A TREK THROUGH MEZCAL COUNTRY

Browse the PHOTOS from the trip!

On the steep and precarious hillsides of Oaxaca, the indigenous agave that thrive there are as highly sought after as any precious metal. With their rich, earthy quality and signature savory smokines—their wild and unadulterated nature is the very thing that gives them such worth.

It’s here, in the mountains of Southern Mexico, where myself and the Gorilla Team met the people and families responsible for harvesting these unique botanicals and processing them in an artisanal fashion that brings the world’s most intense Mezcals to life.

The start of the process isn’t dissimilar in theory to hunting for priceless truffles, hidden in the forests, growing within the dirt. Harvesting these special agave requires winding dirt roads that sink deep into the wild.

Once the plants are found, the harvesting, loading and hauling begins. Some can weigh up to 300 pounds, and are harvested manually with a “coa de jima” [sharp hoe-like tool], carefully shaving the leaves to reveal the inner “piña” [the center that resembles a pineapple] where all the flavor is concentrated.

Once the piñas were loaded into the back of the rust-etched truck bed that brought us there, the trek back to the smoke pit began. The experience felt symbolically similar to Moonshine production in The States— and much like the rich and rural history of that spirit, producing Mezcal is embedded into the very fabric of Oaxacan culture, dating back hundreds of years.

It’s in this tradition that the stories of generations of families live. Passing down the process in a sort of ritualistic oral history, creating a chain that forever connects people to each other, and to the land.

The “pit” is not glamorous, nor should it be. As we stand in awe, watching the Artisans unload the agave and systematically organize the piñas into piles, different sections begin to form. The best are used to build the base and the walls of the pit, and then they used the rest to form a crown up top to finish off the structure.

This unique structure is built completely of piñas and is referred to as a “palenque” [a word stemming from the ancient Mayans meaning “arena”]. Watching the careful construction happen is where we saw the true skill come out, as the Masters supervise each piece being placed by hand. When finished, the pile reaches 6 feet in height and takes nearly an entire day to build. An alternate method of cooking the piñas is in a “hornos” [a clay, ceramic or stone oven]. But our Artisans choose the unique method of a completely organic open air pit, covered simply with a tarp on the top.

If you want to talk about sustainability that stems from a deep respect for the Earth, this is it. Oaxaca is still largely untouched by mass production— and the people we met and worked with are leading the charge. They’re an incredibly welcoming, hardworking, and humble community and their passion for their product is contagious.

With food, there’s a term often used: “Taste the love”. When I think back on some of the best meals I’ve had, they involve some intangible thing that can’t necessarily be defined. We sometimes forget to think about where our food comes from, what animals gave their life-force to provide the sustenance on the plate, and what hands touched it on the way to the table.

Where Mezcal draws its magic is no different. Every nuance in flavor stems from something intentional. It draws its richness from the plant it began as and the people who made it— the soil that held it, the rain that fed it, and the hands that carefully crafted it into the deeply layered and highly storied libation that rests in your glass.

I am grateful to have been even a small part of it.

Grab your TICKETS for June 14th to experience the Bozal Mezcal we made in a one-night-only 5 Course Dinner where Chef Sam Mischenko from our steakhouse LONELY PINE will showcase whole lamb butchery from Freedom Run Farm paired with a selection of traditional Bozal Mezcals.

A Sit Down with Mural Artist Jenny Ustick

We sat down with a glass of tequila and artist Jenny Ustick to chat a bit about her unique and powerful perspective as a street artist with a strong point of view. As a feminist and teacher, she uses her unique superpower for good.

Be sure to check out her work at our tequila bar La Ofrenda Tequila located at 30 Findlay Street. Her interpretation of Maria Felix can be seen on the front wall as well as the back wall inside. We’re also proud to have her amazing rendition of Earth Kitt as Catwoman at our karaoke bar Tokyo Kitty, located at 575 Race Street.

You’re an incredibly accomplished artist— most of the murals around OTR are yours or your students’ work created with hour guidance. Can you share with us a bit about your training and the work you do as a teacher?

• I always knew I’d be an artist and that I was headed for art school. Even though I earned a scholarship to SVA in NYC, many things kept me in Cincinnati.

