Monkey Business: What’s a Chango Mezcalero?

These cheeky monkeys are used to market and store mezcal. We investigate their origins and where to buy changos mezcaleros. 

What’s more fun than a barrel of monkeys?! A chango filled with mezcal!

Monkeys. They’re cute but erratic — just how I imagine myself when I’ve had too much to drink. So it’s no surprise that these primates have come to symbolize drunkenness in Mexico. You could say that monkeys are the spirit animal of mezcal.

Some changos were given as souvenir gifts, as you can see from the hand-painted one above.

What is a chango mezcalero?

These monkey-shaped clay receptacles are really just a clever marketing scheme used to sell mezcal. They hold a liter or so of the potent potable Oaxaca is known for. Most changos are brightly painted and depict monkeys in goofy positions — covering an eye, clutching bananas, holding a snake, playing the guitar. Some were marked, “Recuerdo de Oaxaca (Souvenir of Oaxaca)” or had the name of a couple to be given as a wedding present. 

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LEARN how mezcal is made

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Juventino Nieto (far right) with Rosa Real and their son Valente stand among their pottery creations. Don Juventino might have been the one to create the first chango mezcalero.

Who created the first chango mezcalero?

It’s surprisingly difficult to find out much about these whimsical folk art containers, and there’s a controversy about who invented them. One family from a village outside of Oaxaca insists it was their forebear, Marcelo Simón Galán, who came up with the idea, while another family says it was their ancestor, Juventino Nieto, who did so. Both men are dead, so they can’t even duke it out among themselves. 

(Incidentally, Nieto was married to the late Rosa Real, who’s credited with devising the black pottery technique that Oaxaca is now famous for.)

There are claims that other artisans from other parts of Mexico came up with changos as well. I’ll be a monkey’s uncle — we may never know who actually invented these primate pitchers. 

These ceramic containers are created using a mold like this one.

When were changos first made?

Some say changos mezcaleros date back to the mid-1800s. But a mold used to create changos by Nieto in the village of San Bartolo Coyotepec has the date 1938 written on it. 

These fun monkey-shaped containers were used to market mezcal. With the liquor’s newfound popularity, perhaps changos will make a comeback!

Are changos mezcaleros still made?

Yes. There are at least three workshops in the pueblo of Santiago Matatlán that have produced changos mezcaleros for decades. Makes sense: Matatlán is home to the highest number of family-run mezcal distilleries, or palenques. 

Where can you buy changos?

There’s always the internet, of course, with sites like eBay offering vintage changos mezcaleros. But despite there being a good chance the mezcal containers originated in Oaxaca, we couldn’t find any there. It wasn’t until we visited San Miguel de Allende that we came across a couple stores that sold them: Origenes Antigüedades Populares across from the Centro Cultural Ignacio Ramírez “El Nigromante” and Casa Michoacana, a folk art emporium on Calzada de la Aurora. 

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Duke and I were so excited to see changos for sale, we of course had to bring one home with us. We got this cheeky monkey for just under 2,000 pesos, or about $100. Not sure if we’ll ever fill him with mezcal, though. –Wally

Agave Mythology and Pulque Folk Tales

Mesomaerican legends, including Mayahuel and Ehécatl’s doomed love, drunk Tlacuache the possum and 400 rabbits suckled on pulque.

Mesoamerican myths are pretty crazy. Take the fertility goddess Mayahuel, who lactated pulque, which intoxicated the 400 rabbits she gave birth to.

Aside from being a source of sustenance, the agave, or maguey as it’s referred to in Mexico, was revered and respected as a sacred plant by the ancient peoples of Mesoamerica. 

The desert succulent is distinguished by a rosette of strong fleshy leaves that radiate from the center of the plant. Fibers from its tough spiny leaves were used to make rope or fabric for clothing, and the barbed tips made excellent sewing needles. Devotees and priests would pierce their earlobes, tongues or genitals with the thorns and collect the blood as an offering to the gods. An antiseptic poultice of maguey sap and salt was used in traditional medicine and applied to wounds. The plant is also the source of pulque, a beverage made from its fermented sap, and many years later, distilled as mezcal and tequila. 

Agave being used to treat a head wound

As a final act, the maguey poetically blooms in the final throes of its life cycle. A mutant asparagus-like stalk emerges from the center of the plant, reaching 25 to 40 feet high before it flowers and dies. 

Drink of the Gods

In Aztec times, the milky and sour mildly alcoholic beverage was highly prized and strictly limited to consumption by a select few, including priests, pregnant women, the elderly and tributes offered up for ritual sacrifice. The priests believed that the resulting intoxication put them in an altered state and allowed them to communicate directly with the gods. The consequences of illegally imbibing outside of this group were so serious that the convicted faced death by strangulation. 

So what are the myths and folklore stories about agave and pulque? As with myths around the world, there are multiple variations, and while researching stories about agave I found myself falling down a rabbit hole. I couldn’t quite decide what the definitive versions were, so here are my interpretations.

The gorgeous (personally we don’t see it) Mayahuel was rescued from her evil grandmother, then torn apart and fed to demons, before eventually becoming the first agave.

The Legend of Mayahuel, Whose Lovely Bones Became the First Agave

When the universe as we know it was formed, so too was a ferocious and bloodthirsty race of light-devouring demons known as tzitzimime. It was said that life ebbed from their fleshless female forms. They were easily recognizable by their shiny black hair, skeletal limbs ending in clawed hands, and blood red tongues resembling a sacrificial knife wagging from their gaping maws. Their wide-open starry eyes allowed them to see through the darkness. 

The tzitzimime were ferocious demons who sucked light and life from this world.

These monstrous beings ruled over the night sky and wore gruesome necklaces loaded with severed human hands and hearts — trophies from the steady diet of human sacrifices required to appease them. 

The tzitzimime cloaked the earth in darkness, and in return for ritual bloodshed, permitted the sun to rise and move across the sky. It’s a fair guess to say that a large number of lives were lost, as the Aztecs believed that if darkness won, the sun would be lost forever, the world would end, and the tzitzimime would descend from the skies and gobble up humankind. 

The tzitzimime demons were insatiable for sacrifices of human blood.

Hidden in the sky among the tzitzimime was a beautiful young maiden by the name of Mayahuel. Mayahuel was imprisoned by her grandmother, Tzitzímitl, the oldest and most malevolent demoness of the brood.

Tzitzímitl’s insatiable desire for human sacrifice angered Ehécatl, the god of wind and rain. 

