You’d think that would be the end of the article, but there are a few things that may leave some folks scratching their heads—namely, what it is, where it is, and why the hell I named it after a guy named Otto. Well, you’re in luck, because I’m using my digital soapbox to tell you about this fun venture that’s taken my team and me on quite the journey over the past year or so and, hopefully, giving you a few compelling reasons to take a trip to The Pearl in San Antonio. Yep, you heard right. We hit the road and went west for our first concept outside of Houston, which brings me to my first talking point.

Why the Pearl?

My pursuits (and heart and soul) will always be tied to Houston, so it may seem odd that we’re opening a new concept about three hours down the road. It’s hard to answer this question without diving into the history and story behind the place, but I’ll leave it at this for now—The Pearl District is the perfect choice. As an enthusiast for the history behind Texas beer, it’s a pilgrimage of sorts every time I head to the old Pearl brewery and the shops surrounding it.

But, more than The Pearl itself, we had the opportunity to establish a new concept in a prime location along the San Antonio River, and the River Walk itself. With a blank slate, we could fill the place with beer paraphernalia, build it to reflect the exact style we wanted, and flex our creative muscles to create a one-of-a-kind experience for thirsty San Antonians and a few fellow pilgrims. So, I’ll answer your question with another question—why not?

What’s an Ice House?

If you have a good answer for this one, you can email me at howdy@levigoode.com and let me know. While I’m (mostly) joking, the definition of an ice house is pretty damn hard to pin down, so much so that I went to the state’s unofficial beer historian to try and find the answer. I’d recommend reading our conversation, but I’ll do my best to give you the cliff notes here.

Essentially, ice houses were born in the pre-refrigeration days when beer companies were shipping their products across the state (and sometimes country) and needed to keep their kegs cold. The larger beer distributors gave away free ice in an effort to undercut the Texas breweries, which started an “ice war” of sorts and the earliest versions of ice houses began popping up around the state.

These spots were not bars or restaurants, however, and it took a few decades for the idea to take shape. After Prohibition ended, and when modern refrigeration came into play, the original ice houses faded away and were replaced by social joints more reminiscent of a German beer garden, as opposed to your classic western saloon (which had minimal seating, food, etc.). For a brief period of time in the 1940s–50s, our definition of an ice house materialized. These watering holes were generally indoor/outdoor, regularly had live music, and also served as a convenience store of sorts for locals.

While there are a few ice houses scattered around the state (you can hunt a few down here), most of them have shuttered their doors and turned off the taps. But now I’m happy to say that you can find its spirit intact with Otto’s.

This may not be a clear answer because there really isn’t one. There’s no minimum criteria for being an ice house, but it’s one of those “you know it when you see it” things. More than indoor/outdoor seating, live music, and old-school vibes, an ice house is a feeling—one shaped by nearly 100 years of thirsty Texans looking to come together for a good time.

Who’s Otto?

The simple answer is that Otto Koehler was the owner of the Pearl Brewery in the late 19th and early 20th centuries. But, we wouldn’t have named our ice house after him if it was that simple. Otto’s story is much more intriguing when you take into account Emma. And Emma. And Emma. Let me explain.

Otto had a soft spot for the ladies, evidently a specific type of lady with the first name Emma. He was married to Emma Koehler, who was a beer baroness and badass in her own right, and would help to keep the Pearl Brewery afloat during some of its toughest chapters. Then, Otto struck up an affair with Emma Dumpke (his wife’s nurse), and eventually struck up another affair with Emma Burgermeister (Emma Dumpke’s roommate).

This love quadrangle goes into full soap opera territory when Emma D. decides to leave Otto for a more suitable suitor, which prompts him to propose to Emma B. while he’s still married to Emma K. Confused yet? Well, Emma B. must have been too, because she was appalled enough to reject him via a fatal gunshot wound in 1914, giving Emma Koehler the reins to the Pearl empire.

So, why didn’t we name the ice house after Emma? Well, Hotel Emma sits across the river, and is a towering monument to a woman who endured despite her husband and hardship. Otto’s Ice House, to us, is a reminder in the form of a slightly shady little watering hole—to be careful of the story you leave behind and, if you’re about to make a poor decision, maybe go grab a beer and think it over first. If Otto had followed that advice, maybe we’d be telling a different story.

I hope that clears up a few of your outstanding questions. In whatever venture I take on, I lead with my heart and gut first, and Otto’s Ice House just felt right in both regards. Houston will always be home for me and my company, but that doesn’t mean we can’t take the occasional detour to one of Texas’s most iconic communities. Regardless of the city, my goal is that Otto’s will shed light on a slightly dubious history, cultivate some community, and infuse some more fun into an area that’s already bursting with it. If we check those boxes, we may just save Otto’s reputation after all—or at least help it go down a little smoother.

Shuck open an oyster, and you’re getting a literal taste of the sand and water and vegetation and everything else that shifts around the Gulf of Mexico. You may love or hate that fact, but you can’t deny that it’s pretty damn interesting—whether you like to slurp ‘em raw or not—and that’s one of the many reasons they tend to get a lot of attention.

Well, they get a lot of attention from those of us who live near the coast. Believe it or not, there are more than a few Texans who don’t live near saltwater, don’t think about saltwater, and certainly don’t shuck oysters on the regular. My opinion? They should, but it can be intimidating when some sea-dweller tells a cowboy from Fort Davis to wedge a dull knife into this shell, pry it open, and slurp down the contents while it’s still technically alive. Let’s face it, it’s weird.

This article, in a way, is a sales pitch for oysters. It’s intended for anyone who doesn’t know where to start, or who has tried and failed to fall in love with these little morsels. I know I won’t convert all Texans, but I bet we can bring a few into the fold. Let’s get crackin’.

Pearls of the Gulf

Around these parts, we’re generally concerned about one type of oyster—the eastern oyster—which is pretty much the only edible species in our waters. Despite what the title of this section may imply, they don’t produce gem-grade pearls, but they sure as hell produce gem-grade food fare and they’re harvested by the ton every year by commercial oyster operations to feed hungry Texans.

This harvest has created some issues for oysters. I’m not writing a conservation piece, but overharvesting and other environmental factors have led to population decreases across the board—along with the regulations that come with those issues. They’re stable, but it takes constant work from multiple agencies to ensure it stays that way.

This matters. A lot. Oysters are what’s called a “keystone species,” upon which an entire ecosystem depends upon their survival. First, oysters are filter feeders, able to filter massive amounts of water on a daily basis (as for how much, I’ve seen numbers ranging from five to 50 gallons a day—either way, it’s a lot) which clarifies sediment and allows sunlight to reach different underwater vegetation. And, as many anglers know, they create oyster beds and reefs, which are critical underwater habitats for numerous fish and crustacean species. This quote from Shane Bonnot at the Coastal Conservation Association (CCA) puts it nicely:

Oyster reefs are much more than a source of seafood; they are a critical component of Texas’ coastal ecosystems. These reefs act as natural barriers, slowing water surges and helping to prevent shoreline erosion. They also provide structured habitats for a wide variety of marine species. More than 300 species rely on oyster reefs for shelter, food, and habitat, including commercially and recreationally valuable fish like blue crabs, sheepshead, red drum, and spotted seatrout.

We’ll get to why I’m covering this in a culinary-centric article but, in the meantime, just know that whether you like to eat them or not, the eastern oyster needs to thrive. Now, let’s move on to the meat of this topic.