• I attended the Art Academy of Cincinnati, and the same year I started grad school at DAAP, I started doing projects with ArtWorks. So ArtWorks and teaching at the university level will always be linked for me.

• Ten years of ArtWorks really taught me so much— about people, about problem solving, about mutual support, about communication. It allowed me to build a portfolio and demonstrate that I could do ambitious things.

• I did my first travel piece in 2017 at a residency in Argentina, and then another in Sicily in 2018. These were important learning experiences and a chance to link my academic research brain to my mural brain.

• Finally, linking up with and watching other painters— painters of all kinds— has made me a very adaptable artist. Learning to let go of certain perfectionist tendencies in order to beast on a piece with a short timeline is a really liberating thing. I’m learning how to read when a situation calls for a big “image” moment, or a big “painting” moment [or when both are needed].

• I also still make non-mural work in the studio, both by myself and with others. I enjoy having a really diversified practice. It’s right in line with the many facets of my personality. I encourage my students to be expansive and hungry for experience in this way.

Our Muse Maria Felix was a prolific artist in her own right— she filmed 37 movies in Mexico during her lifetime. You’re quite prolific yourself. What’s it like being able to create art around the city that connects with such a wide audience?

I’ve always been aware of what an incredible privilege it is to be invited to make work that so many people will see, and I take it very seriously. This visibility matters. And so it’s important to me to make work that emphasizes representation and inclusion. It’s also important to support, encourage, and celebrate artists from marginalized communities, whether they are students, mentees, friends, or peers.

The content of my work can be a bit tricky sometimes, though. It’s pretty well understood that street and public art is generally better received when there is an approachable subject, pleasing visuals, bright colors, etc. Most of my work leads with a feminist and/or anti-racist agenda. It’s a difficult needle to thread to design something that has eye-popping visuals but with an activist agenda. I think of the Doris Day piece I did in 2019 as an example where a lot of boxes were checked, just by depicting her: Cincinnati legend, feminist, LGBTQIA+ advocate, animal rights activist.

As we celebrate International Women’s Month, who are some badass women that inspire you?

First, my mom. A lot of folks say this. But my mom is BADASS. And so humble. Seriously a golden human being.

I think about some of the women I’ve made art about [not murals]. Angela Davis, Gloria Steinem, Freddie Oversteegen, Phoolan Devi, Libby Gardner.

I’m trying to find a wall to paint a mural featuring Edmonia Lewis and Mary Cassatt in Chicago. This pair, this concept, is a perfect example of one of my deep dives into research, and of finding fascinating, intersecting stories that are significant to specific places.

Any closing thoughts?

I love the last question so much— “Who are some badass women that inspire me?” This is EXACTLY one of the first questions I ask when I’m planning my next piece.

In further celebration of International Women’s Month, make sure to join us this Friday at Cosmic Gorilla [located across the street from La Ofrenda] and Tiki Tiki Bang Bang for two unique female-forward events: “Women in Comics Cocktail Hour” and “Women of Tiki Takeover”. Click the links below for more details on these fun and free events!

NOTES FROM AN EXPEDITION WEST

"We tell ourselves stories in order to live." 

Joan Didion wrote these words in 1968. She was my favorite author, and she died late last year, just before Christmas. In spite of an over half-decade gap, there is a certain wisdom and truth that ring true in Didion's words today. My reverence may seem peculiar, coming from the head bartender of something as ostentatious and gauche as a tiki bar— Didion made a career out of her dissection of culture from an alienated and almost scholarly point of view. But the brilliance of Didion was not in her judgment but the lack of it: she could observe and report not from a statement of judgment but a naked brevity of experience before her. And in spite of her seeming detachment from what she reported on, Didion was, at heart, a romantic: she was ravenously drawn to the metaphor at the heart of every story she covered. This makes Didion's assessment that we "look for the sermon in the suicide" not an indictment, but an unmistakable admission of the human condition.

People enjoy narratives. People enjoy escapes.

When Vikki and myself stepped off the plane in Palm Springs, we immediately entered into a narrative. We were no longer back in the snow-swept plains of Cincinnati, Ohio – where I had moved to from San Francisco less than a year ago – we were in The West.

