Who Owns Agave?

As with the various appellations of origin that rule the wine world throughout Europe, the AOs that fix where tequila and mezcal can be made have proved a double-edged sword. On the positive side, they set up borders and standards by which Mexico's ancestral spirits may be created. But, like the official wine-growing regions, they were set up by governments preoccupied with political concerns that often trumped cultural realities.

What this means is that some AOs in the Mexican system were granted as a favor to some political bigwig, while other states that ought to have been included were left out of the deal. As a result, the country ended up with a set-up in which the borders of the AOs do not necessarily accurately reelect the historical traditions of spirits production in Mexico. Of Mexico's 32 states, about 27 produce agave, the plants that are the base of tequila, mezcal and other native Mexican spirits. Less than half of those states are AOs. And so many small distillers who have been making mezcal generation after generation, but whose lands lie outside the AOs, have not been able to call their mezcal by the name of mezcal.

This unfair situation will likely be exacerbated should a new piece of Mexican legislation, called NOM-186, be passed into law. If it is, those unlucky producers would also not be able to describe their agave spirits using the word "agave."

The NOM (the acronym stands for Norma Oficial Mexicana) is being sponsored by the Mexican National Chamber of the Tequila Industry, a trade organization known as CNIT, which is composed of more than 60 tequila producers, including some of the industry's largest, such as Jose Cuervo, Herradura, Sauza and Partida. It's a long, complex, and multi-pronged piece of legalese, but it's central thrust is to take control of the word agave, and reserve it for the use of the tequila, mezcal and bacanora (another mezcal-like spirit that has its own AO) producers who work with the official AO borders.

Now, since the terms "tequila," "mezcal," and "bacanora" are already regulated by law, why should anyone worry about the way "agave" is employed? Well, because it, too, has become a coin of the realm, as far as the marketing of Mexican spirits is concerned. As CNIT's director general, Francisco Soltero Jiménez, told me, "The word agave has been made popular. Some people have realized this and, knowing that they can not use the names tequila, mezcal and bacanura, have used agave to say to the consumer that they are the same at tequila, mezcal and bacanura. The consumer is misled when they see the word agave."

NOM-186 would severely legislate the use of the word. Distillers inside the AOs who make agave spirits, but don't make tequila, mezcal or bacanora, could not use the term. And nobody who makes booze outside the AOs could. Agave would, in effect, be branded.

The problem with this, say opponents on NOM-186, is that agave is at the root of many other indigenous Mexican distillates. Example: raicilla, a traditional, mezcal-like liquor common to Jalisco, a province known for tequila production. These liquors, in the NOM was made law, would have to call their products "agavacea aguardiente" or "distilled agavacea," obscure terms that smack of the science lab. The same would hold true for agave spirits made outside the AOs, including many artisanal specimens that are mezcals in all but official name.

This is all in the name of the consumer, argues CNIT. Mr. Soltero said that the legislation is meant to combat "problems that, from our point of view, are misleading consumers. These misleading actions are affecting the protected names of products like tequila, mezcal and bacanura, which here in Mexico are a very important part of the culture and identity of the people."

But, to opponents like Phil Ward, the owner of New York's agave-focused bar Mayahuel, NOM-186 will eventually perform the opposite of what CNIT says is it's intended function: to protect the customer. "They say they don't want people to be deceived," said Ward. "But by their rationale, there are going to be bottles of mezcal that are made from agave that can't be called mezcal or agave. They're replacing a deception with a deception."

Mexican bartenders, too, are upset by the legislation. Added Pedro Jiménez, the owner of Pare De Sufrir, a popular mezcal bar in Guadalajara, "These little producers—who have worked for centuries in these spirits, way before any AO was established—won’t be able to use the word agave to describe their spirits, even though they are made from this plant."

