believes he can sustainably rely upon into the future. He is skeptical, however, of newcomers entering the space.
“We used to be alone in the category until about five years ago,” he says of wild agave production. “The market has become crowded with new producers dying to show off their capabilities, and I’m not really convinced that a lot of people are working sustainably.”
For its part, Del Maguey satisfies increasing demand by working with an ever-expanding network of small producers. When it needs more liquid, it simply brings aboard another maker from a neighboring palenque, or a different village, altogether. And the company is not afraid to bottle and sell in small batches. “We made 350 bottles a year back in the ‘90s,” Cooper says of the brand’s Tobalá label, made from the small, squatty tobalá varietal. “We’re at 2,000 bottles a year now. If we run out, too bad. Tepeztate, tobaziche, madrecuixe—all of these [varietals] we harvest in small batch, the same way, with a desire to make sure they continue to exist.”
“They don’t even know where their mezcal is coming from. Mezcal-making is about family.”
The CRM—mezcal’s government-run regulatory commission—recently established rules mandating the planting of wild agave to help rebound native populations. The measure won’t provide any sort of immediate relief, however, as most species require more than 15 years of maturation prior to harvesting. “And when you plant it, it’s no longer wild agave, is it?” Cooper opines. “It’s a human-cultivated species. I have tasted a big difference between that and the wild-harvested tobalá.” This difference wasn’t enough to deter Montelobos from releasing a tobalá expression distilled exclusively from agave cultivated on a Pueblan farm. To Saldaña, it’s not better or worse than it’s naturally occurring counterparts, it’s merely different. “It will reflect the terroir, but it will not be identical to the plants that grow a couple of yards away that are in the ‘wild,’” he explains.
A seemingly obvious solution to agave shortages is to allow the plant to be grown and distilled in more places across Mexico. Currently, only nine out of 32 states are part of mezcal’s DO (denomination of origin). Despite the stifling politics required to open that umbrella, the DO is expected to expand in coming years, broadening the terroir and the volume of liquid available within the category.
But Danny Mena isn’t at all worried about procuring plants. He’s got plenty. The co-founder of Mezcales de Leyenda is much more concerned with where they’ll end up after they’ve been squeezed. “The biggest issue right now, in my opinion, is the agave fibers called bagazo that are left over after distillation,” he explains. “They are very acidic and the leftover liquid called vinasas is oxygen-deprived. When a large enough quantity of these materials spill off into the rivers, all the organisms are killed almost immediately.
Mena’s team has developed a novel system for repurposing the waste. By compressing the fibers, the leftover bagazo can be molded and baked into adobe bricks suitable for house-building. It’s a hopeful reminder that ingenuity might beat back the damaging effects of careless consumption.
A handful of brands have re-invested heavily in the small villages and fragile ecosystems from which their liquid is born. But with such a bankable commodity, exploitation lurks around every corner. “I saw this big poster of this mezcal that this group of women have, and they’re really connected culturally to hipsters,” Ron Cooper recalls. “They don’t even know where their mezcal is coming from. Mezcal-making is about family. And I want to make sure that I always have a direct connection with the producers.”
In 2017, Del Maguey was snatched up by Pernod-Ricard, one of the world’s largest spirits companies. And while Cooper promises it won’t affect the brand’s commitment to conscientious craftsmanship, skeptics abound. In the meantime, as the category continues ballooning, the mezcal you pour demands increasingly careful consideration. Each bottle is more a statement than a shiny label. To those who truly adore it, it’s not just a drink—it’s a responsibility.