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.

Being served a Sol beer by these ladies is first class despite the cheap ticket price.

I don’t know if this is because it’s May—a very untouristy month in this area largely because it’s hot. Or because of people like my friend Blaise, who kindly told me to please come back home with my head on.

I might be naive, but I think it’s short sighted to stop visiting an entire country because of isolated incidents of violence, mostly related to drugs. San Francisco experienced its lowest homicide rate in years in 2009 (like half the number of ’08) but there were still 45 people killed last year in our own pristine little town. To not visit Mexico is to miss out on so much. And a flight to Guadalajara brings you to a world away in only four hours. I’ll take the risk.

The cab zipped us out of the airport, past three massive bottles of Cazadores tequila, positioned as sort of a gateway to the city (should you be confused as to why you’re here, it’s a not so subtle reminder that this is tequila country). Almost 95 degrees out, we kept the windows up, inhaling the smell of the cab’s baby powder air freshener while watching the familiar funk of Mexico’s roadside landscape roll past: wonky stands selling tacos and birria, the occasional lone cow, cactus, ramshackle buildings. The whole population seemingly taking a break in the shade. Guadalajara is built on rough and tumble land and the thin layer of dust that’s on everything right now is punctuated only by Mexico’s paint colors of shocking mint green and red, Push-Up orange, azure blue—colors that would be gaudy anywhere else, but are so right here. I always have moments of wanting to go back to SF and paint our house something similar. But you can’t take Mexico with you like this. Especially when you want to continue to have good relations with your neighbors.

Fresh chickpeas, the healthy alternative

We arrived at the very nice La Villa Del Ensueño in Tlaquepaque (if you get the right room, that is; I recommend #26), a village that has sort of been absorbed by sprawling Guadalajara. As I’m writing, the birds are chirping somewhat manically and the pool right outside our door is beckoning.

The area surrounding this town’s lively main plaza, El Parián, is known for things like blown glass—some of its shops pretty upscale. The first night before we went to eat, in typical form I combed through the blogs, the book, the guides and came up with what sounded perfect: a locally place that I found on Chowhound called El Pescador Rojo. There’s nothing that depresses me more than a disappointing meal when I feel my time is limited somewhere.

Heart attack on a plate never looked so good.

We headed out, through the plaza which is full of street vendors. The line was the longest at the fried hot dog vendor, where I stood for a good while, my mouth agape watching him take basket after basket filled with chunks of hot dogs out of a vat of hot oil. They were then served up in a heaping pile on a paper plate (french fries, optional). I secretly wanted to try them, but Joe was horrified. As if my eyes had just had a heart attack from gawking, we paid penance by getting some warm fresh chick peas from another vendor and walking around very piously eating the warm, edamame-esque snack. I should be Catholic.

Looking for the restaurant, we must have traipsed the same stretch four times over until finally—starving, restaurants closing up and blisters on my feet from my new sandles that I insisted on breaking in that night—we gave up and stumbled into a place that looked lively enough, windows open, soccer game on the flatscreen. The pre-World Cup energy here is fierce. Looking down at the menu too late, I realized the restaurant was called Soho Sushi and Bar (with pizza to boot). At that point, I didn’t care.

Finding a little Mexico at Soho Sushi and Bar.

Thankfully, there were also a few Mexican offerings so I ordered some chewy, tasty grilled chorizo, which came with guac and good tortillas; Joe got grilled steak. On the TV, the WWE was showing our old friend Rey Mysterio as he battled it out with hulking man in very, very, very short shorts. The Rolling Stones were on, the hot breeze blowing through the wall of windows. To go with dinner, we had glass of Los Abuelos tequila, served traditionally with a glass of delicious sangrita and lime juice. Hello Mexico.