One evening he rose up into the night sky to confront her, but instead discovered Mayahuel. Struck by her beauty, he immediately fell in love and convinced her to descend from the heavens to become his paramour. 

Ehécatl, god of wind and rain, tried his best to save poor Mayahuel from Tzitzimitl.

When Tzitzímitl discovered that Mayahuel was missing, she exploded into a violent rage and commanded her demon servants to find her granddaughter. The pair assumed the form of trees and stood side by side so that their leaves would caress one another whenever the wind blew.

Time passed, but their disguise was no match for the furious Tzitzímitl. The sky turned gray with clouds that heralded a major storm, followed by lightning and thunder. When the evil spirit finally found Mayahuel, she tore her from the ground and fed her to her legions of tzitzimime. 

The skeletal demoness Tzitzímitl with her necklace of severed human hearts and hands

Ehécatl was unharmed. He avenged Mayahuel’s death by killing Tzitzímitl and returned light to the world. Still overcome with grief, he gathered the bones of his beloved and buried them in a field. As his tears saturated the arid soil, Mayahuel’s remains transformed and emerged from the earth as the first agave. After getting a taste of the elixir that came from the plant, Ehécatl decided to share his creation with humankind. 

For some reason, the possum god Tlacuache was responsible for creating the course of rivers. They’re curvy because he got drunk on pulque.

The Tale of Tlacuache: Why a River Runs Its Course

Another Mesoamerican tale connects pulque with the creation of rivers. According to the story, Tlacuache, a possum god, was responsible for assigning the course of rivers. While going about his day foraging for food, he happened upon an agave. Using his human-like hands, he dug into one of its leathery leaves. A sweet honeyed sap oozed from the cuts, and Tlacuache stuck his snout into the maguey and lapped up the liquid with glee. 

After having his fill, he returned to his den and dreamt of returning to the plant the next day. Tlacuache had a remarkable talent for finding food and remembering exactly where it was found. What he didn’t know, though, is that the nectar had fermented overnight and now contained alcohol. The marsupial accidentally overindulged and became intoxicated. Finding himself disoriented, he stumbled and wandered this way and that, until he eventually found his way home. 

Over time, Tlacuache’s circuitous meandering was reflected in his work. Any river in Mexico that bends or doesn’t follow a straight line was due to Tlacuache drinking pulque and plotting the river’s course while he was tipsy. In fact, some say he was the very first drunk.

Suck on this: The fertility goddess Mayahuel didn’t have milk in her breasts — she had pulque.

Pulque Breast Milk and being drunk as 400 Rabbits

Last but not least is the fantastical story of the mythical 400 drunken rabbits whose behavior even Beatrix Potter would have found excessive. 

In Aztec mythology, Patecatl was the Lord of 13 Days and the credited discoverer of the squat psychedelic peyote cactus. One evening, he and Mayahuel, who in this story is a fertility goddess, had a no-strings-attached tryst, resulting in an unusual pregnancy. Months later, the proud mother bore a litter of 400 fluffy little bunnies. 

Naturally, being the goddess of the agave, Mayahuel’s multiple breasts lactated pulque, which she used to nourish her children. It’s safe to say that her divine offspring didn’t understand the concept of moderation and were frequently found in various states of inebriation. 

Mayahuel had a one-night stand with the Lord of 13 Days — and ended up having a litter of 400 rabbits!

The 400 rabbits each depict a different stage of inebriation.

The siblings were known as the Centzon Totochtin and represented the varying degrees of intoxication one can attain while under the influence of alcohol. One of the children, Ometochtli (Two Rabbit), a god who represented duality, was associated with that initial burst of courage that comes after a couple of drinks. Conversations feel more important, and everyone around you becomes more attractive. His brother Macuiltochtli (Five Rabbit) was one of the gods of excess — the equivalent of having too much of a good thing, and waking up the next day with a pounding headache. 

Ometochtli, or Two Rabbit, was the god of the courage you get after a couple of drinks — and the start of beer-goggling.

This fellow is going to regret being like Macuiltochtli, or Five Rabbit, and drinking to excess. He’s gonna be hungover tomorrow.

If you’re drunk as 400 rabbits, you’re beyond wasted.

For the Aztecs, the concept of infinity started at 400. A couple of drinks is OK; consuming your body weight in booze not so much. Moral of the story: If you drink more than you can handle, whether you’re a small animal or otherwise, you’ll be carried away by a colony of 400 rabbits. –Duke

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Learn How Mezcal Gets Made

Another drink made from the agave, mezcal is much more artisanal than tequila, with numerous factors influencing the taste of each batch — and that’s what makes it so interesting.

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How Is Mezcal Made?

What is mezcal? Here’s the process to create this artisanal alcohol that’s gaining in popularity — and giving tequila a run for its dinero.

A horse, agave and giant barrels are all used to make the popular beverage mezcal.

I can’t quite remember the first time I tried mezcal. It was most likely mixed into a cocktail at a restaurant somewhere in Chicago. I vividly recall it being intense. In fact, when I recounted this memory to Alvin Starkman of Mezcal Educational Tours, I believe my exact words were, “It was like sitting in front of a campfire blowing smoke in my face.” 

It wasn’t until our first trip to Mexico City in 2018 at Los Danzantes, a restaurant in Coyoacán, that I drank a joven espadín, an unaged mezcal, from a veladora, a clear fluted glass with a cross engraved on its bottom, that it all changed for me.

“As strange as it may seem, mold is a part of the process — and a factor in mezcal’s taste. ”

Wally had learned about Alvin in the useful travel guide Viva Oaxaca by Robert Adler and Jo Ann Wexler. He reached out to Alvin to arrange a day trip for us.

When Alvin picked us up at our hotel, he started our education by sharing his backstory. Oaxaca, which began as a favorite destination in 1991, drew him and his wife back, until they bought a parcel of land in the Sierra Madre mountains, built a house and relocated permanently from Canada in 2004. Like my father, Alvin enjoys scotch and found a similar appreciation in mezcal. 

Authenticity is of utmost importance for Alvin when he gives his tours. “The day is not pre-planned for the tourist trade, meaning I never know who will be at what stage of production where and when — the objective being to illustrate as much as possible as it is happening,” he says. 

Palenqueros (mezcal artisans) often grow their own agave, though many supplement it from other farms.

The word “mezcal” is the generic term for spirits made from the roasted heart of the agave (referred to locally as maguey) — the same plant used to make Mexico’s biggest export, tequila. It derives from the indiginous Náhuatl words metl (agave) and ixcalli (baked). However, unlike tequila, the agave must be roasted to be made into mezcal. It can be produced from a dozen different varieties of agave, each with its own character and subspecies, including but not limited to espadín, arroqueño, madrecuixe, tepeztate, tobasiche and tobala. 