There is more bad news in the NOM for small agave distillers. The legislation also states that makers of agave liquors that are not tequila, mezcal or bacanora could no longer practice their trade within the AO borders. "Anyone can grow any kind of agavaceae in Mexico and this would remain the same," said the CNIT's Soltero Jiménez. "But they would not be able to use them to produce spirits from plants that come from the protected areas, since this would lead to confusion and deception."

So raicilla, made for generations in Jalisco, could no longer be made in that state.

And there's more to handicap the distiller working outside the AOs. According to the proposed regulation, spirits using the term "agave distillate," which would indicate liquors using 100% agave sugars, could only be bottled at alcohol levels between 25% to 35%.

"This is completely against what these people do," said David Suro-Piñera, the founder of Siembra Azul Tequila and Tequilas Restaurant in Philadelphia, and a vocal opponent of the legislation. "These producers produce a high-proof product, not less that 40% and typically 55% alcohol." If you want to make spirits at the ABV, you have to keep your agave content to 51%. "They are pretty much forced to make mixtos," said Suro-Piñero. "You don't have to be an expert to raise your eyebrow at this."

This part of the measure, said Patricia Colunga, a professor at theCentro de Investigación Científica de Yucatán who has degrees in biology, ecology and botanics, "has nothing to do with the declared objective of the NOM-186 to give accurate information to consumers and to prevent the offering of adulterated liquors to the consumers. Instead, it has the evident intention to push the artisanal mezcal makers and their high quality distillates from their traditional market niche so they cannot present any competition."

Ward agrees with Colunga that the real thrust of the bill seems to be the undermining of Mexico's small agave distillers, the sort whose artisanal bottlings have been embraced in recent years by American and Mexican drinkers and bartenders.

"I think it's big companies trying to squash the little companies," Ward said. "Think of what microbrews have done to the big beers in this country. Now you see the big companies coming out with craft brew. Instead of adjusting by making special brands of tequilas, the large tequila companies are trying to squash it. This is tequila saying 'No, we're not going to adapt.'"

The NOM is particularly galling to its opponents in that few, if any, of its dicta would affect the members of the CNIT, which is backing the bill. "I think that a NOM with the objectives that they declared should have been written with the cooperation of producers who would be regulated," contended Colunga.

Colunga also thinks the NOM, if it is meant to create truth in advertising, should also address the way tequila is labeled. Under current Mexican law, a tequila may call itself tequila if its contents include at least 51% agave sugars. (These are commonly known as "mixtos" and considered inferior products by tequila mavens.) The passage of the NOM would mean that a big tequila brand with just a tad over half agave inside the bottle could advertise itself as agave, while a small mezcal maker working outside the AOs, and using 100% agave, would have no rights to such a boast.

"This very clearly would nullify the consumers ability to compare, in an objective way, the quality of these products with those that are produced within the areas protected under the AO Tequila, Mezcal and Bacanora, in order to make an informed choice by assessing contents, quality and price," said Colunga. "Mexican Official Standard for Tequila does not demand explicit and detailed labeling of 'mixed tequila' or 'tequila-rum.' When a consumer buys one of these products, he is not informed explicitly that it is made with only 51% Agave sugars, and the raw matter from which the remaining 49% alcohol was obtained is never revealed."

The NOM, detractors say, would also hinder biodiversity, since it will encourage the grown of only certain agave plants, the ones that by law can be used to make tequila and mezcal. "There are over 200 species of agaves in the world and more than 120 are endemic of our nation," said Pedro Jiménez. "The spirits that the NOM-186 wants to protect are made out of around only 10 species of agave, so that would also be a wrong information. There are at least 39 species of agaves used to make traditional mezcal in our country. So more than 200% of them would be cut off."

Here is a more concise write-up of the issues I wrote for the New York Times' Diner's Journal. A decision on the bill is expected in the weeks to come.

The agave industry in Mexico has experienced a series of hard knocks in recent years. Over-manipulation of agave plants, designed to speed along the plants' slow growth, had resulted in fields of sickly plants. And the price of an agave has dropped to a record low, leading to the migration of veteran farmers, who take their long knowledge on how to raise the finicky plants with them. Meanwhile, trade agreements between Mexico and the United States continue to allow the bulk of tequila to be bottled Stateside absent of any Mexican oversight of regulation.

