Narrator: The inner core of an agave plant,
also called a piña, is what makes mezcal.
It's a liquor like tequila,
but distillers cook the piñas for five days underground
in handcrafted ovens like this one.
Narrator: Some of the people who make mezcal in Mexico
have been doing it the same way for centuries.
And now, more people than ever want to drink it.
Mezcal's value increased by 50% in 2021,
making it the fastest-growing spirit in America.
Now, the US market for mezcal is bigger than Mexico's.
But even as international popularity grows,
some producers are getting squeezed out of the industry,
and some can't even call their spirit mezcal anymore.
Getting a certification can take up to a year
and costs thousands of dollars.
And producers say it's getting in the way
of long-held traditions.
So some, like Graciela Ángeles Carreño,
now label their bottles "distilled agave."
Narrator: We head to Oaxaca, Mexico,
to see how master mezcaleros
harvest, cook, ferment, and distill agave.
While mezcal and tequila are both made from agave plants,
mezcal actually predates tequila
and has a distinct smoky flavor.
Mezcal gets its name from the Aztec word mexcalli,
meaning agave roasted in the oven,
but it's nicknamed "the elixir of the gods."
Because, as the legend goes, in pre-Columbian Mexico,
a lightning bolt hit an agave plant, creating mezcal.
For most of mezcal's history,
it was a drink of the lower class.
Narrator: Graciela's family has made mezcal
in the town of Santa Catarina Minas since 1898.
But unlike her ancestors, she grows her agave,
or maguey, as it's known locally, from seeds.
Narrator: While other companies may prefer root cuttings
to speed up the process,
Graciela uses this slower method
so the agave can stand up better to diseases.
Narrator: After anywhere from seven to 35 years,
the agave is ready to be harvested,
all by hand.
Narrator: First, they remove the leaves.
Then they slice off the thorns
on the tip inside of each leaf,
because if those thorns accidentally get under your skin,
Graciela's brother says they can migrate, which hurts a lot.
Narrator: Saponins, the chemicals agave leaves excrete,
can also be dangerous.
Narrator: But Édgar says the saponins don't bother him.
Narrator: What's left is the agave heart, called the piña.
And it takes a ton of effort to unearth it.
Narrator: Piñas can weigh hundreds of pounds,
so workers break them up to make it easier to carry,
then haul them onto an awaiting truck bed.
But it's still weeks away from becoming mezcal.
Remember that earthen oven?
Well, the agave hearts first have to get cooked.
Narrator: Building the oven is an art form
passed down for generations.
Workers place stones on top of firewood.
The rocks are exposed to a 2,000-degree fire
for up to nine hours so they get red hot.
Narrator: They load the agave hearts on top —
big ones first and small ones to follow.
They kick
and shove
each piña into place.
Narrator: Next, they shovel more fiber waste on top.
Then two men toss a canvas over the whole thing.
And finally,
a layer of soil finishes up the oven,
trapping the heat inside.
Narrator: A cross is placed on top to bless the batch.
Narrator: What's inside the oven smolders slowly,
giving mezcal its distinct smoky flavor.
For the next step, we head to another distillery,
called Tres Mesquites,
an hour east in San Baltazar Guelavila.
Here, Don Goyo has been making mezcal for 40 years.
Today, his business pumps out 6,000 liters a year.
Narrator: He and his team moved the cooked agave hearts
into this molino, or grinder.
To crush the agave, a horse pulls this stone,
which weighs a whopping 1,000 pounds.
Narrator: Don Goyo's team uses pitchforks
to move the crushed agave fibers into fermentation tanks.
Back at Graciela's, they add water to dissolve the sugar.
Naturally occurring yeast gets to work
eating the sugar and converting it into alcohol.
After it ferments for nearly a week,
Édgar comes in to check on it.
Narrator: He first listens to make sure
there's no sound of escaping CO2 bubbles
coming from the vat,
which could sound something like this.
Narrator: Then he submerges his tester tube.
Narrator: When it's ready to be distilled,
workers rake the fibers into the stills and add more water.
From each barrel, they get about 100 liters of mezcal.
The distilling area is known as the palenque.
As the agave fibers heat up, the alcohol vapor rises.
It travels through this tube, condenses,
and drops into an awaiting jug.