A tour with Alvin Starkman of Mezcal Educational Tours will show you the various steps of the mezcal-making process in action at a variety of family-run palenques, or distilleries.

Harvesting Piñas: The Heart of the Matter

Oaxaca’s Central Valleys currently have the highest concentration of traditional producers, known as palenqueros, who distill the spirit in palenques alongside their other crops and farm animals. 

After eight to 30 years — the period of time it takes for an agave to reach maturity, farmers known as jimadors use machetes to cut away the sword-like pencas (leaves) and use a coa, a specialized tool to extract the piña, or heart of the maguey. The leafless piña looks like an overgrown pineapple. 

The heart of the agave plant, the piña, is a key ingredient in making mezcal and often looks like a giant pineapple or pinecone.

Baking the Piñas: Where There’s Smoke There’s Fire

Once the piñas have been harvested and taken to the palenque, a deep earthen pit is filled with firewood and lit. A layer of rocks is placed on top of the burning wood, and after about five or six hours, are as hot as they’re going to get. 

The piñas are piled into the pit oven by size, the largest at the bottom and the smallest on top. A layer of bagasse, the damp fibrous byproduct that remains after the piñas have been crushed and had their liquid extracted (but more on that later), gets added to insulate the piñas from the hot rocks.

Mezcal’s smoky flavor should come from slow-roasting piñas in a pit like this.

According to our guide, Alvin, “If you’re a good Catholic, you’re going to stick a cross on top of the mound to ensure your piñas produce a good yield and good flavor.”

The hearts are covered with agave leaves, straw mats, grain sacks and dirt piled high to form a kind of volcano. Water is then poured into the opening at the top of the mound to release the smoke trapped inside the oven, and the piñas are left to slowly roast underground for several days. This allows the heat to convert the carbohydrates into sugars.

A roasted piña, before it’s chopped up and mashed

Mashing the Piñas: Beaten to a Pulp

After they’re caramelized, the pit-roasted piñas are removed and left to cool.

As strange as it may seem, mold is a part of the process — and a factor in mezcal’s taste. “The longer it stays out, the moldier it’s going to get,” Alvin tells us. “Sometimes the mold is green, sometimes it’s yellow, sometimes it’s orange. So the mold is also going to impact the flavor.” They are left to rest between eight days to a month. 

A man chops up roasted piñas to get crushed. Alvin says farmers from Oaxaca practically grow up with a machete in their hands.

Roasted piñas sit around for up to a month to get a nice flavorful mold on them.

The palenquero hacks the roasted piñas into smaller pieces, which are transferred to a stone pit, where they are laboriously crushed by hand using a cartoonishly large wooden mallet, or by a tahona, a large stone wheel pulled around a circular pit by a donkey or horse. 

Alvin holds a large wooden tool used to crush roasted piñas.

Another option to crush piñas is to lead a horse attached to a massive stone tahona around and around a setup like this.

Palenques are family-run affairs — and they start the kids young. This adorable fella helped encourage the horse to walk the giant tahona around.

Once the piñas are sufficiently pulverized to a mash, the roasted pulp and nectar are transferred into a wood vat. The dry, fibrous leftovers (the bagasse previously mentioned) can be used to make adobe, fuel or mulch — or to insulate roasting piñas for another batch of mezcal.

Large wooden vats hold the mashed piñas and the extracted juices as they ferment.

Fermentation: Yeasty Beasties 

The sweet mash and its juices are shoveled into large open-air wooden tubs or vats. Water is slowly added, and as the mixture interacts with naturally occurring airborne wild yeasts and bacteria, fermentation starts. 

“Traditional mezcal makers use river water, mountain spring water or well water,” Alvin explains. “A well is fed by underground streams that come from different directions at different times of the year. So the water quality with traditionally made mezcal is always different and is integral to the final product’s quality.”

The vats are topped with bagasse, fibrous straw-like leftovers from agave cultivation, and left to ferment naturally over the course of three days to two weeks.

As the sugars break down the mash, the brew begins to bubble. The palenquero stirs it, and eventually the bubbling subsides, leaving a brown crust that looks like maple sugar candy on the surface of the vat. Depending on the season, the altitude and the temperature, this can take anywhere from three days to two weeks fully ferment. Once it has 3% to 5% alcohol content and looks, smells and tastes like apple cider vinegar, it’s ready to be distilled. 

Water pours into a pot sealed atop a larger container to distill the alcohol that will become mezcal.

Distillation: Good to the Last Drop 

Distillation is the process in which alcohol is concentrated via evaporation under heat and pressure. The goal of distillation is to separate the desirable elements (alcohol) from water as they recondense into liquid. 

Mexico’s pre-Hispanic society was already familiar with a variety of fermented beverages, including the maguey-based pulque. The arrival of Filipino sailors in the 16th century introduced the indigenous peoples to the clay still, while the Spanish colonizers brought with them the knowledge of copper alembic stills in the 17th century. 

Maestro Felix Ángeles Arellanes’ palenque in action

The first stop on our tour with Alvin was Santa Catarina Minas, south of Oaxaca de Juárez, at the palenque of Maestro Felix Ángeles Arellanes. It was a great glimpse into the process. There the fermented liquid and mash is added to a barro de olla, a cauldron-like clay pot that has been fitted into a masonry oven. A second pot, which is open at the top and bottom, is placed over the mash-filled olla and sealed with the maple candy-like goo and bagasse to prevent any steam from escaping. Above and behind all this is a pipe with a spigot. 

Embers glowed in the stone masonry ovens beneath, as tendrils of smoke plumed above the tops of the clay pot stills. This step needs to be closely monitored, as the temperature the spirit is distilled at directly impacts the quality and flavor of the mezcal.

A fire is lit below, the spigot is turned on, and a running stream of cold water fills a metal cooling pan fitted into the mouth of the top pot. In the bottom pot, the fermented mash slowly boils. The alcohol vapors rise, and when they come into contact with the cool bottom of the pan, they condense and form droplets. These fall into a carrizo cane, a hollow reed tube, and are collected in a container. This is the first distillation, often referred to as shishe or común. 

Wally and I sampled the distillate directly from the still in a jicara, a hollowed-out gourd bowl traditionally used to serve mezcal. Alvin explained that this was the punta, or the head. Suffice to say, it was potent, at 70% alcohol by volume. 

Another technique to distill mezcal is to use copper instead of olla pots.