These practices have led some spirits writers to despair that tequila, just as it is cresting in popularity, is doomed to become the next vodka—a category robbed of quality, character and diversity by the shoddy, corners-cutting practices of big corporations trying to reach the widest audience possible as quickly as possible.

To people like Colunga, NOM-186 would be another nail in the coffin on Mexico's liquid heritage.

"Hundreds of these producers have already been excluded by the AO Mezcal and are voided from commercially naming their mezcals with the term that, based upon their legitimate and historical right, they should be able to use: mezcal," Colunga told me. "These producers have been forced to commercially use the terms Agave distillates or aguardiente, resulting in a strong barrier for the commercialization of their spirits. Therefore they are not being able to transmit to the consumer the great tradition that lies behind their product through the historical concept of mezcal.

"In addition to this barrier poised by exclusion from the AO Mezcal, now they intend to set two more by prohibiting their use of the word agave and by prohibiting the indication to the consumer of their content of 100% of sugar obtained from the sugar of Agave plants. This will mean the exclusion of hundreds of traditional artisanal mezcal producers from the alcoholic beverage market." 

A Beer At...Sophie's

Can you tell I've done too many of these columns? My review of Sophie's, or "What Wrong With Most New York Bars":

A Beer At...Sophie's

While there are something like 6,000 bars in New York, as the intro to this column states, sometimes if feels like there are just six, only they are repeated every block or so. Much like the city itself, which has been slowly but surely scrubbed clean of telling and characterful detail over the last two City Hall administrations, a certain homogeneity has gripped New York's regular-guy watering holes. Originality and personality are in short supply.

Many's the time when, in service of this column, I've walked into a bar and thought, "Wait, haven't I been here before?" There's the Jägermeister dispenser behind the bar. There's the big piece of cardboard taped to the mirror tracking the NBA/NFL/MLB pool; the lotto cards; the "Big Game Hunter" video game (surely the most popular video game in the New York saloon world); the seven television sets; the dusty, obscure trophies on a high shelf; the rows and rows of every flavor of vodka Stoli, Absolut and Grey Goose have ever put out. If it's Tuesday, it must be trivia night. If it's Friday, there's karaoke. If it's Sunday, it's the big game.

On the walls there's that iconic picture of the construction workers having lunch on an I-beam high above the city streets; the "Oh, my goodness! My Guinness!" poster; the pictures of the great Irish poets; the map of Ireland; the fading World Trade Center imagery; that damn poem about the wind being at your back, and the road rising to meet you; the mirrored pictures bearing the name of some beer company or other; the 1927 Yankees, or the 1961 Yankees, or the 1986 Mets, the 1990 Giants, the 1994 Rangers; that shot of Frankie and Dean and Sammy in tuxes, laughing their asses off; Frank Sinatra's youthful mug shot; the framed pictures of Kennedy or Reagan or Bush. In three years of bar-hopping for this column, I've never once seen a picture of Clinton or Obama on a bar wall.

Sophie's, a small bar on side street in the East Village, is burdened by none of the above mundanity. But it's a type of New York tavern, predictable in its own way. Looking at the storefront and the old walls inside, you know that the space has been a bar for a long time, even if it hasn't always been Sophie's. Probably was a speakeasy during Prohibition. And probably it was a beer hall bankrolled by a local brewery before that. Its clientele is very likely a classic East Village mash-up of old drunks and young hipsters. And, indeed, most of this is confirmed through a few questions with the barman.

Still, the place has personality, it can't be denied. The decor is spartan and much of the furniture looks—and holds up—like the kind of unwanted kindling you seen set on the sidewalk outside tenement stoops. The bartender doesn't know why it's called Sophie's. This isn't surprising. Bartenders never seem to know anything about the history of the bar they work in. Still, it didn't take me much research to find out the previous owner, an old Ukrainian woman, was named Sophie Polny. (The owner since 1986 is Bob Corton.)

