Today was a class-free gift from the anthropology gods, which my little group of friends (known affectionately as
la banda) decided was a clear sign that some cultural education was seriously in order for yours truly. Aaaand because my friends are awesome, the form that cultural education took was a trip to a
pulqueria. What is this, you ask? Well, take a seat on the hearth rug, children, and I will spin you a yarn.
It all begins with an agave plant (a
maguey) whose sugary sap has been collected and fermented in a process which dates from prehispanic times here in Mexico. The result is a milky, viscous (read: just shy of snotty), mildly alcoholic beverage known as
pulque. This unique beverage held a sacred status before the arrival of the conquistadors, but has since become very much a drink of all social classes in rural Mexico.
These are magueyes, which take 12 years to reach harvest maturity, and only produce sap for a year at most.
Pulque is relatively high in vitamins, minerals, and calories, which has helped maintain its status as a highly popular beverage, even among children and pregnant women. And, of course, among college students on a Thursday afternoon. It can be "cured" or "uncured," though I am still not completely clear on the difference. It sometimes comes in flavors
(note 3/7/10: I tried strawberry-flavored pulque for the first time last night, and it is GROSS. It tastes like fruit at first, followed by a vomit-like aftertaste. I highly recommend sticking with unflavored), or can be served mixed with a little bit of soda.
So my day begins with a fun group of people waiting for somebody to get there (this is a constant in ANY group event here), followed by that same group shoving itself into an ancient, tiny Porsche convertible. There are then 8-peso
gorditas at a roadside stand, a walk along an old railroad track, and the arrival at the
pulqueria (the bars which specialize in this lovely little beverage) which is marked only by a sign saying "Good pulque sold here".
We pass through the curtain which serves as a door, past the table of men discussing livestock, and enter into the window-less concrete back-room which is inhabited only by an abused bicycle, a large wire spool which serves as the table, Corona lawn chairs, and several calender cut-outs of women in very skimpy outfits. It is immediately clear that this is going to be VERY GOOD
pulque.*
*I have found that the smaller, dingier, and sketchier an establishment is, the better whatever their specialty is. This theory very rarely fails.
This is a photo of
pulque that I stole from
here. Note what looks like a stream of liquid running off the back of the serving cup. That is not a stream of liquid, rather it is a string of the mucus-like beverage.
So we purchase our 15-peso tupperware jug of
pulque (decidedly as uncured, unflavored, and unadulterated as is possible), fill our glasses, propose a toast, and get down to our cultural education. After our second jug, when we have all dabbled our ways into good spirits, we are joined by an older gentleman known as "Don Gabi", who regales us for the next hour with off-color jokes, bits of wisdom, filter-less cigarettes, and brings out a bottle of some sort of fruit-based and vile-tasting liquor sure to cause blindness. (We were all definitely more keen on his jokes than on his brew.) He also invited us to his granddaughter's first communion party in two weeks. Will we go? Of course! It would be a serious offense to accept an invitation and then not show up. Plus, there will be plentiful food and music.
So the verdict?
Pulque is delicious, friends are awesome, and conversations with strangers are so much better than your parents told you.