Traditionally made mezcal is distilled twice, and occasionally three times, until the ABV is reduced to 40% to 50%. 

When they’re not in use, Maestro Felix Ángeles Arellanes typically tops the ollas with old metal discs from retired plows. He doesn’t want his chickens laying eggs inside. 

We would go on to sample 18 unique variations at Arellanes’ palenque. The spirits were stored in a variety of large plastic containers, garafones, with their names handwritten on masking tape. 

Be warned! You could be sampling over 12 types of mezcal at each stop!

Experiencing this process in person was an eye-opening experience and gave me incredible appreciation for the amount of work involved in producing mezcal. It’s made by hardworking human hands, and the maker wants every batch to be as good as he can make it. He might not understand all the reasons, but he understands that inevitably no two are the same. Sure, there are some smoky types, but there are also ones with herbaceous, savory or woody notes. 

For that, you see, is one of the beauties of mezcal — and why Alvin says it’s akin to scotch — there’s always a variability from batch to batch. –Duke

What the Heck Is Pulque?

Pulque de maguey is harvested from agave and was the drink of the Aztec gods. Just be sure to go to the source — the phlegmy beverage you get in city pulquerías can be downright foul. 

Pulque is a popular drink in Mexico made from naturally fermented agave sap.

Duke and I had heard of pulque charmingly described by our friends Juls and Hugo as a beverage having the consistency of something in-between saliva and jizz. And, sadly, that was not an exaggeration.

Despite this less-than-glowing recommendation, I still felt like I had to try this mysterious concoction on our first visit to Mexico City. 

“Pulque is charmingly described as having the consistency of something in-between saliva and jizz.

Sadly, that’s not an exaggeration.”

What we didn’t understand at the time is that pulque is so highly fermented that it doesn’t travel well — unless other elements are added to it. So the pulque you get outside of the villages where maguey agave is harvested are what’s called curado, or cured.

“If you tried pulque in Mexico City, it was probably thick, kind of gooey stuff,” said Alvin Starkman, our mezcal tour guide. “If so, it was adulterated — but not necessarily bad.” (We beg to differ.)

Cheers! When you’re in Mexico (like these fellows back in 1910), give pulque a try — especially if you’re in an area where agave grows.

Various items are added — milk, cream, sugar, cornstarch, fruit, even oatmeal — to slow fermentation. Because if you take a container of pulque without releasing air constantly, it’ll literally explode. Alvin bought some pulque to take home, and he had to keep unscrewing the lid of the gallon container, which would overflow from the pressure.

A shop selling pulque curado — which has fruit juice and other ingredients added to it so it doesn’t literally explode.

But curado isn’t genuine pulque. We were lucky enough to try some on our tour of palenques (mezcal distilleries) with Alvin.

Turns out true pulque isn’t phlegmy like its CDMX counterpart. The closest drink I can think of that it resembles is kombucha — slightly sweet, acidic and fizzy. In fact, like kombucha, it’s loaded with probiotics and is a teensy bit alcoholic, able to give you about the same buzz as a light beer.

The sap of the agave is called aguamiel (literally “honey water”), and that really only lasts one day. We were able to try some that had been gathered that very morning.

If you can try some aguamiel, do so! You have to drink it the same day it’s harvested since the drink ferments so fast.

Pulque’s consumption dates to pre-Hispanic times, when it was considered a sacred drink reserved for the gods, priests and emperors. During the colonial era, the Spanish tried to ban the beverage, considering it immoral. In fact, it’s said that it was so popular, on any given day 13% of the population of Mexico would be drunk on pulque. Unable to prohibit its consumption, the Spanish did the next best thing: They taxed the hell out of it.

Pre-Hispanic figurine of a pulque maker, dating from 100 BCE to 300 CE

A tlachiquero using an old-fashioned method for gathering aguamiel.

How Is Pulque Made? 

There are five or so species of agave in Mexico, Alvin says, that mature after roughly 15 to 20 years of growth. Just before the stalk shoots up from the center of the massive plant, someone called a tlachiquero goes into the field and carves a hole in the middle, right where the stalk would sprout. The liquid called aguamiel starts to seep into the hole. 

“The nutrients go from the leaves into that hole in the middle of the plant in the form of a sweet liquid,” Alvin explains. 

The minute aguamiel is taken from the “well,” it interacts with the bacteria in the environment and starts to ferment. Fermented aguamiel is called pulque.

“It’s that simple,” Alvin says. Unlike the complex process to make mezcal, “there’s no baking, there’s no crushing, there’s no distilling. It’s a natural process.”

Maguey plants, the type of agave used to harvest aguamiel, which ferments into pulque

Aguamiel is usually harvested twice a day. Before dawn, the tlachiquero will collect the liquid from each plant and then use a tool called a respador to scrape off a layer in the well. “That will open up the pores and help to induce more seepage,” Alvin tells us. “Because they’re going to come back in 10 or 12 hours and do the same thing,” just before dusk.

Then the tlachiquero will put an agave leaf, piece of wood or stone on top of the hole to prevent insects (or larger critters, like possums) from getting at this sweet nectar of the gods.

The process continues for two to five months. “At qpeak production, after approximately a month,” you’re able to get 3 or 4 liters of honey water twice a day from a plant,” Alvin says.

How much aguamiel does one plant yield? 

“It’s sort of like a bell curve,” Alvin explains. “At the very beginning, you’ll get a couple of ounces, and then the production increases for about a month or month and a half. At peak production, you’re getting 3 or 4 liters, and then it slowly goes down. And after a few months, there’s virtually no honey water coming into the hole and you stop.”

Mayahuel, the Aztec goddess of alcohol and fertility, was said to actually have 400 breasts — each oozing aguamiel.

Tasting the Drink of the Gods

We visited a family who sells pulque for a living. The shop, in the pueblo of Santiago Matatlán, is now run by Reina Cortés Cortés.

When her grandfather was alive, Alvin would go out into the field with him to harvest the aguamiel, and that’s how he learned about pulque production.

Stop by this small shop in Santiago Matatlán if you’re in the Oaxaca area to sample some pulque — and aguamiel, if you’re lucky!

Reina Cortés Cortés at her family’s casa de pulque, standing by a barrel where the beverage is aged.

As pulque ferments, it gets more vinegary, so Cortés adds fruit juice to it.

We tried aguamiel harvested that very morning, and it was bright, light and delicious. Then we tried pulque that had fermented very recently, and again, it was tasty, if a bit more tart and fizzy. 