One odd touch is the bar, which looks ancient but is not original to the room. For this was the second location of Sophie's, and when the old gal moved, she brought her bar with her. Before Sophie moved in, the space was called the Chic Choc, owned by Virginia Chicarelli and a person named Chocolate. You can still see the words "Chic Choc" (in my opinion, one of the worst bar names ever) on the cement threshold of Sophie's.

Back in 2008, a scare went up that Sophie's was going to close, and the downtown media raced to sing the praises of the old dive that had once catered to the likes of barflies named Jimmy Tokens, Johnny Red, Caveman and Degenerate John. But, four years later, it's still here, hanging on. And it still has no sign. Never did. And no Big Game Hunter.

—Robert Simonson

Lowcountry, Where the Martinis Are Made With Bourbon

From the Times: 

Bourbon All the Way at Lowcountry

By ROBERT SIMONSON

A “Wild Negroni,” made with bourbon at Lowcountry.Leah Linder

With the arrival of its new executive chef, Oliver Gift, Lowcountry, the West Village restaurant specializing in the comfort food of the American South, has revamped its food and cocktail menus.

Always bourbon-focused, Lowcountry takes its love for America’s own whiskey to new extremes on the new list. You expect a julep to have bourbon in it, and no one blinks when a Manhattan or Old Fashioned does. And such is indeed the case here.

But Lowcountry’s Sazerac, traditionally a rye cocktail, is also bourbon-based, giving it a milder bite that usual. So are the Dark and Stormy and the sweetish Margarita, with bourbon and Jim Beam’s black cherry-infused bourbon liqueur Red Stag, respectively, kicking out the usual rum and tequila. The house Negroni cuts the bitterness of the Campari by finding room for a little Wild Turkey American Honey, a bourbon-based honey liqueur. And Wild Turkey 81, blood orange and walnut liqueur are the components of something called the Winter Martini. (As of yet, there are no bourbon gimlets.)

As on the previous menu, there is a wide selection of bourbons by the glass, as well as bourbon flights. For $25, you can purchase bourbon pairings for your appetizer, entree and dessert.

“We are a bourbon bar and southern restaurant, and it’s important to us that we stay true to this specialty in our cocktail menu,” explained Chad Harper, Lowcountry’s bar and floor manager. “We offer classic drinks like martinis, margaritas and negronis, that are familiar to customers, but give them our own twist by making them with bourbon because it’s an indigenous American spirit, that’s very popular in the South.”

Lani Kai's Tiki Mondays Holds an All-Star Game

Since it debuted last year at Lani Kai, "Tiki Mondays," a weekly cocktail showcase manned by mixologist Brian Miller (formerly of Death & Co.), has slowly but surely established itself as both the premier tiki event in New York, and a popular industry gathering place. Roughly half or more of the people you see any given Monday are bartenders, journalists or other professionals affiliated with the cocktail world. This is partially because Miller brings in a different guest bartender every week. Cameos have been made by the likes of Dale DeGroff, Allen Katz, Phil Ward, and Joaquin Simo.

For the event on Monday Feb. 13, Miller has assembled a "Tiki All-Stars." "We're bringing back past first mates and teaming them up for an hour and half each behind the stick," said Miller. "Each first mate will be responsible for creating one drink each for the menu. So it will be a menu of 10 drinks, served by all. Our sponsors that night are St Germain and Partida Tequila. All tips are going to charity and each sponsor will be donating money as well. The charity is the Barman's Fund." 

Here the line-up:

Adam Kolesar (better known as "Tiki Adam") & Joe Desmond: 6:00 - 7:30
Julie Reiner (Lani Kai's owner) & Brad Farran (Clover Club): 7:30 - 9:00
Jim Wrigley & James Menite (Crown): 9:00 - 10:30
Lynnette Morrero (Astor Room) & Richie Boccato (Dutch Kills): 10:30 - 12:00
Phil Ward (Mayahuel) & Jim Kearns (Peels): 12:00 - 1:30

Brian Miller and Ryan Lliola will be barbacking.

