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The Literary Dram

A Spirit in one hand, a Book in the other

The Tequila:  Don AgustínAñejo

www.internationalbeveragenetwork.com/SpecialReport/CascoViejo/

The Books:  Pedro Páramo and The Plain in Flames by Juan Rulfo

If the drink in one hand was distilled in the state of Jalisco in Mexico (as almost all the best tequilas are), then it only makes sense that the book in the other hand was written by Jalisco’s best writer ever. (Some would argue Mexico’s best writer, ever.)

THE TEQUILA

Pale gold in the glass, from where its aromas arise — spicy, oak-tinted, honey. Toasted warm on the palate, with a creamy, balanced mix of spice. Lovely on its own, or with a thin wedge of lime. (40% abv)

Don Agustín añejo is made from premium blue agave grown in the eastern Los Altos (The Highlands) region of Jalisco. Here, at elevations nearing 2,500 metres, there is less rain and cooler temperatures, allowing the plants to mature more slowly and resulting in more intense flavours. Harvesting is done by experienced “jimadores” who extract the weighty, rounded core of the plant, the piña, using a special circular blade on a long pole. The piñas are split and slow roasted in wood and clay ovens for several days, using a traditional steam method, then shredded and the juice extracted. Diverted to vats, the juice ferments over several days, before ending up in stainless steel pot stills where a double distillation takes place. It is the middle distillate, the corazon, that makes up the body of the tequila. Don Agustín is aged in American white oak barrels for 12 months. It is estate bottled at the distillery in Arandas, the town co-founded by the Camarena family 250 years ago.

The distillery itself dates from 1938, the vision of Don Augustín Camarena (that’s his picture on the bottle). It has grown to the fourth largest in Mexico, with over one thousand hectares and three million agave plants under cultivation. Don Augustín is its limited, reserved line of tequila.

THE BOOKS

First published in Mexico in 1955, Pedro Páramo by Juan Rulfo is considered one of the greatest works of Latin American literature. It proved to be a profound influence on major writers who followed, including Gabriel García Márquez. The book is set in the Mexican village of Comala, to which Juan Preciado arrives, having made a promise to his dying mother that he would search out his father whom he has not known since he was a young child. In the mother’s words, “Make him pay, son, for all those years he put us out of his mind.” His father is Pedro Páramo, but Comala, where he lived, is literally a ghost town.

The people who walk the streets and inhabit the houses have been long dead, though they remain as real as if they still breathed the stifling hot air. Their worlds circle around Pedro Páramo, the chief land owner and, by all accounts, a tyrant. Their voices swirl over the memorizing landscape, and on occasion we are not sure who they belong to, creating a novel of fragments that come together loosely, hauntingly, an ephemeral mélange of history and violence that formed the fabric of rural Mexico.

Pedro Páramo is unlike any Latin American novel that came before it, although at the time of its publication it made barely a ripple in literary circles. In subsequent years the novel was rediscovered and has come to be much revered. In the thirty years of his life that followed its appearance, Rulfo would not publish another work of fiction. He had said all he wanted to say in two short books.

A collection of short stories, The Plain in Flames, had been published two years earlier.

This book is even more remarkable. There are some stories among them that will stay with a reader a lifetime.

Set in rural Jalisco in the 1930s and 40s, these are stories of peasants scarred by government neglect, by poverty and violence, fighting to retain their dignity against the realities of post-revolutionary Mexico. Many are close to monologues, confessionals by characters whose Catholic religion has betrayed them, who struggle against bitterness to find meaning in their lives.

One might expect such stories to be rife with anger, mired in grim description. Rulfo was too skilled a writer to take that route. His stories are relatively short, his language distilled to something at once genuine and deeply layered, without being stylized or self-important.

In “It’s Because We ‘re So Poor,” while a flood rages, a young boy sits with his sister who has just seen her cow washed away, a present from father, something he had hoped would attract a husband and prevent her from becoming a prostitute like her sisters. In “You Don’t Hear Dogs Barking” a father carries overland on his back his injured son, in an attempt to reach a doctor, all the while trying to find reasons why his son has turned against his family and allowed himself to be lured into crime. Summaries do no justice to The Plain in Flames, to the nuance and astuteness in their telling. Rulfo died in 1986. His short stories stand with the best in any language.

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