The longer you let pulque ferment, the more it adopts a vinegary taste. To counteract this, Reina had added some strawberry juice, giving it a pastel pink coloring. And while I have to say my favorite was the fresh aguamiel, the pulque we had danced along our taste buds most delightfully. No wonder it was once the favored tipple of the Aztec gods and emperors.

And I hardly need to mention how it blows away the hawked-loogie variety of pulque you get served outside of the pueblos. –Wally

Casa Antonieta: A Tranquil Oasis in Oaxaca Centro

This boutique hotel in Oaxaca has all the comforts of home — plus a spectacular rooftop terrace.

The open-air lobby of the hotel. The second floor is currently being built out.

Over time, as I do research on upcoming trips, I’ve come to learn what Wally and I appreciate the most when staying abroad. Or should I say what I like — and Wally ends up being pleasantly surprised by? In the end, a lot depends on location, budget, how you travel, what kind of comfort you’re looking for and, of course, style. I’ve got one main rule: Find a place within walking distance of sites and shops that delivers a well-rounded travel experience versus a mere hotel stay. In Oaxaca, that was Casa Antonieta. 

Duke on the terrazo — our favorite spot at Casa Antonieta

Wally enjoying a glass of wine at the end of another fun day

Casa Antonieta: To Grandmother’s House We Go

When Wally and I arrived at check-in, we were warmly greeted by concierge Ana Jiménez. Our luggage was whisked away and taken to our room, and we were served refreshing glasses of rosemary- and lemon-infused water and freshly baked cookies.

As I took in the tranquil interior courtyard with its gracefully arched and symmetrical arcades, it reminded me of the ones we had seen in traditional Moroccan riads. Clearly the Spanish conquistadors brought this design to Mexico, influenced by the Moors, as the design is well-suited to hot weather, promoting natural ventilation and shade from harsh sunlight.

“ A large part of Casa Antonieta’s appeal is that it’s close to the action but far enough away from the bars to get a good night’s sleep.”

Casa Antonieta is located on a quiet stretch of Calle de Miguel Hidalgo, a short distance from the Zócalo, the historic center and public square of Oaxaca city. Tucked between the Fundación Alfredo Harp Helú and the Oaxaca Textile Museum, Casa Antonieta started life as a convent but became a mansion in the 1890s. Its name comes from Edificio María Antonieta, after the hotel’s founder Helwig George’s grandmother. A large part of its appeal to me was that it’s close enough to the action but far enough away from the bars and club scene to get a good night’s sleep.

The hotel is built around a central courtyard, much like a Moroccan riad.

In fact, Casa Antonieta is the perfect accommodation for exploring Oaxaca city’s historic quarter, restaurants, bars and shops. As you wander the cobblestone streets of Oaxaca Centro, you will undoubtedly find a variety of brightly colored Mexican Baroque, Neoclassical, Art Nouveau and more than a few neglected French and Spanish Colonial relics — one of which had a prominent banner announcing, “No Se Vende,” meaning the building is not for sale, in case you were wondering.

Our bedroom at Casa Antonieta — the woven rattan headboard evoked shelter and seclusion.

A Solid Foundation as a Convent

The boutique hotel was conceived by George, who worked with Mexico City architect Mariana Ruiz of At-te to refurbish and reimagine the property. Embracing its historic roots, the hotel has stayed true to the character of the original building, with the added bonus of modern amenities. George came up with the idea for Casa Antonieta in 2017, and the hotel opened its doors to welcome guests in April 2018. It stands on the site of the former 17th century Franciscan Convent of San Pablo. In 1911 it became a private single-story residence, and a short time after, a second floor was added.

George’s grandfather purchased the building in the ’70s, adding two additional floors and giving the building its name. 

“When he passed away, my mother, aunt and uncle each inherited a floor,” George told us. 

The hotel currently offers nine rooms, with plans to add seven more on the second floor. Ruiz collaborated with Mexican artisans, using local and natural materials where possible, such as the light-colored macuil wood and rattan. Walls are covered in an earthy hand-applied ecru-colored clay plaster, exuding a warm, rustic feel. 

Room 15 was our home away from home.

The quaint kitchenette with its macuil wood

We stayed in room 15, which was located on the third floor. Our elegant room featured terrazzo floors, custom-built furniture and doors made with tropical hardwood indigenous to Southern Mexico. Lighting was designed by Taller Lu’um, a studio that collaborates with Mexican artisans. I also admired a wool rug made by Zapotec weavers in the nearby village of Teotitlán del Valle and conceived by Oaxaca-based studio Rrres.

The galley-style kitchen had open shelving with a potted succulent in a green glazed pot from Santa María Atzompa, and a few utilitarian barro rojo (red clay pottery) vessels from San Marcos Tlapazola. Both villages are close by and would make a good day trip. 

The spa-like bathroom featured a floating countertop and shelf of macuil wood and a rain shower edged by river rock drainage. 

Start your day on the terrace and end it there, as well, when the space becomes the bar Amá.

Golden hour on the rooftop is a good spot to take a new Tinder profile pic.

In the lobby, you can get lost in your thoughts, peruse the hotel’s collection of art and photography books, or simply enjoy sipping a latte from Muss.

Elsewhere, greenery further enhances the property’s tranquil atmosphere and creates a visually striking space. 

Order breakfast at Muss…

…and enjoy it on the terrace.

Before heading out for the day, we enjoyed breakfast on the sunny rooftop terrace with views of the city and surrounding mountains. At night the rooftop transforms into Amá, which serves up expertly crafted cocktails and light bites. Wally and I recommend the roasted cauliflower steak with smoked pasilla chile rub. Plus, there’s a shop within the bar where you can purchase a selection of artisanal objects from the surrounding villages without having to leave the city.

Get a cold brew to go.

The popular coffeeshop that’s part of the hotel

the Buzz-worthy Muss Café

The hotel also contains a cool little café named Muss, which can be accessed from the lobby. The name of this “younger sibling” of Casa Antonieta comes from an adjective that means something like “tousled” or “organized mess” — which is exactly how we feel until we have our morning caffeine fix. Popular with locals and guests of the hotel alike, Muss offers great coffee and food. Their cold brew was one of the best that I had in the city. When I mentioned this to the charming concierge Javier Guzmán, he smiled and conspiratorially told me that they grind the beans with cacao nibs.  

Casa Antonieta was a welcome refuge for us to return to after a full day of adventures within and outside of the city. The concierge team was always happy to share recommendations and arrange transportation for us when needed. If you’re searching for a great home base and unforgettable stay in Oaxaca Centro, look no further. –Duke

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The unassuming façade of Casa Antonieta belies the lush interior.

