Mike Barrows, our general manager, recently got back from a trip to the Tequila region of Mexico. It was there that he learned something I’ve always found to be true: Everything tastes better when you learn to love the people that make it.

Mike came to us initially as our bar manager—probably the healthiest bar manager you’re ever going to meet. While many bar professionals tend toward late nights and cigarette breaks, Mike is the type of guy who religiously runs five miles every morning—no matter where he is. I’m pretty sure he’s the only person that has run (for exercise) through the streets of Guadalajara in the pouring rain (“People thought I was crazy,” he said), as well as through the gorgeous hilly town of Atotonilco, where the small family-owned 7 Leguas distillery is located.

Before he went on this trip, Mike also hadn’t eaten meat for 11 years.

But before you judge, know that his one moment of pork weakness came out of respect. Respect for the 7 Leguas family who not only gave him the tour of their small, well-cared-for distillery, and let him try his hand in the agave fields (see above) but then brought him into their hacienda for lunch and then to dinner at their ranch house which is located in the middle of agave fields, looking to the mountains. The agave glowed in the full-moon light. “We were with them for eight hours, talking and hanging out,” Mike, who was there with his girlfriend Michaela, told me.

“The owner Juan Fernando didn’t say much at first. But when he got a little buzz on, he started speaking in English and he was really funny—a great guy. You can tell his family comes first. They’re just really cool people.” Throughout the dinner, they sipped tequila (Mike is now a huge fan of the blanco), and ate things like shrimp ceviche. “They love the name Tacolicious. If the cooks placed any food on the table,” Mike said, “They’d say like, Tortillalicious! and all laugh.”

But when it came to the last course, the cooks served pork. Mike hesitated only a moment. And then dug in. The verdict? “It was amazing!” he said. ”I fell in love with that family. How could I say no?”

For those of you who can’t make it to Atotonilco to get a taste of 7 Leguas straight from the distillery, for the month of August, Tacolicious is offering up the next best thing: A $14 of 7 Leguas: the blanco, reposado and añejo. The difference is astounding. Come in and ask for Mike. He’ll be happy to share his experience with you. (It’ll make it taste better, I promise.)

Let’s face the facts: A Mexican restaurant without a good margarita is like a day without sunshine. So when Patricia Unterman, the city’s very respected Examiner restaurant critic, came into Tacolicious and ended what was otherwise a very positive review with this …

“Your biggest investment will be in booze, and here I do have a quibble. Both the house margarita ($9) and the nonalcoholic agua frescas ($4) need work.”

… we were worried.

I emailed Unterman to ask her what exactly she found needed work when it comes to our margarita and she said she wasn’t a fan of the orange liqueur we were using. At Hayes Street Grill, the restaurant she co-owns, she uses Gran Torres Orange Liqueur and said that it’s the best, if a bit expensive, option.

Not surprisingly, our margarita is our best-selling drink meaning this critique wasn’t something to take lightly. So we set out to do a blind taste test or nine margaritas made identically—except each with a different orange liqueur (barring one that was made with agave syrup instead, Tommy’s style). We couldn’t find Grand Torres in time for the taste test unfortunately, but our selection of orange liqueurs was broad, including:

• Patron Citronge
• Combier
• Grand Marnier
• Hiram Walker
• Clement Creole Shrubb
• Bols
• Curacao Curacao
• Agave nectar (not an orange liqueur but we wanted to try it out as an option)
• Cointreau

The winning margarita would be our new recipe!

I invited a smattering of tasters of all sorts of expertise: Liza Shaw, chef of A16 (and our neighbor); Eric Rubin (co-owner of Tres Agaves tequila) and Rebecca Chapa (somm  and wine and spirits educator). Also tasting: me, Joe and Telmo, our chef.

As we sipped and pondered deep thoughts, discussions about whether or not you should make a cocktail so that it dilutes properly with ice came up. Or whether or not a margarita should let the tequila speak first. My big aha was that margaritas are so ingrained in our taste memories (they epitomize the taste of good times, beaches, warm weather) that they’re really difficult to taste completely objectively.

To be absolutely honest, as the tasting wore on, I started to realize that the differences were incredibly subtle, barring a couple that seemed markedly different. But I kept this to myself, should I come across like a fraud. Luckily Liza said it for me, “This is harder than it looks!”

My notes for each margarita were one-worders: (“good”, “boozy”) while Liza, sitting next to me, was writing madly, eloquent descriptions like: “Slightly floral, slightly bitter, nice balance of sweetness and acid, not very pronounced orange flavor.” So much for my food writing career.

Nevertheless, there was one I loved and kept returning to taste again. There was also one that truly sucked. The rest? I could have almost swapped one for another. The thing with tastings is all your focus is on the drink or the food, whereas in everyday life, you’re far more distracted. If I’d been chatting with friends about my day and eating dinner while drinking these margaritas, their slightly different flavor profiles would have been a non-issue. (Not to mention I probably would have been drunk.)

