Osprey
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Pulque
Been lazy/uninspired lately so I asked IFLYFISH to give me a writing assignment. He chose an article/story about pulque.
Just finished it. Hope you like it.
Pulque? Porque?
There was no warning. One minute Harold’s little car was moving along Mex 54 south of Guadalajara dodging the occasional pothole, goat or chicken and
the power steering went out. Harold and Diane Hensley are seasoned travelers and not prone to panic. He just drove it like a truck for the next 21
kilometers, found a sign that said taller in the little village of Zapotiltic, pulled in to look for help. He was sent back the way he came about a
half a kilometer, made a right as directed and found the mechanico, Enrique, working on a fairly new red Dodge pickup.
So that’s how Harold and Diane wound up drinking at 3:30 in the afternoon at a little roadside bar called El Cielo, loosely, Heaven. Corona and Tecate
signs told the gringo couple El Cielo sold cold drinks – all the information they needed at that moment. They stepped inside so quickly they hardly
noticed how the rustic but well-kept buildings seemed to be growing up through the jungle floor like some Maya ruin.
The restaurant-bar was actually four distinct areas with little wasted space. In front, tables in a screened gallery, then, a spacious bar which gave
way to a kitchen, store room and living quarters; above all a two bedroom, one bath modern apartment peeked through the jungle canopy at a panorama
view of the village, the fields beyond and the incredibly ancient dormant volcanoes to the northwest.
They stopped just inside the doorway to get their bearings, adjust their eyes to the cool, darkness. There was a lone customer seated at the bar, an
old Mexican who turned on his stool to see who had arrived. Another older man who might have been his twin motioned from behind the bar for them to
take a stool.
He said “Ratito. Con permiso.”
Harold looked at Diane, smiled and said “He did not just say ‘a little rat’. They both snickered remembering where and when they had learned the word.
The old man came back through the gloom followed by a tall, fiftyish, blond-haired gringo.
“Welcome to Heaven. What can I get you?”
“Wow, this is lucky. You speak English! We’re on our way driving to Acapulco from Guadalajara, we had some car trouble just north of here. We left the
car with Enrique, your local mechanic. Is he any good?” Harold asked.
“He’s the best right up to automatic trannies. What went wrong?”
“Power steering.”
“He’s your guy. If it’s the hose he might have to get one from Ciudad Guzman.”
Diane brushed her attractive but disheveled auburn hair from her eyes, wiped the sweat from her brow, smiled broadly and let out a sigh. “I need a
margarita.” She said.
Harold held up two fingers.
“Blended or rocks? Salt?”
Harold spoke for both of them “Blended, salt.”
As he mixed, the bartender said “I’m gonna leave out the Damiana, unless you tell me different….you need to keep your wits about you when you break
down when traveling.”
“Are you saying Damiana adds a dangerous kick? I heard that from a guy in Mazatlan. Is it true?”
“I think it is. I don’t drink it. Why tempt the fates?” He placed the huge frosted glasses in front of them.
“I’m Zane, Zane Tucker. This is my place, my Mexican family’s place really. Where are you folks from?”
“Tahoe, we own businesses there. We’re vacationing, to Acapulco along the coast road, then inland back to Mexico City, then on home. Twenty six days.”
The bartender said “I was born in Utah but I spent most of my time in San Francisco, the Bay area.”
Harold took a big sip, barely avoiding painful brain freeze from the spicy elixir. “How did you wind up here?”
“Came down here, like you, but with two buddies from San Rafael, met my wife, Meranga, fell in love, the rest is history. When her folks got old, got
sick, we took over. I’d like to think the place is even better now, better stocked. Not many tropical drinks we don’t have.”
Diane said “How about pulque?”
“I think they still make it over in Tlapan but I don’t sell it. Very complicated process.”
“The process to make it? Isn’t it part of the process for Tequila? Diana inquires.
“No, I meant getting it, selling it. Tequila and mescal are made only from Blue Agave, pulque comes from another maguey plant. It’s simple to make.
The Otomies, Indians from the east coast of Mexico, invented it, made it, as they do now; dig out a deep hole, a pit in the middle of the plant, it’s
part of the lily family, let it fill up with honey water, let that ferment a day or two, suck it up out of there and drink it. They used to soak a
sock full of feces in it as a starter but now days they just use a pinch of yeast.
If I followed tradition I couldn’t sell it to you. You look to be in your late thirties – Aztecs had to be priests or men over 52, no women allowed
around the plants, in the pulquerias.
The old man down the bar waved an arm, mumbled something.
“Tio Pablo says it’s dangerous stuff, can really mess up your digestive system. Also he says the Aztecs sometimes stoned to death anyone seen drunk in
public on pulque.
Hard to get drunk on fresh pulque – has only three or four percent alcohol. The proof doubles in a day or two but it turns from sweet to bitter by
then. If I ordered some today from Tlapan, when it got here it could literally put me out of business. The long bumpy ride would stir it up, make it
ferment faster – if the truck didn’t have refrigeration and some of it putrefied, got dumped out back, the smell could ruin me. There is no mal olor
like old pulque – one liter thrown from a window or doorway can scatter a whole barrio.”
Uncle Pablo added another wave, another mumble and this time, a smile and a chuckle.
“He said ‘pulque curado’. Now they add fruit juice, sell it pasteurized, in a can. He thinks that’s silly.”
The couple ordered another margarita and while they were enquiring about possible nearby lodging, the mechanic, Enrique, strolled in with a big smile,
a flourish, jingling up the car keys. He found a hose on an older Honda wreck at the junk yard, made it fit. He told them the cost would be 450 pesos
and he needed a ride back to his place. He shared a Modelo beer with them, got his ride, a nice propina. They thanked their host appropriately and got
back on the road both swearing off pulque forever while never having even taken a sip.