Casa Antonieta

Miguel Hidalgo 911
Centro
68000 Oaxaca de Juárez
Oaxaca
Mexico

 

The Most Excellent Eggnog Recipe for the Holidays

Bob and Gina’s homemade eggnog recipe will get you in the spirits.

Cheers to our fave drink of the holiday season! (Just don’t think about all those calories!)

It’s one of my favorite Christmas traditions: getting a lovely warm buzz from my friend Christina’s eggnog at her annual holiday party. Most people have one requisite glass and move on to wine or beer. But our friend Reggie and I always have a container reserved for us. We drink it all night, my cheeks turning rosy as the booze literally warms my spirits. And no, I refuse to calculate the fat content — it’s the holidays, dammit, and I’d rather get drunk on eggnog than have a second helping of pie. 

“I’d rather get drunk on eggnog than have a second helping of pie. ”

This year, because COVID ruined everything, Christina had to cancel her party. The prospect of an eggnog-free Yuletide was simply too bleak to consider, so Christina was kind enough to share her parents’ recipe. 

This tasty eggnog recipe — Wally always goes on about how it tastes “like puddin’” — comes from Ontario, Canada.

Some notes on the recipe: We used Bulleit Rye and E&J Brandy, which we had in our liquor cabinet. Duke whipped out the wire whisk on his KitchenAid stand mixer. And we followed Christina’s suggestions on the dairy, though the math hurt my brain: 1 cup heavy whipping cream and 1½ cups half and half (there are 2 cups in 1 pint). To dilute the mixture a bit, we added an additional 1 cup whole milk.

“It’s a bit of a fiddle to make,” Christina says, “but as you know, well worth it!” Indeed! –Wally

Wally and Duke worried they’d have too much for just the two of them. The pitcher didn’t last two days.

From Christina:

I have made this recipe many times, and in far greater amounts. This particular variation makes about 1 gallon. The trick is to make it at least two days before you plan to drink it, allowing the egg whites to break down while maintaining the lightness of the drink.

Lots of booze, eggs and dairy — here’s what you’ll need to make a pitcher of eggnog.

Eggnog Ingredients

• 6 eggs

• 6 tablespoons sugar

• 2 ounces rye whiskey (or rum if preferred)

• 12 ounces brandy (feel free to use a relatively cheap brand)

• 1¼ pints cream (this can be adjusted according to your taste — typically I use ½ a pint of whipping cream and half-and-half for the rest)

• whole milk (as needed)

• Nutmeg (freshly grated if possible, but pre-grated will work as well)

It’s certainly not the most appealing concoction to whip up. Just keep folding until those lumps are gone.

Directions

First, separate the eggs. 

Beat the egg yolks very well. I use my KitchenAid. 

Once the yolks are very well beaten, stir in the sugar until dissolved. 

Then slowly stir in the alcohol.

Next, beat the whites to a stiff peak in a separate bowl. 

Gently fold the whites into your boozy yolk mixture. Take your time doing this step, as the integrity of the whites is what lends the concoction its lovely airy texture. 

Finally, gently stir in the cream mixture.

Of course, you will now have to sample! If your mixture seems too thick or too boozy, add whole milk. 

Decant into glass containers and refrigerate (or stick outside in a snowbank, as we usually do in Canada).

Gently stir the mixture at least once a day. The egg white clouds will initially float to the top but will slowly disintegrate into the mixture. 

On about the third day, it should be ready to drink. You’ll need a wide-mouth pitcher because it is too thick with bits of egg white. Later, I usually pour it into empty booze bottles that have a bit wider necks, like rum bottles. 

Pour out into festive glasses and top with grated nutmeg.

We think Santa would prefer boozy eggnog over milk with his cookies.

Happy Holidays!

Spicy Old Fashioned Recipe

Ancho Reyes is the secret ingredient that will give this rye classic cocktail the kick you never knew it needed. 

Our old fashioned with a kick is inspired by a trip we took to Mexico City.

Here’s a typical scenario over dinner:

Duke and l take a few bites, then: “This is good. But it’d be better if…” I’ll dart into the kitchen and come back with sriracha, hot sauce or red pepper flakes. We sprinkle it on our meal and nod in agreement. “Much better!”

That’s my way of saying that Duke and I have gotten to the point where we prefer pretty much everything to be spicy — and that now extends to our cocktails. 

We first discovered the wonder of Ancho Reyes during our stay at the Ignacia Guest House in Mexico City. Every evening around twilight they’d have a happy hour, featuring a different cocktail and some nibblies. (This is when we first tried crickets, which is a whole other story — though I bet I would’ve liked them more if they were spicy!) 

On a couple of nights, the drinks the hotel served had a delightful kick. When Duke asked what was in them, we heard, “Ancho Reyes,” but had no idea what it was — or that it would soon become one of our favorite boozes. This spicy liqueur is crafted from ancho chilies, which are dried and smoked poblano peppers. 

Here’s how Wine Enthusiast describes Ancho Reyes: “Caramel-y brown in the glass, look for a lightly herbaceous aroma similar to root beer and rounded flavors that mix caramel and cocoa with raisin and cinnamon heat, with a faint smokiness on the finish.” I’m no connoisseur, but that sounds like a lot of pretentious prattle to me. Just know it’s got a bit of a kick and would be great to add to a margarita or, as Duke and I have been whipping up of late, an old fashioned. 

Equal parts rye and Ancho Reyes figure into this spicy old fashioned — and don’t forget the orange bitters.

Spicy Old Fashioned Ingredients

• 1 shot Ancho Reyes

• 1 shot rye

• ⅓ shot simple syrup 

• 4 dashes orange bitters

• 1 dash aromatic bitters 

Add all of the ingredients to a cocktail shaker, then fill with ice. (I double the recipe to do two at once.) Give it a good shake, shake, shake, and pour over ice — preferably one nice big square cube. 

Garnish with a slice of orange peel. 

If there’s one ingredient you can skip it’s the bitters. I just add a dash cuz I feel bad for it. Really, the orange bitters are all you need. 

Duke likes Bulleit, while I prefer Old Overholt — a highly rated rye at a great price.

If you’re out of rye, bourbon will do. 

Make a couple of these and put on a British murder mystery. You may never want another kind of old fashioned again. –Wally

I Feel Like a Zombie Tiki Drink

Wally’s new favorite drink is a modern twist on a tiki classic, created by Chelsea Napper, bartender extraordinaire.

We just might have found you the perfect summertime cocktail: the I Feel Like a Zombie.