In 1893, Frederick Jackson Turner formulated his grand thesis of the Frontier, and thus the West. The West, since his proclamation over one hundred years ago, had proven to be fertile grounds for innovation. When the Pioneer Spirit which drove the pursuit of gold found its stopping point at the Pacific Ocean, imagination spilled outwards and upwards.  And there truly is no greater artifact of the Pioneer Spirit than Disneyland, where we eventually found ourselves. But I suppose that's getting ahead of the narrative.

Palm Springs is an anomaly— the sort of mystic one which could only be created within a coastal state almost entirely devoid of water. The community of Palm Springs is not only healthy but prosperous— new the trek from the gate to our pick-up was almost entirely outside, surrounded by stifling picturesque stucco buildings and pristine desert landscapes. It was the daring alternate to every lonely trip through Utah on I-80, a city which dared you to compare it to Wendover or Elko in its isolation and nearly Cuban in its timelessness. We spent few serene moments in Palm Springs—  it was but an appetizer.

A quick transition to Anaheim plunged us into the jugular of our trip. I was able to link with a few of my friends from my prior residence in the Golden State, and the first night around Orange County was demarcated by rough and raw immersion to the technocratic solutions to the area: the best tiki bar in the state being within a theme park's hotel – an old Googie architecture McDonald's now serving tacos – an orange packing plant hosting an indoor food market. Yet none of these observations are damning or indicting – quite the contrary.  The extraordinary reigns.

A day spent in Disneyland requires no further elaboration, or at least should not. You won't find me a contrarian, and as someone who spent many happy childhood memories within the park, it's difficult to describe objectively. And yet, for all of my initial skepticism of the recently incorporated IPs with the park, I was pleasantly surprised. Galaxy's Edge does not have the cheap application and shoddy craftsmanship of a quick cash grab; instead, a richly immersive and decorated experience surrounds you at every end. The food is strange – eat it. The drink is whimsical – enjoy it.

As a Tiki bar, we are beholden to an esoteric foundation. Donn Beach died in 1989 and was buried under a name that wasn't his own – "Trader" Vic Bergeron never visited Polynesia until he'd long since established an empire of kitsch chain restaurants. Steve Crane was a failed actor who opened The Luau off the fabrication that he was heir to a tobacco fortune, rather than a bum from small town Nowhere, Indiana. The aftermath will always be primary to the banality of the present.

And if this, too, seems a critique, it is not. Rather, it's an admission of the human condition which drives Hospitality. We find ourselves professional wrestlers in an era where kayfabe is exposed, or magicians in a post-Penn & Teller era. In spite of this, we crave release and we demand escape. I do not wish to use this blog post to measure the marigolds at Disneyland or spoil the narrative of The Nest [which is an experience worth the price of a trip to Los Angeles all on its own]. I don't wish to extemporize on the wonder a coworker of mine can find in seeing Mickey Mouse-shaped cinnamon toast or regurgitate the fantastic tales told to me by Mike Buhen while standing out front the Tiki-Ti on a Thursday night as he smokes a cigar. Rather, I hope to reaffirm the principles we set out to fulfill when Tiki Tiki Bang Bang was opened: that we could offer an immediate escape from the realities of life and offer a soporific alternative, even if for an hour or two, where the world is dominated by leisure and abundance not unlike that recounted in the old folk tunes.

Didion's assessment of the human condition was not only correct, it was pretty close to Donn Beach's famous proclamation: "If you cannot go to paradise, I'll bring it to you."  The stories we tell ourselves in order to live can be found all around us, but in an increasingly post-modern and meta-discursive world, the sincerity of the Tiki bar has never been more important. We crave escape— we demand escape.  And through the rich history of the uniquely American institution of the Tiki bar, we can fabricate that paradise to be as real to us as it was to those in the mid-20th Century when the craze took hold.  

Living is compulsory. But the stories that come with it are as well

Special thank you to you Mike Buhen Sr. and Jr at TIKI TI.; Marie King and the TONGA HUT staff; Kelly Merell, Jeff Garrison, and the staff at TRADER SAM’S; STRONGWATER in Anaheim; Romin Rajan; and the staff of THE REEF and BOOTLEGGER TIKI in Palm Springs for the warm welcome to Southern California.

Cheers!

The Skipper and Trader Vikki

View the PHOTO GALLERY FROM THE TRIP!

LOOKING BACK TO NORMAL

Walk with me as I share the second article in a series of letters to the industry I’ve dedicated my life to, and work through what’s next for the bar industry in the Post Pandemic World.