It Pays to Be Picky

When it comes to eating oysters, freshness is everything. Think about it—an oyster purist is going to shuck the shell open and eat it. That’s it. There’s no seasoning or cooking, which means the one and only ingredient needs to carry 100% of the weight for flavor and texture. Don’t skimp on freshness.

First things first, you need to know where to get them. There is a season for public harvest of oysters (November–April), but that’s not what this article is about. If you’re interested in the DIY approach, definitely read all of the regulations and become intimately familiar with the types of oysters you should be harvesting. You can learn more on the Texas Parks & Wildlife website.

Outside of self-harvesting, you’ll need to buy oysters from a reputable market, oyster farm, or at a restaurant. There are far too many to list here, but just do your due diligence to ensure the outlet is reputable—trust me, subpar operations don’t last long in the oyster world. If you want to go the extra mile you can even check the Interstate Certified Shellfish Shippers List (say that five times fast) on the FDA’s website, but it’s not necessary. I’m sure most of us know an oyster enthusiast or two, and a personal recommendation says a lot.

Once you’ve chosen your outlet and have the oysters in-hand, the next step is to check for freshness. Ideally, oysters will be kept cold from the moment they’re taken out of the water until they hit your plate. They can live for up to two weeks if preserved correctly. Here’s a checklist of what to look for:

• Is the oyster cold? If so, continue. If not, grab a burger.
• The shell of the oyster should be closed. Or, if it’s slightly open, tap the shell and then it should close (if they’re very cold, you may need to let them warm up for a minute). If the shell is open and stays open, they’re dead and shouldn’t be eaten raw.
• Once the shell is open (we’ll cover shucking in a minute), the meat should be firm and plump, and the juices should be clear. If the meat looks dry or shriveled, don’t eat it raw.
• For more experienced oyster eaters, smell can be a dead giveaway too. Oysters have a strong smell regardless, but it certainly shouldn’t be unpleasant.
• If there’s any question as to their freshness, err on the safe side. You don’t have to eat oysters raw—they’re fantastic in a wide array of dishes—and as long as the meat’s been kept cold, you can cook them up.

Crack a Cold One

Now that you’ve got a cooler full of cold Texas oysters, it’s time to enjoy them. If you’re at a restaurant, I shouldn’t have to tell you what to do (other than to tip your waiter), but if you’re sitting in your backyard staring at a bunch of shells, there’s no need to be intimidated.

First things first, you’ll need an oyster knife. I’m sure plenty of folks make do with what they have, but using a normal knife is dangerous for you and a quick way to ruin a perfectly good oyster. It doesn’t need to be fancy; just get one. Oyster knives are short, have a wide handle, dull sides, and a fairly sharp tip—and can make quick, safe work out of a whole heap of shells.

Shucking oysters is not complicated, but you want to make sure you get it right. I’ll walk you through this step by step:

1. There’s a rounded side of the shell, and a flat side of the shell. You want the flat side up. Then wrap the shell in a towel with the hinge (the narrowest point) exposed—the towel will help you keep a secure grip.
2. Insert the tip of your knife into the hinge. This part’s important. You’re not going to pry the shell open, and you don’t want to cut it open. Once the tip of the knife is wedged in the hinge, move your knife side to side slowly as you push it farther. Once you get the knife in about ¼–½" into the shell, rotate the knife as if you’re turning it vertically to pop the shell open. Voila! The oyster is open.
3. NOTE: During the shucking process, some shell particles may come off of the shell—keep an eye on it, and wipe your blade if necessary. Shells aren’t pleasant to eat.
4. Most oyster knives have a curved tip. Point the curve downward and slide the knife horizontally just underneath the top shell to release the meat. Carefully remove the top shell, being careful not to spill those delicious juices, and pick out any shell debris that may have snuck in. There you have it: an oyster on the half shell. I like to turn the meat over to let it soak up the juices.

As for what to do next, that’s entirely up to you. You can slurp that oyster as-is right away, or drop some hot sauce or horseradish in there for some spice—I recommend it for oyster beginners. There are countless oyster preparations that vary wildly across our state and the country, so I’ll leave it to you to do some research. If raw oysters are still too much for you, I’d recommend battering them and frying them. Some folks may clutch their pearls at this notion (pun intended), but unlike a lot of fried foods, oysters still have that distinct oyster flavor even after they’re fried, so it can be a great way to get used to the flavor.

The goal, however, should be to eat them raw. First, it’s a fun event, much like eating crab or crawfish—it just begs for a cooler of beers and good conversations around a picnic table. And, second, it’s one of the most unique ways we can interact with our environment. I love the idea that I’m literally consuming a part of the Texas coast, or whichever waters the oysters were pulled from.

For oyster nerds, there’s a great site called In a Half Shell where you can dive into all sorts of information, and I loved the way they put this:

Most oyster growers, chefs, and scientists will tell you that these differences are shaped by the oyster’s environment: what it’s eating, the water temperature, salinity, even rainfall. Seasonality matters, too. Oysters tend to be sweeter in winter and lean more lactic or mineral-forward in summer. In the oyster world, we like to call this “merroir”—a nod to wine’s “terroir.” And just like grapes, different oyster species have their own baseline flavor profiles.

What’s not to love about that? I love pizza as much as the next guy, but you can’t tell where the tomatoes were grown based on their flavor. In a way, oysters are a microcosm of the Gulf Coast, which is why I think every Texan should at least try to like them. It may take some time. You may never become a full convert. But, once you crack that oyster open, you’ll be forced to take a stance on them regardless. For me, it was love at first slurp.

The truth is, Mexico is about as eclectic as the United States. The terrain, cuisine, music, and people themselves vary from state to state, and there’s so much to explore. I’ve been heading across the border for about my whole life, and still feel like I’m at the tip of the iceberg when it comes to exploring Mexico to its fullest.

Recently, Goode Company opened its fourth location of Kitchen & Cantina, and this one’s a little bit different. Sure, we’ll still offer our take on the culinary collision between Texan and Mexican cultures, but we’ll also be exploring a different collision through Bar Buena—an agave-forward watering hole inspired by two different states in Mexico: Jalisco and Oaxaca.

As for the states themselves, they’re far too big to fully explore here. Instead, let’s take a look at how each inspired Bar Buena and why they were its inspiration. Spoiler: it’s because I love both and, after visiting Bar Buena, I hope you will too.

Hues of Jalisco

When many of us think of Mexico, there’s a good chance we’re thinking about Jalisco. Culturally, it’s one of the most prominent states in the country—known for its tequila, mariachi music, birrierias, and so much more. Guadalajara, its capital, is a very modern city as well, a tech hub for many large companies and all of the art, music, and endless shopping opportunities that come with a world-class destination.

But, forget all that. We’re here for the tequila. When you venture to the highlands outside of Guadalajara, you’ll begin to see oceans of blue weber agave plants, all growing for the sole purpose of becoming the world’s finest tequila. Full stop. If you’re interested in tequila, you’ll be interested in Jalisco, and that’s the first way it informed the decisions behind Bar Buena.

Our menu is stacked with tequila offerings that reflect both traditional and more unique expressions of Jaliscan culture, from a classic paloma to more adventurous options like the espresso-fueled Cariña. Behind the bar, I dare anyone to find a better selection of high-quality tequila sourced straight from the Jaliscan highlands.