There’s just something so appealing about a tiki bar. All those masks and idols that are about as spooky as something out of a Scooby-Doo cartoon. The kooky glasses shaped like skulls or grimacing, bug-eyed faces. Those superstrong, fruity drinks that will knock you on your ass — some of which get set on fire! And, of course, the brightly colored garnishes, including cocktail umbrellas and bananas carved to look like dolphins.

So when you’re stuck at home (perhaps in the midst of a global pandemic) and the sun is shining and all vacations are canceled and you’re yearning for a bit of the tropics, consider whipping up a batch of I Feel Like a Zombies. 

Such was the case when we ordered a delicious tasting menu from Mr. Oiishi, a takeout and delivery concept launched during the coronavirus quarantine, where various chefs create their take on Asian comfort food. 

When we saw cocktail kits dreamed up by Chelsea Napper, bar director at Yugen in Chicago’s oh-so-trendy Randolph Street Corridor, we had to try one out. 

Napper says she came up with the drink by “thinking about the flavors of the classic zombie tiki cocktail but much more modern.”

Which got me thinking: What exactly is the drink version of a zombie, and where did it originate?

Heavy on the rum, with just the right amount of pineapple and grapefruit, chances are you’ll feel like a I Feel Like a Zombie again soon.

The History of the Zombie Cocktail

The first imbibable zombie was created by the appropriately named Donn Beach, the patron saint of tiki bars. He was so worried about someone stealing his recipe that he went to great lengths to keep the ingredients a secret — even from his own bartenders. The recipe, from 1934, consisted only of code numbers that corresponded to otherwise unlabeled bottles on his bar. Although many have tried to hunt down the exact recipe, there’s a good chance it has been lost to the ages (though Beachbum Berry has made it a lifelong quest to uncover the secret formula — and just might have succeeded). 

Beach is said to have referred to the zombie as “a mender of broken dreams” — and one so potent he wouldn’t serve more than two to a customer.

Everything you need to make this twist on the tiki classic, the zombie, including shrub and syrup.

I Feel Like a Zombie Recipe

Ingredients

• 1 ounce dark rum

• 1 ounce light rum

• 1 ounce pineapple cinnamon shrub

• 1 ounce grapefruit syrup

• 1 slice dehydrated grapefruit

“I recommend a light and dark rum for this cocktail, but if you’ve only got one or the other, that totally works,” Napper says.

Duke did some research and landed on Diplomático Reserva Exclusiva for dark rum and Plantation 3 Stars for light rum, which we picked up at our friendly neighborhood liquor store, Foremost in Uptown.

What the Heck’s a Shrub?

I had never heard of shrubs before. They’re also known by the unappetizing designation of “vinegar cordial.” The last time I knowingly drank vinegar was during a halfhearted attempt to pass a drug test for a summer job I didn’t want.

Shrubs are nonalcoholic syrups made of concentrated fruit, aromatics, sugar and, yes, vinegar.

Why are they called shrubs? Turns out the name is derived from the Arabic word sharab, meaning “to drink.” Shrubs were all the rage in Colonial America, when they were a tasty way to preserve fruit. Their popularity died out with the introduction of factory foods and home refrigerators but have resurged during the mixology revolution and rise of cocktail bars that like to have at least half of the ingredients in their $15 drinks be of obscure origin. 

Here’s a pineapple shrub recipe to try. And a general guide to making shrubs, stating that they typically follow a 1:1:1 ratio of fruit, sugar and vinegar.

Grapefruit Simple Syrup

As a big fan of sangria and old fashioneds, I’m familiar with simple syrup. This is essentially sugar water, so there’s no denying tiki drinks are on the sweet side — though it’s offset by the high amount of alcohol and the tartness of the vinegar.

Try this recipe for grapefruit syrup. 

Preparation

Once you’ve got everything you need, add the shrub and syrup to a cocktail shaker. Then add in the rum. 

Fill the shaker 3/4 of the way with ice and give it a good shake for about 10 seconds.

Strain and serve over fresh ice.

Garnish with a cocktail umbrella and dried grapefruit slice if you’re feeling fancy. Bonus points for serving in tiki glasses! –Wally

Weird Bali: 7 Crazy Balinese Customs

Cat poop coffee, temples of death and Balinese names are a few of the unusual aspects of Bali culture.

What makes islands so interesting is that they act as closed environments and often adopt their own distinct cultures. It’s curious that Bali is a Hindu island in the midst of the most populous Muslim nation in the world. Its unique religion permeates daily life.

Here’s a sampling of seven unusual things we observed or learned about on our trip to Bali.

“The passage of the beans through the civet’s digestive tract, pressed against their anal scent glands makes the resulting coffee to die for. ”

Kopi luwak, made from the excrement of a cute wild cat, has become a craze. But we recommend boycotting it

1. A popular coffee on Bali is made from animal poop — and it’s the most expensive coffee on Earth.

Known as kopi luwak, this is essentially coffee beans that have been eaten, digested and shat out by the palm civet, a cute animal that looks like a cross between a wild cat and a mongoose. You’ll see signs for kopi luwak all over Bali, and Duke and I were like, no thank you. The British couple next to us at dinner one night said they quite enjoyed it, though, that the beans were a honeyed color, that the coffee was smooth, and they’d have gotten some if it wasn’t so bloody expensive.

Many poor civets are kept in cages and mistreated to make sure there’s a steady supply of luwak coffee

Civets are shy, nocturnal creatures that roam coffee plantations at night, eating ripe coffee cherries. They can’t digest the pits, or beans, and poop them out. Somehow locals got it into their heads that the passage through the civet’s digestive tract, pressed against their anal scent glands, somehow makes the resulting coffee to die for.

One of the many places we were offered civet shit coffee. We declined each time

What’s sad, though, is that the novelty of kopi luwak has turned into a booming industry, with many coffee farms mistreating the animals. They “suffer greatly from the stress of being caged in proximity to other luwaks, and the unnatural emphasis on coffee cherries in their diet causes other health problems too; they fight among themselves, gnaw off their own legs, start passing blood in their scats, and frequently die,” writes Tony Wild, the man who blames himself for bringing the kopi luwak craze to the West, in The Guardian. Treating an animal like that is just crappy.

There’s a very good chance that half the people in this photo are named Wayan. Seriously!

2. All the kids have the same names, depending on their birth order.

As you become acquainted with more and more Balinese locals, you’ll notice something strange: They all seem to have the same name. And it’s not just that certain names are popular, like John and Jennifer in the States — there literally seem to be only a few names on the island to choose from. As bizarre as that seems, that is indeed the tradition on Bali.

