It’s been sooo cold this spring. Hail in April? On Vancouver Island? My aging body now  prefers much warmer weather, ‘way down south’-type weather. And coupled with my zero-resistance to trip down memory lane (especially adventures with my soul mate Laurie Gourlay), I believe it is time for my Mexican Tale.

It was my first ‘foreign adventure’ with Laurie way back in 1979. He had already hitchhiked around the world and down through the Baja when the highway was still a dirt road, with mass vehicle jams during the muddy season; when they waited till enough cars got stuck and then everyone pitched in and pushed them all out.

That’s where he learned the words to Cielito Lindo, travelling in the back of an old pick-up truck with 4 Mexicans who spoke no English. For 43 years he tried to teach me the words but all I could remember was “eye yai yai yai, con san o’ yoraz, perkay la la la-la-la la la selinda loss conasor az’. Sheesh!

Anyways, I digress (already!). Laurie never drank alcohol until he met me, even refusing his mom’s awesome trifle because she put sherry in it. But I was an evil influence! And it wasn’t long before the ol’ salt-tequila-lime shots became our favourite (although very infrequent) imbibement.

On this my maiden trip south we had planned to tour a tequila factory and of course visit the bustling town of Tequila Mexico. Unfortunately upon our arrival in the early evening the factory was closed. But the town was just waking up. The ‘central plaza’ was teeming with folks young & old, sashaying in their finest duds around the square. All the wee shops were open for business, especially the ones selling alcohol & more importantly all brands of tequila.

Our plan was to buy a bottle of Mexico’s finest that proudly displayed a ‘Made in Tequila’ label. You would think this would be an uber-easy task. NOT! Tequila made in Jalisco, in Guadalajara, in Michoacan, and of course in Mexico. But not one from the actual town  that bears it’s name.

We probably tried at least 10 shops and as we came full circle there was just one more cantina left to try our luck. Behind the counter stood an old man. I’m talking really old, ancient, at least 95 – wizened face, bright eyes, wonderful tussled crop of snow white hair on his head with a matching bushy mustache.

Again as we attempted to ask for tequila hecho en Tequila we got that familiar querulous expression from the guy. I could almost hear his inside voice saying, “man, this gringo is really loco”.

And then Laurie tried his Spanish. “Tequila hecho aqui”. The elder took an immediate step back, looked the foreigner up & down and disappeared into the back room. Out of the corner of my eye I could see (& hear) him talking to an equally ancient woman, almost like arguing back and forth. Then silence.

When he returned he was carrying a monster white plastic jug, twice as big as one of those 4 litre milk jugs. He proudly plunked it on the counter and said ‘cein pesos’ (I think, but all I know is that it worked out to about 3 Canadian dollars).

There was NO label. But indeed that tequila was made in Tequila. And as per the literal translation of Laurie’s request, hecho aqui, that tequila was made right there! We paid the hefty price, thanked the gentleman happily and left.

As we walked to our VW van, trying to keep a straight face, the remark was made, “you know, we could both wake up blind tomorrow morning”.

We drove out of town, took some pictures by van headlight of us standing next to the Welcome to Tequila sign, jug in hand. Then we quickly found a secluded spot, drew the curtains, locked the doors & put on the Mexican music.

I was a bit trepidations to sample the homemade elixir. Would it smack of drinking turpentine, lighter fluid, antifreeze? When we untwisted the cap it sure smelled just like tequila.

But the taste? Holy Moly! It tasted sooo smooth. No ‘fire in the hole’ when swallowing. No after taste. No belly burn. We decided 3 shots would be a good tester since we didn’t know what % proof we were dealing with. It proved the perfect amount.

Maybe it was the combination of fresh market veggies stuffed into still-warm hand-made tortillas, the music, the limed-up shots, and of course my sweet man to share it all with, but it was a gloriously fun night that I’ll always remember; and gives new meaning to the phrase “lost in the translation”.

Jackie Moad.
World Traveler.
Environmentalist.
Organic Farmer.

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