But this was in the name of sobering science. Finally, we got to the last one. We numbered them in order: one being the best, nine being the worst. Then Rebecca tallied them up. One orange liqueur came out clearly on top. In fact three of us (Liza, Rebecca and myself) had voted it our top pick.

As the bartender went through each different liqueur, we waited with bated breath to see which one we’d chosen as the outstanding winner. Drum roll: It was Bols Triple Sec! The thrifty choice of orange liqueur we’ve been using at Tacolicious all along. I actually couldn’t believe it. I was stunned. Liza’s notes for Bols said: “Sweeter orange blossom flavor. Not so acidic. Nice balance.” Mine said “Might be my fav.”

Ironically enough, Telmo and Joe had choice “E” (the Bols) margarita as one of their least favorites.

Conclusion? We’re back to our original marg. And you can’t judge an orange liqueur by its price.

Epilogue: Patricia Unterman will be pleased to know that on top of our house margarita, we’re also going to start serving a margarita made with nothing but tequila, lime juice and agave syrup—which is Eric Rubin’s favorite way to make a margarita. Let the agave shine through.

Telmo was working his butt off, serving up the scrambled egg and bacon tacos and an amazing birria. Juanito was cooking in his Mexico jersey. The tequila shots were flowing long before 8 am. The first margarita orders came in at 8:15. But my favorite morning bender drink has to be a cafe corregido, otherwise known as Mexican Coffee. Not only is it dangerously delicious, but it turns out to be a great way to start a work day.

Do try this at home:
To a glass, add equal parts cold espresso, tequila and Kahlua. Top with foamed milk.

This should be called the Jump Start.

Tacolicious will be open for every US or Mexico game for the remaining World Cup. Our opening hours are:

Friday 6/18 6:30 am USA v. Slovenia
Tuesday 6/22 6:30 am Mexico v. Uruguay
Wednesday 6/23 6:30 am USA v. Algeria

Mules are still used for some of 7 Leguas production

For dinner that Sunday night, Eric attempted to take us to his favorite Argentinian restaurant in Guadalajara but sadly, it was closed. Instead, we ended up at Cocina 88—a beautiful, colonial-looking restaurant that he told us is the go-to spot when the Cuervo big wigs take tequila folks out. By the end of the night, around 11, rain had started coming down in sheets, accompanied by thunder and lightening. There’s nothing more amazing than a warm, stormy night, so for a while we sat in the open-aired empty restaurant just watching the rain come down, inhaling that glorious fresh-rain smell.

Piñas are heavy (or maybe I am weak)

Restaurant industry people have no issue eating two dinners in one night. Especially when it’s in the name of R&D. So on the way back, we stopped at Karne Garibaldi, a restaurant famous for serving one dish and one dish only: carne en su jugo, a comforting, soupy mess of beef, bacon and beans, served up with grilled onions, potatoes, tortillas and salsa. It’s the kind of food you eat with unreserved gusto. It’s the kind of food you eat when you’re drunk.

Tasting the 7 Leguas, starting with the blanco

The next day, we hired a driver named Alex to drive us out to the highlands. (Should you ever need a driver in Guadalajara—dependable, knowledgeable and reasonably priced—he’s your guy: Email him at alexhinojosa@hotmail.com). He brought us up to visit the 7 Leguas tequila distillery. The drive up to the highlands is quietly beautiful. It starts to get hilly and rolling, church steeples poking up here and there. As Joe said, it’s like a Mexican Provence (as in the French kind).

Our own barrel; we're very fancy

Compared to Herradura, 7 Leguas is a small, artisinal production. It’s located in the charming town of Atotonilco. As we drove up to the distillery, little girls everywhere, dressed up in frothy white dresses, headed to church for Mother’s Day. (Apparently, in Mexico, sons and husbands serenade the mothers. I asked Joe to sing me a little tune, but he wouldn’t do it, even for the sake of tradition.)

Joe and Eric on the road looking out over Altotonilco

At the distillery, we got the tour: One part of it is run in the old tradition, including mules that pull the stone wheel that grinds the agave. The other part uses more modern day techniques. So when you drink a glass of 7 Lenguas, to some effect, you’re getting 50 percent old world blended with 50 percent new world.

After being allowed to do things like attempt to actually pick up one of the piñas (I actually couldn’t even lift it an inch) and climb a wooden ladder to take a peak into the fermentation tank, we were brought into a tasting room to taste their four tequilas. Like all tequila, we tasted their selection by age: blanco (clear with a lot of energy and kick), reposado (8 months in white oak barrels makes this into something pretty gorgeous, but everyday-drinking perfect), añejo (aged 24 months, it’s mellow, smooth) and d’antaño (5 years gives this a true gentlemanly sophistication). All the tequilas really act their age.

The Happy Bar in Arandas

Who needs Paul Madonna's art when we could have this?

From there we all went on to drive to Arandas, a town just up the way, for a bite of tacos for lunch and a drink at the Happy Bar. Then Joe and I went on to San Miguel. Eric had to go back to Guadalajara; he had Tres Agaves business to attend to.