They'll distill it a second time to get four jugs.
The first is called the head,
and its alcohol content is really high.
The next jug is known as the body
and has a little less alcohol.
The third is the tail, with even less.
Narrator: And finally, the last jug
is an acidic residue called inguishe,
used to clean the floors.
Graciela's team fills 8,000 bottles a year.
She sells her brand, Real Minero, within Mexico
and exports it to the US and Europe.
But it wasn't until the 2010s
that mezcal began seeing interest outside Oaxaca.
It popped up in trendy bars in the US and beyond.
In response, Mexico's mezcal production jumped 400%
in the six years leading up to 2020.
By then, the US overtook Mexico
as the biggest market for mezcal.
What was once a poor man's drink had reached global fame.
Narrator: To standardize and regulate
the growing industry, the Mexican government got involved.
It started in 1994, when the government established
a Denominación de Origen for mezcal.
Kind of like how Champagne can only come from
a specific region in France,
it was to protect the traditional process of making mezcal
and the place where it's made.
Narrator: In 1997, the government appointed
an organization, now called COMERCAM,
to oversee and enforce the rules for certification.
Rules like mezcal had to be made
from 100% agave in only these nine states,
and it had to have a certain amount
of alcohol by volume and methanol.
The DO seemed like a great idea
to guarantee quality standards across Mexico
and keep production inside the country.
And at first, even mezcal producers advocated for it.
Those new regulations eventually came with a catch.
Today, to get certified, producers now have to have
time and a lot of money.
Mexican lawyer Blanca Salvador says certification can cost
anywhere from $375 to $2,500,
which is a lot for a small mezcalero like Don Goyo.
And the costs don't stop there.
Producers have to pay to get their mezcal lab tested
and buy all the required equipment.
Narrator: And the whole certification process
can take over a year.
Narrator: For years, going through COMERCAM
was the only way to get a certification.
In 2020, claims of corruption came to light,
and the Mexican government fined the organization
nearly $50,000 for deceptive and abusive practices,
like prioritizing big mezcal companies over small ones.
But now, producers fear the DO rules
are putting traditions at risk.
For one, it's really hard to get
a consistent alcohol and methanol content
in traditional distilling.
So a few large-scale producers
have turned to more modern equipment, like steel stills,
to guarantee alcohol and methanol.
Another concern?
Changing name standards for agave,
despite generations of Indigenous groups
using native words for the plant.
When COMERCAM told Graciela to drop
the ancestral name of cuishe on her labels for Mexicano,
it was her last straw.
So in 2021, she and her family decided
to stop certifying their brand,
even though their distillation process didn't change.
Narrator: Choosing family tradition over regulation,
Graciela labeled everything "distilled agave."
Narrator: And other distilleries followed suit.
But there's another problem.
All that demand has drawn interest
from international companies.
It's created more competition
on top of an already tough certification process.
Of these popular brands, none are Mexican-owned.
A French company owns Del Maguey.
A British company owns Casamigos.
And a New York-based company funded El Silencio mezcal.
Even celebrities like George Clooney, Adam Levine,
and the stars of "Breaking Bad" have gotten in on the market.
Because of the DO'S protection,
American companies can't make mezcal in the US.
But they are allowed to buy loads of it
from Mexican producers, repackage, and resell it
for a lot more than what they paid.
This system has left traditional producers,
even certified ones like Don Goyo,
with a dwindling piece of the booming global industry.
Narrator: So he sells his mezcal
in label-less plastic bottles to a middleman.
Don Goyo earns $15 to $40 per bottle.
Casa Cortes, one of the brands
that eventually buys Don Goyo's mezcal,
resells it for $38 to $100 dollars a bottle.
Narrator: But these ancestral mezcaleros
haven't given up hope in their craft.
Narrator: Nowadays, the government has added
more certifying agencies to lighten the load of COMERCAM.
But Blanca thinks it should do more
to help producers bottle their own mezcal
and streamline the certification process.
Narrator: On Graciela's side, she believes
the key lies in respecting the agave plant itself.
Narrator: Mezcaleros also hope
to keep putting tradition first.
Narrator: A tradition you can see here.
Before taking a sip of a new bottle,
Don Goyo pours a bit out,
thanking the land for its ancient gift of mezcal.