A (Last) Beer At...Holiday Cocktail Lounge

The Holiday Cocktail Lounge on St. Mark's Place in the East Village was the first New York dive bar I frequented on a regular basis, and the first New York dive bar I fell in love with. My habit was to visit Theatre 80 St. Mark's, a revival house across the street, see a double feature of old films, and then walk across the street to talk about the movies over a beer or two.

On Saturday, Jan. 28, the bar closed for good, after nearly 50 years. I paid the joint one last visit and wrote up the experience for Eater. It turned out to be a memorable evening.

A Beer At...Holiday Cocktail Lounge

Amy Winehouse was the balladeer of choice to the raucous mourners at theHoliday Cocktail Lounge last night. She was played twice within a half hour of my taking a seat at the old, beaten, horseshoe bar.

"This is the best night of my life!" shouts the louche young woman a few stools down. It's the third time she's said it. "Can we smoke in here?" The bartender, Jeff, a sane, seen-it-all fellow, shakes his head. "What? Is the Health Department going to shut you down?!" yells the woman, laughing. "It's all over anyway."

What she means is the Holiday, a beloved dive on St. Mark's near First Avenue,will close its doors for good on January 28. The owner has sold the building, beer-seasoned floor, memories and all. Everyone is the low-ceilinged, basement bar knows it, and they've been drinking many toasts to the joint's health.

A slack-jawed young man so drunk he can no longer speak gestures Jeff over. He'd like another beer, and a shot. Shot of what? "The green bottle," he muttered. Jeff points to the bottle. "This?" he says, disbelieving. I look at the man, who is sitting next to me. "That's vermouth," I say. "I like vermouth," he mutters. Jeff pours. "I've never seen that," I say to Jeff. "Me neither." This puts me in the mood for a shot, so I order a Jameson. Jeff likes Jameson. He pours two and has one with me.

Back on the other side of the bar, there's an argument about who invented pizza, the Italians or the Chinese. "Putting shit on flat bread does not make it pizza!" one man argues. "Give me a cigarette before I put my tongue in this woman's mouth," says the louche young woman. People are too slow on the draw, and the women lock lips. Jeff smiles appreciatively. "You're a lucky man," he say to the louche woman's boyfriend. "I tell myself that every day," he answers.

A raven-haired a few stools down is telling the story of when she woke up to find "Holiday Cocktail Lounge" written on her forehead. "You fell asleep on the bar," said Jeff. "I told you if you did that again, I'd write HCL on your head. What I wanted to do was draw eyes on your eyelids."

Jeff seamlessly slips out and is replaced by a second bartender who seems to be as loaded as his customers. He loves the bar and is not happy about the sale. More Jamesons are poured out in sloppy rows and people snatch them up. "What the hell," says the bartender. "It's all over." People start to leave, each saying "See you tomorrow" as they do.

I take a last tour of the bar. The Christmas decorations are still up, lending a celebratory tinge to the sad reality that hangs in the air. The wooden phone booth still has a dial tone. The tables between the booths, lit by sconces that were perhaps once fancy, are covered with empty pint glasses. A flat-screen TV is on, but nobody is watching. On one wall is a print-out of a narrative by the Holiday's founder, Ukrainian immigrant, Steven Lutak. "Our bar counter is in the shape of a half circle," he said, "like the table at the United Nations. People from many countries meet here. Also their money goes farther here. The price of the drinks must be the lowest in Manhattan." Lutak started the Holiday in 1965. The space had been a bar since 1936, and, according to the unhappy bartender, was a speakeasy before that. Lutek died in 2009. His son sold the building for $4.2 million.

"For what?" a drinker next to me has asked earlier in the night. "What can you do with all that money? $4 million goes pretty fast. This building would make money every day!"