“When your job feels like being on a hamster wheel every day, do you see anything else? When you finally get off of it, can you get back on?” —Catherine Manabat, Bar Co-Owner // Homemakers Bar

WHAT WOULD “BACK TO NORMAL” LOOK LIKE? 

Though hard to believe, at some point in the future we will, for the most part, forget that any of this happened. As we look back on history it will be an anomalous blip, tucked deep in the folds of our brain, stored for safe keeping, so not to prevent us from moving forward. I don’t think it’s our fault, it’s just human nature to bury deep pains, fade deep wounds, and continue on for survival. It happened after the 1918 Spanish Flu and there is no reason to believe it won’t happen again.

This type of forgetfulness is buried just as deeply in the DNA of the bar industry. We saw it in the revival of classic craft cocktails that emerged in the mid-2000’s, which lead to the recreation of the proper cocktail bar. This in itself was a re-discovery of our own history and past. First, Old Fashioneds roared back into fashion, then the fruity martinis of the 90's briefly stepped in and then aside to make way for new wave cocktails with more complex flavor profiles. Like clockwork, the industry reinvents itself on a 10 year scale, yet the fundamentals of bar operation have gone unchanged for decades.

After this pandemic finishes its course, I believe we will be faced with another cycle of faux reinvention, as we give in to the urge to get back to “normal”. What I’m predicting is that this won’t be driven by bar owners eager to put the horror show of 2020 into the rearview mirror— it will be forcefully driven by a mass exodus of seasoned and skilled employees.

FLOCKING TO SAFETY

In an industry where the baseline is unpredictability, the pandemic has taken it to new heights. Never on such a massive scale has there been a test of humans’ desire for stability. 

Call it what you want; aging out, changing careers or just moving on, but talent leaving the industry is part of the regular cycle. It is rare see a 65-year old bartender in a packed high-end nightclub environment slinging drinks next to people in their early 20’s. Actually, you never see that. This is for many reasons, too in-depth to go into here, but mostly because bartending is hard on your body and your mind. The late nights, the physicality of standing for hours, squatting and leaning over repeatedly, and of course, the unpredictable nature and instability of making a living on tips.

So, every year, in a predictable and steady stream, a few veterans call it quits and the next generation of industry workers step in. This has led to a lack of institutional knowledge, and more importantly, it prevents any sort of real attention or change to bettering industry standards. Hearing “I used to bartend” or “I used to wait tables”, feels like someone reflecting on a long past battle fought.

TRYING TO CATCH UP

As this exodus continues, any momentum we had towards change will now be focused on survival and getting to the point of “new normal” and will pull us even further behind. Owners will be desperate to resume operations as quickly as possible so instead of progress we will have the system we’ve always had; a younger class of industry professionals, paid at minimum wages, thrown into the unpredictable nature of the generation before, waiting for their turn to age out. 

During this time there have been many think pieces written by journalists about our industry, decrying everything from: “The End of Nightlife as we Know it” to “The Apocalypse of the Bar Industry” and of course the over-thought and widely published “Are Bars Safe?”. 

As speculating opinions of outsiders looking in, the headlines made more of an impact on our audience’s perception of our industry than what really exists, negatively affecting the appeal for future talent.

What made the industry so attractive ten years ago is now overshadowed by the perception of it being an “unsafe environment” to work in. 

SYSTEMIC CHANGES

I believe bartending is now on its way back to being a pass-through stepping stone on the path to a more permanent “career”. 

What it all comes down to is simple— owners and bartenders want to be viewed as professionals. We want to enjoy the same respect, integrity and pride that anyone who has dedicated their life to a craft should receive. 

We want a space for our employees to find lifelong fulfilling careers where they are treated and compensated fairly, and to do so, we need to establish systematic operational standards. Which like many issues being brought to light in this country right now, requires a unanimous front and everyone working together.

THE NEW FRONTIER

Walk with me as I share a series of letters to the industry I’ve dedicated my life to, and work through what’s next for the bar industry in the Post Pandemic World.

Is the party really over? It feels over. Or was it ever even a party to begin with? Could it all have been a fever dream or an elaborate layering of smoke and mirrors? 