Beyond bebidas, Jalisco is a great place to find a few treasures. In fact, I’ve been heading down to Jalisco for years to source antiques and ephemera for many of Goode Company’s restaurants, and it’s become quite the pilgrimage. Like many other metropolitan areas in Mexico, it’s bordered by rural regions with a deep history, and many of its citizens are happy to sell their wares to travelers like myself. When you walk in, you'll see it—from the ancient molcajetes to the tree inspired by one of my favorite restaurants in Guadalajara. It’s not an imitation or a recreation, but simply a love letter to a region that I’ve fallen in love with.

If you want to explore the real thing, check out my three-day guide to Guadalajara.

Halfway to Oaxaca

We’ve still only told half of the story behind Bar Buena. If you head about 600 miles southeast from Jalisco, you’ll eventually run into Oaxaca, the 10th largest state in the country. Its capital is also called Oaxaca, a city of more than 250,000 people (for comparison, Guadalajara is home to 1.3 million Mexicans).

Overall, Oaxaca is the perfect yin to Jalisco’s yang. It’s more sparsely populated, quieter, more remote, and a little wilder overall—much like mezcal, the other half of the agave equation behind Bar Buena. Oaxaca is renowned for producing some of the best in the world.

There’s a long and interesting history behind mezcal and tequila, so be sure to read this article delving into the differences. But, the shortest definition is that tequila must be made from one species of agave (blue weber) and mezcal can be made from anywhere between 35 and 37 different species of agave and in just about any combination.

This means that agave is a much more varied form of liquor, and that’s why I love it so much. You can get clean, crisp flavors similar to tequila, find smoky variations, or others that are more earthy or savory. But, what I really love about mezcal is its history and culture. This drink pre-dates the hispanic era in Mexico and has been made by indigenous people for more than 2,500 years. Whenever I take a sip, I can almost taste the generational knowledge passed down from ancient times, and you can too through the pretty damn extensive selection at Bar Buena. I’m particularly excited about our Una Amargo cocktail featuring lemongrass mezcal, as well as our Oaxacan Old-Fashioned, which features both mezcal and tequila.

Essentially, mezcal is an artform in Oaxaca, just one of many artforms celebrated in the state. Most people don’t know that the city of Oaxaca is a thriving home for artists, chefs, musicians, and countless other creative individuals. Combined with its natural beauty and diverse ecosystem, its striking aesthetics couldn’t help but shape the look of Bar Buena.

As most homages go, Bar Buena isn’t meant to mimic or replicate. It’s its own thing, a combination of my experiences in Jalisco and Oaxaca, as well as my background across the Rio Grande and into Texas. You’ll find traditional offerings. You’ll find some eccentric new ones. You’ll find Lone Star and Shiner, too. But, what you’ll also find is a deep love and appreciation for Mexico and the incredible people who live in Oaxaca and Jalisco.

In a way, Bar Buena is a reminder that these two states are real places with real people who make things, work hard, and celebrate a rich cultural history that dates back to well before ‘Texas’ was even a word. So, go ahead and book a table. Consider it your primer to both Jalisco and Oaxaca before you book a ticket to see them in person. As Texans know, there’s nothing like the real deal.

For example, if the hobbyists and amateurs didn’t care about the history and impact of the Texas beer industry, who else would? There sure isn’t much money to be had, so all that’s left is the love of it.

And that brings us to Charlie Staats. He’s a fellow beer enthusiast like myself, but he loves the industry’s history and ephemera as much as I like the beer itself. Since the young age of 13, he’s been amassing one of the largest Texas beer memorabilia collections of all time, along with the encyclopedic knowledge that comes with many decades of treasure hunting. It's hard to overstate how massive it truly is, with signs, artifacts, advertising, and more dating well back to the 1800s—all spanning across his home and a sizable barn.

I’m fascinated by Charlie’s collection, but I’m also fascinated by the roots of beer in Texas because my team and I are directly linked to it with the upcoming opening of Otto’s Ice House in the The Pearl district of San Antonio. We’re stepping into a world that dates back more than 150 years in our great state, one that has had rippling impacts in just about every aspect of our culture, whether you like to knock back a cold one or not.

On a recent road trip around Central Texas, I had the privilege to swing by Charlie’s place in Seguin to explore his collection and talk shop. We traced his collecting days back to the source and discussed the nuanced and infinitely interesting history of Texas beer,  along with the shifting definition of an ice house. Let’s crack this one open.

Here’s Charlie Staats, who I’m officially endorsing as the unofficial beer historian of Texas.

Levi Goode: I want to dive into historical stuff, but let's start with your collection because I could spend all day looking through this stuff. What sort of 13-year-old collects beer memorabilia?

Charlie Staats: I’m from San Antonio, but when I was about 10 we moved to Ohio for three years because my dad was military. Up there, the popular thing for kids to collect besides baseball cards and comic books was beer cans—you’d find some unusual beer cans walking to school every day. Back then, you could also take beer cans to school and trade ‘em with the kids. You could wear beer t-shirts at school—different times.

LG: Let’s bring it back.

CS: At least in the early to mid ‘70s, it was exploding. There were probably 200,000 kids nationwide collecting beer cans. That’s where I got my start. After my three-year stint in Ohio, I came back down to Texas only to find out I was the only kid in San Antonio who collected beer cans [laughs]. There were probably three or four adults.

LG: So beer-can collecting was more of a Midwestern thing?

CS: There were so many more breweries—St. Louis, Chicago, Milwaukee. Whereas down here at the time, we had Pearl, Lone Star, and Shiner. The national brands came in, but their labels didn’t change much at all from the 1950s through the ’70s and even ’80s.

LG: So, fast-forward a bit, how did you continue down this path? I’m assuming most of those midwestern kids gave it up when they found out that girls existed.

CS: In high school, I ended up getting a job at Pearl Brewery in the recycling department. I’d dig through old cans and whatnot, but then I eventually switched over to collecting Pearl advertising and memorabilia. I worked at Pearl from around 1980 to 1984. The best part was that I got to talk to the old timers who were there at the time. I always enjoyed listening to their stories—and there were guys who had been at the brewery since the 1940s.

One of the great listening spots was the garage at the brewery. They actually had one of those old slide-back coolers full of Pearl beer, and you could go help yourself anytime of day. There were several spots around the brewery where workers could get a beer and just hang out. On any given day there’d be three or four old guys in there just talking about whatever.

LG: What was it about beer memorabilia that spoke to you then, and still does to this day?

CS: It’s about learning about stuff, but it’s also about actually touching the history. When you dig up this stuff, you’re actually physically touching it, and you can’t help but think about how this item got here today, or how it was used 150 years ago. You end up putting yourself in that person’s place, which is a cool feeling.

LG: As a collector myself, I love that part—a direct connection to the past is a valuable thing. But, before we move onto the historical stuff, I want to know what your “holy grail” is as a collector.

CS: That’s a tough one. One of my “holy grails” was a portable beer draft system that would fit on a shelf in your refrigerator. Pearl bought a thousand of those units in 1965, and they had all kinds of problems with them. Essentially, they flopped. Pearl spent $100,000 for a thousand of them and those things are as rare as hens’ teeth. I’ve only seen two and I’ve got one of them.

So, I’ve already found one of my “holy grails,” but my current one is actually a good segue into our historical discussion. A fellow sent me this photo of an old saloon. [Charlie gets up and points to an old photo] This is a great example of what keeps it interesting for me. If you collect baseball cards, there’s a book that tells you every card’s ever been made. If you collect comic books, they’re numbered—if you’ve got number 10, there’s a nine and 11.

I’ve been doing this for 45 years and there’s still stuff that I’ve never seen before. They didn’t keep a record of every poster, and so this is one of the best saloon photos I’ve ever seen. If you look closely, you can see a beer sign that says Texas Pride, which was a brand for Pearl. It’s never been seen outside of old saloon photos. When those little clues pop up, it really keeps me interested and excited.