In most cases, Balinese parents from the lower caste (that is to say, most of the population) give their children the same names, depending on their birth order — whether or not they’re boys or girls. Firstborns are named Wayan, Putu or Gede; the second-born is Made or Kadek; the third-born is Nyoman or Komang; and the fourth-born is Ketut. What happens if you have five kids? The cycle repeats itself, with the addition of Balik. So the fifth-born would be Waylan Balik, which basically means Waylan Returns.

You’ll meet tons of Wayans and Mades (this last one is pronounced Mah-deh), so how do people know who’s who? Most Balinese add a nickname or middle name. Our driver, for instance, was Made Ada.

Temples of death on Bali feature frightening statues out front

3. Every village has at least one temple of death.

Known as pura dalem, every village has at least one death temple, often located in the lowest part of town, facing the sea, which is considered the gateway to the underworld. Bodies are buried in the nearby cemetery, awaiting the purification of a cremation ceremony. Pura dalem, not surprisingly, are typically dedicated to the most gruesome gods and goddesses of the Hindu pantheon: Shiva the Destroyer, Kali, Durga or Rangda.

Many temples of death are dedicated to the demoness Rangda, who has a long tongue, droopy breasts, phallic dreadlocks and a fondness for eating babies

Monstrous demonic statues line the entrance — many featuring bulging bug eyes, fierce fangs and large, saggy breasts. Some hold innocent babies in their arms as they stand atop a pile of skulls. These serve as a vivid reminders of what awaits the wicked.

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LEARN MORE: Visit the temple of death in Ubud

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The only thing that would make Duke and Wally even more macho than these sarongs is if they had flowers behind their ears, too

4. Wearing a skirt and tucking a flower behind your ear is thought of as the epitome of masculinity.

At temples on Bali you have to wear a sarong, wrapping these bright cloths around your waist like a long skirt. When I first visited Bali almost two decades ago, I’d wear a sarong every day, and it was common to see local men doing the same. On this visit, though, we only saw one young man wearing a sarong in Ubud (and that’s why I approached him to be our driver for the week).

I’d also pluck a flower and put it behind my ear, having seen temple priests do so. When men on Bali would see me with my sarong and flower, they’d exclaim, “Look at you! You are so masculine!” Bali has got to be the only place on Earth where a man is considered macho for wearing what’s essentially a skirt and a flower behind his ear.

Newborns on Bali are so holy they aren’t allowed to crawl on the ground

5. Babies on Bali aren’t allowed to touch the ground for the first three months or so.

Being Hindus, Balinese believe in reincarnation — more specifically, newborns are thought to be the spirit of an ancestor returning to live another life. Because babies are still so close to the sacred realm they came from, they should be venerated. And in a culture where the ground represents all that is demonic and impure, that means newborns aren’t allowed to touch the earth for at least 105 days after birth, and up to 210 in some communities. That’s when the soul officially becomes a part of the child.

At this time, there’s a ceremony called nyabutan or nyambutin, where the baby’s hair is cut off and he or she touches the ground for the first time. It’s often at this time that the child is given its name.

You’ll be a total baller in Bali!

6. In Indonesian currency, you’ll be a multimillionaire.

Literally every time we hit the ATM, we got out the maximum amount: 1.5 million rupiah, which, at the time we visited, was only about $100.

We passed at least four Polo stores in Ubud — and they all seemed to be having a 70% off sale

Are these officially licensed Ralph Lauren stores? Probably not

7. There are Ralph Lauren Polo stores everywhere.

The preppy look is huge on Bali, at least among tourists. The island is lousy with Polo stores — though they might be of dubious affiliation with the brand. Walking through Ubud, we passed at least six Polo stores. Let the buyer beware: The online consensus is that these deals are too good to be true and are most likely knock-offs. –Wally

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RELATED: 5 Strange World Traditions

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Cocaine and Crazy Clubs: Nightlife in Brazil

Tips for going out in Rio and São Paulo, from the drink card system to the abundance of coke.

Who’s high on coke? Probably this guy at Illumination in São Paulo

When our friends Ben and Derrick visited Brazil, they hit the sights during the day — and decided to hit a few night clubs in Rio and São Paulo at night. They were a bit surprised by what they experienced and offer the following advice about what to expect from the Brazilian party scene.

“Food vendors call out, “Do you want fried cheese, cocaine or meth?””

The massive, multi-floor mosh pit that’s the Week

Cocaine is huge there.

One evening they were at a small bar. “Of the 50 or so people there, 40 of them went to the bathroom to do coke every five minutes,” Derrick tells me.

And it’s all done pretty much out in the open. The drug use was taking place in an antechamber to the bathroom. “You could straight up see everyone doing cocaine,” he says.

“We thought it was just a weird byproduct of this bar,” Ben says. “But it was not.”

At the big clubs, guys stood in front of the restrooms dealing drugs. “They do it in the open,” he says. “No one’s making any effort to hide it.”

A lot of the food vendors near the beach were also drug dealers. They’d call out, “Do you want fried cheese, cocaine or meth?”

A gay bar in the Bela Vista neighborhood in São Paulo

It’s a late-night party culture — and the clubs are insane.

One of the things that surprised them is that most bars don’t even open until 11 p.m. and close at 5 a.m.

There aren’t many small bars where you can grab a drink in the afternoon or evening, aside from some cafés or the few establishments that cater to tourists.

Galeria Café in Rio

Ben and Derrick went to a party at a massive discotheque called the Week. “There must have been 10,000 people over five floors,” Derrick says. “You could hear it from blocks away.”

“Which was good,” Ben chimes in. Their Lyft driver pulled into a dead end on a mountain road and said they had arrived. They were able to follow the music, though, and headed down the hill to the club entrance.

The Week in Rio, where pretty much everyone’s high on coke

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17 Surprising Things About Brazil

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Tips for Going Out in Brazil

• Don’t bring your passport or driver’s license. A copy of one of these forms of ID is sufficient. Have this ready or they won't let you in. Playing the dumb American card won’t work.

• Once inside the club you'll be asked to pay a cover fee. This varies, but for the night they went to the Week it was $12. If you're also drinking, you’ll get a consumption card, which acts as your bar tab. You don’t settle your bill until you’re ready to head out. Once you’ve paid up, you'll receive a stamp — which you need to show to the bouncer before you can leave.

• Even the smaller bars charge $5 to $10 as a cover. “Because people come in and do a ton of cocaine and don’t drink a thing,” Derrick explains.

With this in mind, should you find yourself out in a club late at night in Brazil, raise your glass and remember to say, “Tim-tim!” –Wally