Cracks in the FOundation

Over the past decade, the bar industry has been in a full-blown renaissance; not just in terms of creativity and innovation, but in becoming a respected trade and a powerful ecosystem for community and professional development. And then, seemingly overnight, the pandemic slid in and ripped the world we’d created back down to its skeleton— exposing the flaws and problematic practices that were bubbling below the shiny surface. We as an industry right now are as brittle as straw men, braving the wind storm and trying to hold tight to what’s left, while watching what we’ve built crumble around us. 

In this strange new world, everything feels like uncharted territory. It’s clear that the tools we once relied on are no longer and there isn’t a map for what’s next. Even the basic things we thought we could always rely on like community among bar owners and support among customers aren’t a sure bet. 

RESTRICTIONS

The odds seem stacked against us. With capacity limitations so severe that we’re barely breaking even, how much longer can we tread water? What’s the good in delivering safe eating and drinking experiences for our customers when we inevitably have to close our doors? What good is a bar community when we’ve become so desperate to stay open that we’ve become competitive at all costs? How can we support each other when we’re all on the same sinking ship? What good is building a business around the well-being of our employees when the government can furlough all of us in an instant or limit capacity so severely that we can no longer employ more than a handful of people?

DEDICATION

Our industry is hard. It’s long hours. It’s missed holidays. It’s physical. It’s painful. It’s emotionally draining. It doesn’t pay extremely well, it’s hard on our loved ones, and it makes it difficult to have a work-home-life balance. If you don’t love it with everything in your being, you don’t last. So its the few who choose it that are made of true strength and grit. 

It’s the Bar Owners, Bartenders, Bar Backs, Servers, Hosts, Security Guards, Line Cooks and Chefs who live for the industry life. They bleed for it. They rarely give up. And leaving is never an option. I think it’s this inherent stubbornness that will be what get’s us through to the other side of the pandemic.

Our industry has always been a bit of a ThunderDome; hyper competitive in terms of attracting customers and just as competitive in employing the best talent and creativity around. But, everything we once knew has changed. The things that once gave us a competitive edge like large spaces, loud sound systems, high end cocktail programs, and cheap beer on draft; are now viewed as horrible weights in the new economy.  

BARRIERS

Our challenges are changing fast, sometimes week to week, sometimes by the hour. Adapting to the unknown is exhausting. And expensive. Every day we try and solve the ever-changing and increasingly complex math problem of time, space and survival. 

Safety in our industry has moved to the forefront of every discussion. We’ve tried to meet the challenges as best we can. We’ve installed plastic barriers. We’ve increased our cleaning protocol. We enforce temperature checks and Covid testing of employees and we’ve reduced our hours and capacity. And still, the nightmare feels unending and math problem has yet to be solved.

ACCOUNTABILITY

As the pandemic roars on, it continues to reveal further cracks. Problems with the tipping system, the stability of the industry itself, and healthcare are all coming to light. Systemic racism, segregation, diversity, inequality, and equity are now being given the platform they’ve always deserved to be taken seriously and given the fuel needed to make proper change. Where these themes once had no voice, business owners, workers and customers alike are now being challenged to acknowledge the mistakes made and begin to write a new history that includes fair treatment of every human being.

Like other industries, we had excuses for allowing these things to continue to exist and we told ourselves a stories to sweep them under the rug. Day-to-day operations of a bar or restaurant are grueling, and the work of owning a business is an around-the-clock job. This means much of an owners life is existing in survival mode. And without the luxury of time, how could we focus on creating structured industry standards or addressing difficult issues.

WHAT’S NEXT?

It wasn’t until the pandemic that all of that changed. Suddenly the old crutches don’t work anymore, because we now have NOTHING but time. With many of our bars unable to operate under current state/region-imposed restrictions or have such stringent guidelines we are not operating anywhere near pre-pandemic levels, we find ourselves alone with our thoughts, and plenty of space to strategize.  

The easy route would be to wallow in the misery of the present, and sit in the ashes of what was or what could have been. But we’re not the easy-route kind. I know that somewhere in the unknown future exists a path to bigger and better things, and for those of us who are ready for the fight, I hope that what’s on the other side is a better world. 

How will you use this time? Will we return to the business practices we had pre-pandemic? Do we get “back to normal”? Or do we use this as a time to be transformed by this moment and create something new?