LG: What is it about Texas beer specifically that is so compelling to you?

CS: All those classic northern breweries were started by Germans, which is also true of Texas beers. But, the interesting thing to me is that the Texas brewers didn’t come from the north. They actually came up through Galveston or Indianola, which was a port town that was completely wiped out by two separate hurricanes in 1875 and 1886.

During the mid-1800s, Galveston and Indianola were major ports for German immigrants into the state. But here’s the thing—when they got here, there wasn’t shit to drink. The Native Americans and Mexicans were making their own type of liquors, but as we all know, Germans like their beer and even getting a bottle of beer would’ve been a pain. What I like to say is that it takes about three Germans to sit down and say, “I'm thirsty,” before somebody ends up making some beer. That’s exactly what happened. Texas was settled by thirsty Germans, and it didn’t happen in Dallas—they came through the Gulf of Mexico up to San Antonio and Central Texas.

LG: On behalf of all beer drinkers, I’d like to personally thank the German immigrants for their contribution. In a way, they created what would eventually become an "ice house" as we see it today, right?

CS: Well, it’s not the shortest story [laughs]. In a nutshell, San Antonio became a hub. The small-town Germans were getting into the beer business, and some of the major players like Schlitz and Budweiser were beginning to bring beer in once the railroads came through. It’s interesting because even back then we had a “buy local” mentality when it came to Texas beer. The state really rallied around our own industry. And also much like today, the big companies loved to undercut the smaller Texas breweries.

Essentially, there was an ice war. Breweries like Budweiser actually set up ice depots along their shipping routes—and although we’re still far out, one could say this is a loose connection to what ice houses would become. Essentially, the big breweries could afford to give ice away for free with kegs, and that became the deciding factor for many Texas saloons—“you buy our keg, we give you the ice.” One of the results? The ice business was booming. So, around the 1880s or so, ice plants and ice factories began to pop up to keep up with the demand, which you could say is the early genesis of what the ice house would become.

LG: What's your definition of an ice house?

CS: It helps to trace the roots a bit. Back in the 1880s and up to prohibition, the closest thing we had to an ice house would’ve been a German beer garden. That’s what later became known as an ice house, or at least that’s how I view it. Saloons didn’t have any outside seating. There were a few tables, but no bar stools. But the German beer gardens had more going on—bands playing, dances, and various events. It was regarded as more of a communal space than anything.

Unfortunately, most of those shut down with prohibition. When the ‘30s kicked back in, that’s when the ice house as we know it popped up, and it really had its heyday in the 1950s and 1960s. Originally, they were almost like a convenience store, or a grocery store, obviously meant to supply ice during the pre-refrigeration days or to people who couldn’t afford a refrigerator when they came around.

Lone Star actually had what they called “ice stations” during the 1920s until prohibition hit. Some of those ice stations then started offering food and some of those remained in San Antonio up until the late ‘70s.

LG: I feel like we’re getting closer to a definition [laughs].

CS: I guess that’s kind of the point; there really isn’t one. You could consider those ice stations an ice house, but those places never had outdoor seating to drink your beer. To me, the ice house is more about a feel. You have indoor seating sometimes, but there’s also plenty of fresh air. There are tables outside. If anything, the ice houses that we think of in the 1950s were really a throwback to what they considered icehouses in the early 1900s. Just like the rest of Texas’s beer history, it’s a winding road, which is why I love it.

LG: I think you’re spot-on. To me, an ice house is a feeling. It’s a name that evokes community, music, beer, and a few good friends. You know, the good stuff, which is what we’re looking to create at Otto’s.

CS: And as long as those places exist, there are sure to be a few thirsty Texans around and ready to crack a cold one.

A big thanks to Charlie Staats for sharing his time and knowledge. Through his work at the Brewery Collectibles Club of America (BCCA) and the National Association of Breweriana Advertising (NABA), he and many other dedicated collectors are helping to keep the history of Texas’s beers alive.

Sometimes this simply manifests as a life-long hunter who will endure far too much hardship (cactus, snakes, heat, cold, countless miles, rolled ankles—you get the idea) to get a glimpse at a bird the size of a softball. Then, you have Dr. Ron Kendall, who takes this stubborn, “never say die” attitude to a level that’s creating real change for wild quail and their populations.

Known to some as “The Quail Doctor,” Ron and his team at Texas Tech University have been spending decades of their time trying to bring wild quail back to their healthy state on the landscape. I had the privilege to talk to Dr. Kendall about the sad story of the bobwhite quail, the glimmer of hope in its future, and why our hunting culture is essential to its survival. The good news? It seems like he and his team are winning.

Here’s Dr. Ron Kendall, aka “The Quail Doctor.”

Levi: Let’s start at the beginning. What kicked off your love for wild quail?

Dr. Ron Kendall: I grew up in a fairly rural area in the low country of South Carolina. It was a fabled quail-hunting area. My grandfather lived nearby and mentored me beginning at just six years old, where I’d walk behind him while he hunted. He had a Llewellin Setter named Fannie who was phenomenal—she could trail a covey for 200 or 300 yards. It was amazing.

The quail season always opened on Thanksgiving Day, so my mother would adjust dinner so I could go quail hunting. I remember the first time my grandfather and I went hunting on my twelfth Thanksgiving and, this is the truth, we started right out of my front door with Fannie. I got three quail that day with three shots using a .410 single-shot shotgun. I was so elated. After the first covey rise, Grandaddy actually let me take Fannie and go by myself for the next week or two. I can’t believe he let a 12-year-old do that. I was a pretty mature kid, but I loved Fannie and she actually taught me how to quail hunt. She lived for years after that.

LG: Sounds like the quail hunting wasn’t too shabby over there.

RK: It was fantastic. Within a five-mile radius, I walked it every chance I got and there would be between 60 and 80 coveys of quail. I had ‘em all marked down on a map. I was really into it. The sad part of the story is that I’m not sure there’s one covey there now. They’re gone. In South Carolina, quail hunting was an incredibly important thing from a cultural standpoint, and now it’s essentially gone unless you’re spending major money for tracts of public land.

I still meet up with my childhood friends in South Carolina. We’ve been hunting partners for 60 years, and over the past fall season, it was hard to find a single wild quail, much less a covey. I've seen this change in my own lifetime and it really shocks me that something I could love so dearly could be gone so quickly. I used to sit on the couch watching a college football game and a big covey would walk across my backyard.

LG: I’m curious what makes a kid want to dedicate his life to quail. Most folks stop at hunting.

RK: I was very interested while quail hunting all through school and high school, but when I went to the University of South Carolina, I knew I wanted to do something in environmental science. I majored in biology and minored in chemistry, and did very well in both. My professor wanted me to go to medical school and he said his endorsement would get me into just about any medical school. It was a big decision, but I told him I wanted to be an environmental scientist. He thought I was crazy [laughs]. This was around 1973.

I graduated from the University of South Carolina and got my master’s degree at Clemson University in the wildlife department. My focus was on wildlife toxicology, although, we hadn’t even coined the name yet. I published four papers at Clemson and was then recruited to Virginia Tech. Clemson offered me an opportunity to stay there for my PhD, but at that time, Virginia Tech had one of the top programs. They were writing the books, so I went up there for my doctorate, where I studied lead and lead shot exposure in mourning doves.