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Cypress
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Osprey, Thanks for the storey. They never tasted the pulque. 
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losfrailes
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Osprey, you are one of the finest in making posts on this site enjoyable to read, nothing sarcastic, aggressive, or negative in any way.
Kudos!
[Edited on 8-18-2008 by losfrailes]
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Martyman
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I had some pulque while travelling on the segunda clase train through Jalisco(?). I thought it was pretty tasty. Didn't like the idea that there was
a sock full of turds in my batch.
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Bruce R Leech
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Mood: A lot cooler than Mulege
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Osprey thanks fo another good one
Bruce R Leech
Ensenada
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Acuity
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It makes a very pleasant contrast from the name calling and put-downs that, unfortunately, seem to make up the bulk of the postings on the forum now
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Keri
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kudos, you did it again.
love your stories, makes my face smile all day, Thanks mucho,k 
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Udo
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Hola, George!
Very nice and captivating short story. The bar keep part is like that of many Gringos who visit Mexico, and end up being enchanted by it, as most
Nomads have. Sure make for a refreshingly nice contrast to the negative and name-calling that has been the norm the last couple of months. The other
item I have to add is that everyone refrained from asking to see Diana's photo, or giving her a hard time about the property in La Mision that she
decided to settle in. Congratulations, friends!
Udo
Youth is wasted on the young!
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Ken Bondy
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Osprey your stories are works of art. Muy buen dicho!! Thanks, ++Ken++
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shari
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Gracias amigo for the pulque story...it is an interesting subject and I'm sure this thread will bear some out...pulquerias are hard to find these
days. Our last visit to La Paz, we asked around and were directed to one kind of beside/behind the mercado artisania..oh goodie...off we went and when
we found it, Juan wouldn't let me go up and buy a shot because it was obviously a "mary jane" kind of gathering place with loud reggae and some great
lookin dreadlocked freaks with rasta berets and real bloodshot eyes. DARN!!!
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Udo
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Shari, I think I would have told Juan
"Esperate en el carro, ya me regreso"
Udo
Youth is wasted on the young!
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Sallysouth
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Another keeper from Osprey.Thanks for making me smile and giggle on this one, Seahawk! I could tell you a story about my pulque days...handblown
sparkletts water bottle size, (wrapped in a straw type netting)oh wait, that was mescal from the indios>another story. 
Happiness is just a Baja memory away...
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Oso
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As always, I enjoyed the story. My wife is Otomi from Ixmiquilpan. Hidalgo. After watching me down my first guaje of sai (sah-ee),
my brother-in-law tried to feed me that same BS about the fermentation being started with a diaper full of baby caca. It was never true, not even in
the old days. It's just a put-on for messing with gullible gringos. Osprey, you got most of the details correct. But, the fermentation does not
usually take place in the plant. The juice that collects in the cavity in the maguey is called agua miel (honey water) before it
ferments. It's very healthful, full of vitamins, even for teetotalers. A SMALL glass is a great pick-me-up in the morning. But go easy. Too much
will give you the Toltec Two-Step in a heartbeat.
After the juice fills the cavity every day or two, a worker called a tlachiquero collects it. He wears a pigskin bladder on his back
suspended by a tumpline from his forehead. He carries a long hollow gourd with a small hole at each end. Using it like a straw, he puts one end in
the cavity and sucks a liter or so of juic into the gourd, then empties it into the pigskin on his back.
Back at the pulqueria, he pours it into a barrel. When the barrel is about full the fermentation is started, not with caca or yeast, but
economically with just a shot of older leftover pulque from another barrel.
You are correct about the extreme perishibility. Second day pulque is mild, less alcoholic than beer. Third and fourth day pulque is progressively
stronger and tarter. After the fifth day it's undrinkable. I've never tried the canned stuff.
All my childhood I wanted to be older. Now I\'m older and this chitn sucks.
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Udo
Elite Nomad
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NOW I'M REALLY CURIOUS ABOUT THE PULQUE AND I'M MAKING A BEE-LINE TO THE NEAREST PULQUERIA, WHEREVER IT MAY BE!
Udo
Youth is wasted on the young!
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Cypress
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It's a little slimey, sorta like okra.
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Udo
Elite Nomad
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KOOL!
I LOVE OKRA
Udo
Youth is wasted on the young!
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Santiago
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thanks again, Osprey. Very refreshing. Very...
Does essence predate existence?
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Iflyfish
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Thanks for taking up the challenge Osprey. As usual, you produce a wonderfully entertaining vignette. I love your writing.
Pulque (Octli) has a long tradition and its history is bound to the legends of Mexican history. I understand the story to go like this. Quetzalcoatl,
the plumed serpent god of the Aztecs was said to have drunk pulque to the point of intoxication and then made a sexual advance toward his daughter. He
was so shamed that he left Mexico and told the people to stop making blood sacrifice. Some believe that when the Cortez landed at the coast in 1519,
runners were sent to Tenochetlan, now Mexico City and told the Aztec Emperor Moctezuma II that Quetzalcoatl had returned, mistaking the colorful
Spanish and their sailing ships for the serpent. The Spanish arrived at a terrible moment for the Aztecs as shaman had predicted the return of
Quetzalcoatl and they feared retribution for their having returned to blood sacrifice, which Quetzalcoatl had expressly forbid.
For an account of the making of Pulque and some of its traditions you might want to explore the following site.
http://www.tequilamescal.com/pulque.htm
Iflyfishwhennotinanhallucinatorystatefromtoomuchpulque
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