I look up from the narrative and the bar is empty. I'm the only one there. Through the open doorway, I see people scuffling on St. Mark's Street. The sparks of a butt skitter across the pavement. The bartender and other members of the U.N. have gotten into a full-fledged brawl. I step outside. The night is cool and damp. "What, are they five-year-olds?" asks a man watching from the sidewalk, the only barfly not fighting.

Every night at the Holiday should end with a street fight. Rest in peace, sweet dive.

— Robert Simonson

The View From Houston

It hadn't occurred to me that Houston's cocktail scene might be worth checking out until I interviewed bartender Sean Beck for Wine Enthusiast. Now I think a side trip is in order next time I'm in New Orleans. Here's the interview:

Mixologist of the Month: Sean Beck

Sean Beck keeps his eye on the flat Texas horizon when exploring ideas for the wine, spirits and cocktail lists at the three Houston restaurants where he serves as beverage director. And there’s little that escapes his notice.

While every mixologist knows of Tito’s Handmade Vodka, a Lone Star product that now has a national profile, Beck favors the smaller Dripping Springs Texas Vodka, made outside Austin. He also utilizes Texas whiskey, made by Balcones Distilling in Waco, in some of his cocktails, including the blue corn-based Baby Blue Whiskey and Rumble, a liqueur made from Mission figs, sugar and wildflower honey. But just being from Texas isn’t necessarily enough for a spirit to meet Beck’s approval.

“I love local, but it can’t be local for local’s sake,” he says. “That’s not good enough and that’s always been the problem with Texas wines. They’ve sold out ferociously, so they haven’t had the pressure to ramp up the quality to where it should be.”

A native of Rochester, New York, Beck has lived in Texas for 22 years. He worked as a waiter at the Backstreet Cafe while in college; by graduation, he’d been promoted to sommelier. Today, he’s responsible for a restaurant group that includes Hugo’s and Trevisio.

Beck thinks Houston’s greatest strength as a cocktail town lies in what it’s not. “It doesn’t follow rules,” he says. “Once someone does something in New York, everyone knows about it. That’s one of the reasons New York goes through beverage trends and wine trends so quickly. Houston is so spread out that people aren’t cognizant of what other people are doing. So people march to their own drummer.”

Pierre Ferrand Gets Into the Curacao Game

Triple sec is an ingredient that will set bartenders arguing. One of the oldest liqueurs associated with the American cocktail scene, and a critical ingredient in many classic drinks, every barkeep has an opinion which, among the many orange liqueurs available, are the best (Combier, Cointreau, Grand Marnier, Curaçao de Curaçao), and which are trash. And there is little agreement.

Into this fractious market niche come a new curacao by a Cognac producer, Pierre Ferrand Dry Curaçao Ancienne Methode. (As terms, Curacao and Triple Sec are often used interchangeably, though the former should indicate that the oranges used are from the island of that name.)  As with Ferrand Cognac 1840—the brandy introduced in 2011 that was purportedly patterned after 19th-century styles of Cognac and geared toward the cocktail crowd as a mixing Cognac—the new Curaçao was produced with a consulting assist from historian David Wondrich. Again, the hope is the bottling will become a mainstay in backbars.

The new liqueur is "based on a 19th-century recipe," chosen from among 50 that were tested. Some came from cellar master hand notes, some from published books of the time (one provided by Wondrich). The winning recipe is actually "a combination of the best each recipe had to offer."

The Ferrand formula takes dried Curaçao orange peels from the actual island, as well as a bit of lemon and sweet oranges, and steeps them in un-aged brandy. It then redistills the brandy, blends the result with brandy and Ferrand Cognac, then aged it in oak casks. That's not the end. While aging, the elixir is infused with more Curaçao orange peels.

According to Ferrand, the mix of brandy and Cognac is critical, because the brandy allows what they call the "vegetal infusions"—that is, the brandy is infused with some botanicals to create complexity—that were an important part of 19th century technique.