Long story short, I was identified by the Environmental Protection Agency and they selected me for a fully paid traineeship to go to the Massachusetts Institute of Technology for special training with their toxicology department. I graduated from Virginia Tech one day and left the next. I was essentially creating my own career, which eventually led me to Western Washington University, Washington State, back to Clemson, and then eventually out to Texas Tech.

LG: When you eventually made it out to Texas Tech in the late ‘90s, did you see an east-to-west trend of declining populations?

RK: I think so. Historically, we’ve had wild bobwhite quail in about 25 states. Now, it’s estimated  that as much as 90% of the quail population has disappeared, to the point where sustainable hunting just isn't available in most places. This is due to several factors, including human development and habitat loss, as well as parasitic factors like the cecal worm, which has been a focus of our research at the toxicology lab.

The Rolling Plains region of West Texas is one of those last strongholds, as well as South Texas, of course, whereas the quail are essentially gone in East Texas. But we’re not without problems in West Texas, and we tend to see dramatic population shifts. If you go back the last 50 years and look at data from Texas Parks and Wildlife, every time we get a peak, we get a crash. Peak, crash, peak, crash. We saw a crash in 2010 on one of the best quail-managed properties in West Texas, and it took five years for that population to recover.

Through our work at the university, we identified these parasitic infections in quail and discovered how widespread and intense they could be. We set up multiple demonstration ranches as a way to gauge the problem and test solutions, which is how we developed Quail Guard, a medicated feed to treat parasitic infections in quail. On our test ranches that we’ve been treating with Quail Guard for the last few years, we’re not seeing these crashes. They are sustaining hunting. There’s still a lot of discourse surrounding the cause of population decline, whether it’s habitat or environmental shifts or parasites or whatever. That being said, we’ve got 50 scientific publications on this topic—and the real test for me is whether or not the landowners are seeing quail.

LG: The proof is in the birds.

RK: That’s the way I see it. I’m just trying to come up with a solution because it’s dear to my heart. I love to eat quail, but I don’t shoot that many of them anymore. I just really enjoy the birds, and you don’t get to this place unless you love it. We have approached this problem from a very scientific perspective and, in the world of scientific literature, you don't get an FDA registration for medicated feed wildlife unless you’re willing to spend about a decade of your life doing it.

LG: I read a quote where you described Texas as “The Alamo” for wild quail populations. What is it about West and South Texas that has protected them more than some other areas? Is it lack of pressure on private land or is there something about the landscape?

RK: It’s a relatively stable landscape. As you know, West Texas is mostly ranch land, and it has hardly changed in the last quarter century. I think that may have been part of sustaining the populations—and I’d say the same is true in South Texas. Of course, habitat is very important, but there’s more at work with these populations than just habitat.

I stand by my statement that I view West Texas as "The Alamo" of wild quail hunting in North America. There are not many places you can go and find 20 to 30 coveys in a day, but we're seeing that on our treated ranches. That’s the signal that we’re hitting that target. Conservation organizations have played a pivotal role, too. I applaud Park Cities Quail Coalition and the Rolling Plains Quail Research Foundation for raising money to support quail conservation. They’ve been big players. It’s important to note that this has been addressed by sportsmen and not by federal agencies or even state agencies.

LG: A lot of non-hunters don’t understand that being a hunter and a conservationist aren’t mutually exclusive. In fact, it’s quite the opposite. What can hunters do to continue supporting wild quail populations?

RK: That’s a great point. The sporting organizations stepped up to fund all of this. Without quail hunters, we’re not going to have quail conservation. If we’re talking about what people can do to help, I would encourage hunters to stay with it. Their hunting dollars create revenue for quail management. Then, if you’re a landowner, you’ll have to make a decision if you’re going to treat them for parasites or not. To me, it’s a no-brainer. Everyone treats their dog for worms, why wouldn't you treat birds? It seems to be a great option for sustainability.

Thirdly, contributing to these sportsman’s organizations is very important because they are making a difference. The reason we have Quail Guard today is because of Texas’s sporting culture and hunters stepping up and saying, “We've had enough.”

LG: That’s a good segue into my last question. As a transplant hunter, what sort of connection do you have with Texas hunting culture now?

RK: When I first started hunting out here, I was shocked at how open it was and how many quail there were. I remember we went to this ranch when we got to Texas in the fall of 1997, and my son would go with me. He was only about three and a half years old, but he had a red Mattel Jeep that he drove around behind me that went about five miles an hour. He could keep up with me and I’d throw quail into the Jeep. He loved that Jeep.

In the east, you’re hunting smaller tracks of land. It’s just tighter. So, overall it took me a while to get used to the big country. But, just like my grandpa’s dog Fannie, it helped to have some very fine bird dogs as teachers. My favorite was my English Setter named Skagit. He was named after the Skagit River in Washington. I successfully hunted nine species of game birds with him.

We were hunting this property one day, and I saw him headed toward this prickly pair patch. Skagit had hunted all across the United States and even into Canada. He would break through any brush—he was fearless. Unfortunately, he’d never seen prickly pear. I tried hollering at him but, man, when he hit that prickly pear it took me a long time to get those spines out of him. That was a big difference from the east coast [laughs]. After that, he looked like a ballerina going through those prickly pear patches. I’ll never forget that day.

LG: It’s funny which days decide to stick with us.

RK: Isn’t it? Skagit lived to be 17 years old. I have a picture at my home office that I took of him hunting. It’s his last point. He was 16 years old and I had an important guest with me—he shot two quail on this property and Skagit retrieved them both. I only hunted him for about 30 minutes at the end of the day. I still remember that guy watching Skagit chasing those birds at 16 years old. He couldn’t believe it. That dog had so much heart. He turned 17 that January and died in March from kidney failure. I’ve had some amazing dogs, but he was my favorite. Time flies. Looking back, quail hunting has been a major part of my life, but I guess I’m more of a quail conservationist now than I am a quail hunter. It’s funny because for so many years I used to have to organize everything. I'd get the bird dogs ready to go, and then my son Ronnie would always go along. Now, things have flipped. He coordinates everything.

LG: He’s come a long way from the red Jeep, huh?

RK: [Laughs] I guess so. I get so busy sometimes, but we love to quail hunt together. These days, he’s as good of a shot as me, if not better, which I’m fine with. I just love to see those birds fly.

Based on the title of this article, you’ve probably guessed that I love to travel via dive bars, and Texas is one of the best states to do so. Why is that? Thousands of German and Czech immigrants settled in Central and South Texas more than 100 years ago and, to no one’s surprise, they enjoyed their beer and needed establishments to provide the bar upon which a cold one could sit. Voila, Texas dives are born.

Ultimately, these joints were more than a bar. Just drive around Central Texas and you’ll see that many of these one-stop-light towns (or zero-stop-light, for that matter) were built around two places—a church and a bar—with each serving many of the same purposes in wildly different forms. Their patrons overlapped quite a bit, too. Just drive through a town like Flatonia or Moravia and you’ll see that the local watering hole is the bedrock for many communities in the area. And that’s why the dive bar is the perfect way to tour the state of Texas.

Before we dive in, I’d like to attempt to define it. There’s no set criteria that makes a dive bar a dive bar—it’s one of those places where you know it when you see it—but here are a few clues:

• If it’s named after the town or the person who owns it, it’s probably a dive bar.
• If they accept cash and only cash, it’s probably a dive bar.
• If the regulars hold up the business as much as the rafters, it’s probably a dive bar.
• If those same regulars ignore indoor smoking regulations, it’s probably a dive bar.
• If the neon hasn’t been dusted since the Reagan administration, it’s probably a dive bar.
• If they look at you funny when you order a craft IPA or negroni, it’s probably a dive bar.