The beginning of the lowland agave fields.

We headed out to Tequila on Saturday. Hiring a driver for the day cost us about $80 (with tip)—not bad for a roundtrip drive of three hours, plus a very kind man named Nicasio who drove us out to Herradura, waited patiently for us while we had a tour of the distillery and then drove us on into the town of Tequila for lunch at the mercado.

To get to Tequila from Tlaquepaque, we took the road through Guadalajara. As the traffic crawled to a stop, a 50-something woman, her face painted like a clown, walked by our car juggling the oranges she was selling and whistling in the hot sun. She was still working hard when we returned, maybe six hours later. We passed the Range Rover dealership and a restaurant called the Sirloin Stockade.

Out of the city, the land shifted. Fields of agave started appearing—spiky swaths of that soft eucalyptus grey-blue. As Joe noticed, the beauty of wine country suits wine, whereas this country’s rough and ready landscape looks like its spirit tastes. Tequila country makes you want to wear boots and chew on jerky.

We arrived at Herradura. Founded in 1870, it is located just outside the town of Tequila in the village of Amatitán which has been there since the 1500s. In Mexico fashion, beauty lies behind the walls that you walk past on the street, and Herradura’s hacienda is fat (as in its own ambulance and doctor, soccer field and the master distiller’s beautiful slate-grey vintage Porche parked along the old cobblestones). We bumped along in a golfcart, getting the grand tour of the property.

Felix attacks the agave like a black belt.

As we drove past the huge ovens, they brought out Felix, a jimador, dressed the traditional white garb they used to wear, to give us a little demo of how the agave plant is harvested by hand. He took one of the monstrous succulents and attacked it artfully with a big shovellike tool with a blade on the end called a coa de jima, which, according to our guide, also is called something to the effect of “mother loving tongue”. In seconds, all was left was the piña, or heart of the agave—something that can weigh up to 80 pounds.

The agave piña ready to be steamed in the ovens behind it.

The making of tequila is surprisingly simple: Most basically, the piña is steamed, the pulp is ground up and pressed, and that liquid is distilled in a Willy Wonka-looking contraption. But it’s not until the piña is steamed that you really start to understand the flavor of tequila. The agave goes from having no real taste or aroma at all to turning a deep, burnt orange.

The agave after it's been steamed.

A bite of the soft, fiberous pulp tastes something like quince paste, maybe a little pineapple, sweet potato, banana with an aroma to match. The loud hiss of the steaming ovens releases this smell into the air and suddenly everywhere you turn starts to smell like agave—it sinks into you. I think I smelled it on our sheets that night. I realized I suddenly had a reference point for tequila that I’d never had. It would be like drinking wine without ever having had a grape.

Herradura is massive production, but still done impressively naturally: fermentation takes place due to wild yeast that you can see taking over everything from the cracks in the buildings to the trees. We got to climb up to the second floor grate to look down into the huge stainless tanks of fermenting agave juice. They bubbled and blipped and frothed like a bubble bath of tequila. You could feel the heat radiating from it. It burned my nose.

The tequila is distilled.

The film, the legend.

The end result: four tequilas of different ages ready for tasting.

The final leg of the trip brought us to the original Herradura distillery that’s still on the same grounds. From what I understand it was started by a priest (so much of booze is made in the Catholic tradition). After wandering through the amazingly old facility, our guide brought us to watch a film about the history of the tequila maker with a guy doing a very kitchy, historical reenactment in what looked like a bad wig. Some of his parting words, as he stood by his trusty steed: God is praised. Or, perhaps, in other words, Thank God for tequila.

Another thing that’s more of an American tradition is the one of taking tequila and throwing it back into your gullet with a grimace, biting into a lime and licking salt off the back of your hand (or someone else’s body part, depending on how the night is unfolding). In Mexico, it’s more often a pleasurable experience that involves sipping—savoring even—a glass of tequila, often alternated with a little sip of sangrita, of which Enrique is serving up tonight.

You know a bartender is dedicated to their craft when they’re willing to get out of bed to answer a phone call at 9 am in the morning to give you their sangrita recipe, which Enrique just did.

SANGRITA
Although Enrique didn’t have the exact measurements, this is more or less how he mixes up the spicy, sweet, salty drink: To a blender, add 2 cups tomato juice, 1/2 cup of orange juice, 1/2 cup of grapefruit juice, 1/4 cup lime juice. Throw in a little onion, a couple sprigs of cilantro, some healthy dashes of Tapatio and salt to taste. Blend well and strain into a pitcher. Chill. Makes just over 3 cups worth. Serve up cold, in a shot glass, next to a shot glass full of good tequila. (If you need exact tested measurements, try this recipe, from my former boss Andy Harris back at my days at Williams-Sonoma Taste magazine (may it rest in peace); it should be a good one. Andy introduced me to sangrita actually.)

Much more fun than making it yourself? Coming into Tacolicious tonight and letting Enrique show you the way.