The list could go on and on, but you get the idea. Ultimately, if it’s old and local and decidedly untrendy, you’re probably on the right track.

Now that the definition is muddy as hell, let’s hit the road. I’ve compiled a list of my favorite joints across Central Texas but, as you’ll soon learn, there are far too many for me to cover here. I highly recommend following this list, but I also recommend going off the beaten path and picking your own roadside watering holes—that’s half the fun. In the meantime, maybe these 10 stops will be enough to wet your whistle before you can make your own list.

I’ve built out this particular list in a horseshoe-esque shape, starting on the northwest side, moving south then east then back north again. Depending on where you’re venturing from, pivot your starting location to your liking. There’s no wrong way to do this.

To start phase one of our thirsty tour of Texas, we’re getting a little historical. It may sound cliché, but you can’t do a dive-bar tour without running through legendary Luckenbach, Texas, which is more of a venue than a town. I don’t need to explain why this place is important—Willie and the boys can do that—but this is a great place to start your journey. On your way out, head a little east and swing by Albert Ice House, a classic indoor/outdoor spot for live music and two-stepping the night away.

In phase two, we’re headed east and south, starting with Zelick’s Ice House, a perfectly imperfect dive situated in an old gas station, giving a glimpse into what a depression-era icehouse felt like. Speaking of the depression-era, be sure to run by the unassuming-yet-unforgettable Riley’s Tavern, which happens to be the first bar in Texas to get its license after prohibition was repealed in the 1930s (that allows them to claim “the oldest bar in Texas,” which is only believable if you squint pretty hard). Lastly, we’ll cap off this section with another touristy stop at Gruene Hall. Yes, it’ll probably be crowded. Yes, it’s a bit of a tourist trap. But, everyone’s got to see the oldest dancehall in Texas once, and it still oozes the same character it did when it was built in 1878.

Now’s the time to stop and hydrate because you’ve made it halfway through our tour. Pat yourself on the back and prepare yourself because we’ve got lots of cheap beer to drink. In the back half, we’re not messing around. These quaint little stops are in no way touristy or manicured for the masses—they’re the real deal. Head southeast to make a pit stop at one of my favorite watering holes. One of the “newer” stops on our list, The Ponderosa Bar may lack size and looks, but it makes up for it with small-town hospitality and all of the colorful conversation you can handle. From there, swing by the thriving metropolis of Moravia (population: 165 on a good day) to pay a visit to the town’s only business: the Moravia Store. This spot has been sliding beers down the bar since the 1880s and hasn’t changed much since then, save for adding electricity for the neon signs. Say howdy to the owner, Henrietta, before embarking on the last leg of our journey.

The last three bars on my list are the epitome of local charm. They’re not in history books. There aren’t any tour buses stopping there. They simply represent the heart of a community that’s been beating continually with light beer since anyone can remember. From our last stop in Moravia, head back to the northwest by way of Moulton. This town is home to the Ole Moulton Bank, a bar residing in an old bank, but you probably could’ve guessed that. You could also head to Pavla’s Tavern as a bonus stop, just a short walk down the road. Head north from there and you’ll find yourself in Flatonia, a lovely little railroad town that’s home to Henry K’s, a newer spot in a very old building that’s nestled alongside an old theater and the historic railroad depot. On your way north, swing by the Cistern Country Store, which doubles as a bar and five-and-dime for this “blink and you’ll miss it” community.

This was a particularly hard list for me to whittle down. I literally have 156 potential spots marked on my phone, and the other 146 spots I didn’t mention here would be great stops too. The good news is that you have plenty of exploring to do. My advice is to use this list as a starting point. That’s exactly what we did for my latest concept coming to San Antonio: Otto’s Ice House. Coming later this year, it’s inspired by the same places I highlighted on this list, sometimes indirectly, sometimes directly. There’ll be more information to come, so stay tuned as we bring a new take on a very old concept to The Pearl district. In the meantime, go hit the road and do some research of your own. Bring cash.

But, despite our near-guaranteed lack of “success,” the aptly named Camp “Cantkilladeer” celebrated a monumental milestone this year: 30 years of glorious failure.

Of course, I’m using the terms “success” and “failure” very loosely in this case. In all actuality, we’ve been batting 1.000 ever since my dad and his friends started loading up their trucks and heading out to East Texas. That’s probably because it’s not really a hunting camp. The private hunt club is a world-class hunting destination (it's got the trophies to prove it) but we’re using it as a world-class gathering place. A hub. A rallying point. In other words, we don’t need much to make a successful trip, something we’ve proven year-in and year-out.

This year will always stick out to me because of the moments it offered. On more than one occasion, I had the chance to sit down and survey all of the relationships and generational legacies that were represented by 30 years of deer camp. Sitting under the canopy of live oaks draped with Spanish moss, I could see some of my closest friends shooting the shit around a campfire (where else are you going to shoot the shit?) while their sons played dominos or wandered around the lodge. It wasn’t just 30 years of the past in front of me. I was looking at the next 30 years, with even more on the horizon I hope.

I used to be one of those kids. Now, my friends and I are the old guard of the deer camp. We may have a few more aches and pains in the morning, but we’re still hanging in there, and can still go toe-to-toe with the college kids. We might even manage to take some of their hard-earned cash over a late-night game of poker. Regardless, it’s impossible not to look at how things have changed. My dad is gone, and has been since 2016. The same is true for many of our fathers and grandfathers, and we’ve stepped in to fill the role of (slightly) more responsible figures wandering through the woods of East Texas.

Ultimately Camp “Cantkilladeer” is a success because of our failures, not in spite of them. If we were there to shoot a deer, then the group probably would’ve fizzled out years ago as hunters moved on to bigger and better bucks. But we’re here for each other—always will be—and the camp is proof of that. It’s our foundation, one that never shifts regardless of who’s passed out on its floor. When that squeaky door swings open, I’ll be there with my dad every single time because it squeaked the same way when we were here together. My son was here with me this year, which means we’ll always be together at deer camp.

On the first night of deer camp, sitting around the poker table, one of the newer additions to the group asked what time we’d get up to start the hunt. “How does 5:30 a.m. sound,” he asked. I looked up from my hand of cards and intercepted a glance from my hunting buddies of 30 years, and we all broke into a smile. There’s no way in hell we’re getting up at 5:30 a.m. for some deer. We’re not mad at ‘em. If anything, that tends to be the time when things start to wind down.

I’m not blaming him. He’s new to camp. Give him another 20 or 30 years and he’ll understand that this camp always lives up to its name, which is just fine by me. We’re here for each other, not the deer, and that’s just one more thing about this camp that’ll never change.

That’s why it’s even more impressive to look at the career of Mr. Dean Dillon. Recently I had a chance to saddle up for a trail ride in New Mexico (get a look here) at a good friend’s ranch, and they brought in a few musicians to play private concerts. All of them were great, but a special hush came across the dirty, tired faces of my compadres when the famed songwriter picked up the guitar.

He lit up a cigarette and spent the evening spinning threads on working with some of the biggest names in country music, writing some of the industry’s most notable songs, and playing a few of them in his own timbre—that’s something you don’t get to hear every day, and I’ll never forget it. We all know we were in the presence of someone who doesn’t come along often. Actually, scratch that. We’ll never get another Dean Dillon.

There’s a chance you might be thinking, “Who is he talking about?” I don’t blame you. Even for someone of his creative caliber, I already mentioned that songwriters tend to fly under the radar. There are more than a few rundowns on his career as a songwriter, so for the sake of brevity, I’ll put it this way—if you’ve listened to country music for any amount of time, Dean Dillon has written one of your favorite songs. He’s written more than a few of mine.

That’s the angle I’d like to tackle this introduction from. If you want a biographical essay, a quick search will give you a few, but I’d like to look at Mr. Dillon’s career from a more personal angle. Here are five of my all-time-favorite songs that he penned, in chronological order.

“What Would Your Memories Do”

From Vern Gosdin’s ‘There Is a Season’ (1984)

As a wave of old-school country swept across the 1980s, Vern Gosdin was riding it right at the front, and this hit from Dillon is a prime example. It’s a slow, swinging ballad in the style of Lefty Frizzell that’d get the George Strait treatment just a few years later.

“Miami, My Amy”

From Keith Whitley’s ‘LA to Miami’ (1985)

One of the saddest stories in country music, Keith Whitley was primed to join the ranks of the industry’s best, but the story ended early upon his death in 1989. Luckily, he had time to drop some absolute classics on us, including his album L.A. to Miami, which opened with Dillon’s “Miami, My Amy.”

“Nobody in His Right Mind Would’ve Left Her”

From George Strait’s ‘#7’ (1986)

George Strait’s career was already exploding in 1986 when he released #7, and Dean Dillon was a big part of it from the beginning, starting with “Unwound” in 1981. Eventually, he’d write a whopping 68 songs for Strait, and “Nobody in His Right Mind Would’ve Left Her” stands out as one of his finest.

“An Empty Glass”

From Gary Stewart’s ‘Brand New’ (1988)

In my opinion, Gary Stewart is one of the most underrated names in country music. Ever. His voice was one-of-a-kind, able to transform a ballad like Dillon’s “Empty Glass” into a honky-tonk heartbreaker of the highest order.

“Tennessee Whiskey”

From Chris Stapleton’s ‘Traveller’ (2015)

Alright, if I haven’t rung any bells for you by now, you’re out of excuses with this one. Dillon wrote this song for another legendary singer by the name of George Jones in 1983, and it achieved its fair share of success. But, when a young performer named Chris Stapleton put his own style to it in 2015, the song went from being a country-music hit to being a global hit. For once, the entire world got to hear what Dean Dillon was capable of, even if they didn’t know he wrote it.

Like I said, Dillon wrote 68 songs for George Strait alone, which should tell you that he wrote a lot of songs for a lot of artists. I hope this’ll at least give you a starting point to enjoy more of his work because there’s a lot of great listening to be had. So, next time you’re sipping a cheap whiskey under the neon lights of your favorite dive bar and you find yourself tapping a boot to the song on the jukebox, just remember that there’s an uncelebrated songwriter behind it—and there’s a good chance his name is Dean Dillon.

What is Chile Piquin?

Chile piquines are tiny peppers, which makes sense because their name is loosely derived from “pequeño” or “small” in Spanish. As they say, absence makes the heart grow fonder and people are fond of these little suckers in Mexico because they’re fairly tough to come by in commercial markets due to their finicky nature in organized cultivation. Yes, you can find them dried, but if you want fresh piquines, you’ll need to hunt them down in the wild—we’ll tackle that in a minute.

I love chile piquines because they pack a lot of punch in one small package. They’re pretty damn spicy—about 30,000 to 60,000 units on the Scoville scale, which is about five times hotter than a jalapeño, but still way down the list from peppers like the habanero or ghost pepper. They have a nice, citrus flavor and just a few peppers can brighten up a variety of dishes.

Where Can I Find Them?

There’s good news and bad news. The bad news is that you’re going to have to work to find fresh chile piquines in most instances. The good news? You have a South Texas scavenger hunt in your future. Piquines grow across most of South Texas and Mexico, where you’ll find them among the classic scrub brush, mesquites, and juniper groves. The bushes prefer shady areas with moist soil, so it’s best to look in thick underbrush near some sort of water source.

I’d recommend fall for foraging excursions, for two reasons. First, the peppers ripen around September and October, which means they’ll taste better and be a bit less spicy. Second, you won’t have to endure foraging under the summer sun.

How Can I Identify Them?

Chile piquin bushes aren’t all that distinct. They grow a few feet tall, with bright green leaves that grow in a pointed shape—which also describes about a hundred other plants in South Texas. So, I look for two things: the right environment (covered previously) and the peppers themselves. Particularly when they ripen, the red peppers are a dead giveaway when you’re scanning a brown, dusty landscape.

Of course, do your due diligence to identify the peppers. They generally look like miniature jalapeños—green is unripe and red is ripe—so they’re not too hard to pick out. But, they can grow to be more circular, which can look a little like several wild berries that aren’t safe to eat. With even the slightest bit of knowledge and attention to detail, you won’t have any problem identifying them in the wild.

What Do I Do with Them?

As I mentioned earlier, I whipped up a deliciously spicy chile piquin salsa during an early season teal hunt, and you can find the recipe right here. Really, the options are limitless. While they are small, they’re not short on flavor, and you can use them in any dish you’d use jalapeños, serranos, or habaneros. You’ll want to use fresh, wild peppers fairly quickly (within a week or two). You could also dry them or, better yet, pickle them for a fiery addition to countless dishes.

It turns out that the answer is more interesting than the question itself. It weaves so much of Mexican culture into our shared experience in Texas, from history and agriculture to popular trends and…’80s cocaine culture? Anyway, we’ll get to that.

At the base level, it’s just good practice to know what you’re drinking and why. It’ll make the experience better overall, and your local barkeep can’t give you what you want until you know what you’re asking for. Speaking of barkeeps, we have one helluva team at Credence, with a man by the name of Westin Galleymore at the helm. As our head of beverage, it’s his job to educate his team, develop new recipes, and be an overall source of watering-hole wisdom. He’s an encyclopedia. It’s ridiculous.

So, when I started toying around with the idea of writing this article, I immediately went to Westin. Considering he’ll talk my ear off about tequila and mezcal anyway, I figured we may as well turn it into something the drinking public can enjoy as well. So, without further ado, here’s a tag-team approach to distilling the difference between two incredible agave spirits. Salúd.

Defining Your Drink

LG: Okay, let’s start with a basic definition of mezcal and tequila. I already know it’s not a one-sentence answer.

Westin Galleymore: If only it were that easy. The term “mezcal” is a broad term used to describe any agave spirit made in Mexico—agave spirit being an alcohol distillate that's made from the fermentation process of an agave plant. So, you could say that all tequila is technically mezcal, but not all mezcal is tequila. The difference really comes down to regulations. For tequila to be tequila, it needs to be made in one of five Mexican states—Jalisco, Michoacan, Guanajuato, Nayarit, or Tamaulipas. Jalisco is, by far, the most prolific producer. Beyond its location, the next big regulation is that it has to be made from one type of agave plant, specifically the blue weber agave.

LG: It’s high on sugar, which is great for alcohol production, and is hardy as hell. The perfect tequila plant.

WG: Exactly. It’s fairly consistent in dry or wet growing conditions, highly disease-proof, sturdy, and dependable. Because of that high, clean sugar content, you're going to end up with a pretty clean spirit, which is what we all associate with that classic, smooth tequila feel.

LG: That’s a simple rundown of tequila. What about mezcal?

WG: As I said earlier, the most basic definition of mezcal is simply “agave spirits from Mexico.” But,  over the past decade or two, we've seen a lot of changes. Mezcal used to be regarded as this harsh, gut-bomb booze that had a worm in it—you know, that buddy who went down to Tijuana, and spent some time down by the border and barely lived to tell about it.

LG: I’ve definitely never been that guy…

WG: Yeah, me neither [laughs]. People think of mezcal having a worm in it. A lot of mezcal back in the day did have insects in it because it was traded from village to village and they didn’t have labels. They would put an insect from whatever region that it was coming from. It could be a cricket. It could be a worm. It could be a scorpion. Now we have fancy labels, so we can easily see where these mezcals are coming from.

Mezcal has definitely grown and matured from that negative connotation. Because of that, there have been a lot of rules and regulations applied to its production, similar to tequila. Mezcal has to be made in one of nine states, with the primary state being Oaxaca. The others are Guerrero, Guanajuato, Michoacán, Zacatecas, San Luís Potosí, Tamaulipas, Durango and Puebla. Now, as opposed to tequila, mezcal can be made with many species of agave. There are about 35 to 37 currently recognized species of agave that are safe for distillation for human consumption.

LG: Not to mention any combination of those agaves.

WG: Sure, we call those ensembles. Some people take all these plants, harvest them, roast them, extract the juice and combine them before distilling. That’s a really, really old-school method. You really need a life-long level of skill because all these different sugar compounds and enzymes and proteins and acids that naturally exist inside these plants can be very finicky during fermentation. The majority of your ensembles are going to be single distillate, single ferments, that they combine post distillation. That's the vast majority because it’s much easier. But, it’s really cool to come across those folks in the middle of nowhere who’ve been doing it the hard way for generations. That's crazy to me. I love seeing that.

LG: Any other differentiators we’re missing?

WG: The only other major difference is that mezcal is generally not aged, whereas añejo and reposado tequilas are. It’s being done to a degree, but that’s not a traditional mezcal.

Libation Background

LG: That brings up the next major topic I wanted to tackle—the cultural perception of mezcal and tequila and how we got here. In your opinion, why has mezcal been a little slower on the uptake than tequila?

WG: There’s been great mezcal distillation for decades now down in Mexico. It just hasn’t been a popular spirit in the United States, which really comes down to drinking trends. Historically, most of our finer spirits in the U.S. have been imported by boat, which meant they spent a lot of time in a barrel. That’s why people started to associate fine spirits with aged whiskeys and aged brandies, these very refined vanilla, allspice, and sweeter flavors. Then, you get into the sixties and seventies and you start having this tiki revolution where people start drinking all this rum.

LG: Then, things got wild.

WG: Oh, things got wild. Towards the tail end of the seventies and eighties, you had a lot of drugs and a lot of partying. The American lifestyle became so much faster—how can I get this drink quicker? Scotch doesn’t taste good with my cocaine, but I can have vodka and I’m not even going to taste it. Between that cultural shift and the introduction of the soda gun in the late eighties and nineties, the American palate shifted towards neutrality over sweeter flavor profiles.

But, the bright side to all of that partying is it gave birth to this great American revolution of the drinker who became very educated. It started in New York with these hotel managers who were taking over historic hotels, diving into old menus, and starting saying, “maybe we should make a Manhattan properly.” Slowly but surely, you have this wave of nostalgia and drinkers who wanted to be educated, so they started venturing out to all these obscure spirits.

LG: See? The ’80s weren’t all bad. We’ve seen it happen in real time, really. People started getting more adventurous. They started venturing out into different flavor profiles, and that’s where they started to get a little bit more accustomed to tequila. It started out with sweeter tequilas but as consumers became more educated, they wanted to try other spirits.

WG: It’s been fun to see the flavor profile change for the American palate on a larger scale. A good comparison is seeing all of the craft breweries that exist across the nation now. If you were drinking an IPA in the nineties, you were kind of weird.

LG: There’s quite a bit of geography involved, too.

WG: Definitely. I think it’s a mix of both. States like Texas, California, Arizona, and New Mexico have a strong cultural integration with Mexico, and they had a better understanding of these two spirits. And now we’re seeing that with mezcal, along with fine-dining states like New York. People are starting to see that mezcal is not just a nastier version of tequila. It’s a completely different spirit. That being said, I think there’s still a portion of people who live in Mexico or who are from Mexico who still have that connotation—that tequila is premium, and mezcal is not.

Taking a Taste

LG: Alright, let’s get to the important stuff. For someone who’s not educated in the ways of mezcal, how would you describe the flavor differences?

WG: For a beginner, they have to understand that a lot of the entry level mezcals—whether they’re in a cocktail or neat—are going to be similar in flavor profiles. Generally, they’ll be very savory, almost smoky, and a lot more earthy than tequila, which is a lot brighter. It’s typically a little bit more citrus driven, with some notes of black pepper and aloe. Now, they also need to understand that mezcal has such a wide breadth of flavor profiles. Each species of agave is a different wormhole of flavor profiles that you might find yourself liking more than your entry-level mezcals. Some of them can be as floral and as delicate as a gin. Some of them can be super spicy and green pepper driven. If they do love these giant smoke bombs, there’s a ton of these savory, beef-jerky party mezcals that are out there. And then there are some that strike a balance between them all. It can be a really, really fun avenue once they allow their minds to open up and realize that mezcal isn't just the smokey cousin of tequila.

LG: A lot of people prefer mezcal with food, too. I think mezcal can be a lot more food-driven than tequila. That being said, a lot of mezcals are typically higher in proof than tequila, so you have to prepare yourself to be drinking a higher alcohol spirit.

WG: I agree, and the same goes for cocktails. Mezcal generally has a more intense flavor profile than tequila, and that comes through in a cocktail. You just kind of have to find your happy medium. Typically, I love making margaritas with mezcal, or a negroni is fantastic. I actually think mezcal works better than gin, but someone’s going to kill me for saying that. If a prickly pear margarita is your jam, try it with mezcal. If you like a passionfruit margarita, or anything that typically has a sweeter flavor, try it with mezcal. On the other hand, if you choose a super dry, skinny margarita with mezcal, you may be in for a shock. I wouldn't recommend a paloma right out of the gate.

LG: How about for the home-buyer? Should they expect to pay more for tequila or mezcal?

WG: I think mezcal is inherently more expensive because it’s a lower yielding product. Oftentimes, those agave species that they’re using take two to four times longer to reach maturity than the blue weber. Also, there are not as many open fields. It is growing, but they’re mainly grown in small family-operated businesses. With that in mind, you might get a better value with a $30 tequila than you would at a $30 mezcal. I’d say a decent price for a good sipping mezcal would be around the $90 range, and that’d be the ultra-premium range for tequila.

Three-Bottle Lightning Round

LG: With that in mind, I wanted to wrap this up with a rapid-fire recommendation from Mr. Gallymore. Drop three bottles of tequila and three bottles of mezcal that you’d recommend for our imbibing readers. Drum roll…

WG: Oh shit [laughs]. Here goes nothin’.

A huge thanks to Westin for dropping some agave knowledge. What started as a drink for me has quickly become so much more, for both tequila and mezcal—and the same is true for Mexican, Mexican-American, and American culture. These spirits aren’t just great to drink; they’re a glimpse into an ancient art and culture that goes back thousands of years. Hopefully, this quick guide will give you enough courage to head out to your go-to tequila bar and ask for something new. Trust me, bartenders love a customer with an open mind, and they’d be just as excited as you to open the door into the world of tequila, mezcal, or wherever your next drink takes you.