Raise a glass to tequila's rich history

WALNUT CREEK, Calif. — If your last contact with the nectar of the Mayan gods was at some frat party or spring break bacchanal, San Francisco chef Joanne Weir has news for you: That wasn't what Quetzalcoatl had in mind. The spirits from the legendary blue agave were meant to be savored.

And today's tequilas, which are produced by artisan distillers in the highlands and lowlands of Mexico, bear little relation to the headache-inducing beverages of your youth.

Weir, author of the just-published "Tequila: A Guide to Types, Flights, Cocktails and Bites" (Ten Speed Press), says "The face of tequila has changed. It's one of the purest spirits that's made. The quality of what's coming out of Mexico is so extraordinary."

It's a sentiment shared by some restaurateurs as well. Twenty years ago, no one knew much about tequila, says Tres Agaves co-owner Eric Rubin, whose San Francisco restaurant showcases the food and spirits of Jalisco.

Back then, even high-end Mexican food pioneer Rick Bayless recommended people drink wine with his food. "There was a real disconnect there." Rubin says. "Seventy tequilas, no one knew a thing."

These days, Rubin sends his staff down to Jalisco, where the blue agave grows, to meet distillers and discover for themselves what makes tequila so special. He's not above debunking a few myths along the way.

Salt and lime? That's not some sacred ancient ritual. It dates back to a Spanish influenza outbreak early last century when people thought the combination might somehow ward off infection. And margaritas were Mexican only in the sense that during Prohibition, the club crowd crossed the border into Mexico to get their favorite American cocktail, the daisy. The Spanish word for daisy? Margarita.

But according to legend, the first blue agave grew on the grave of the Mayan god Quetzalcoatl's lover, Mayahuel. And the plant's sweet nectar, revealed when lightning split that first plant in half, was a gift from the gods. Centuries before the Spaniards arrived in the New World, Mexico's indigenous people were cultivating the plant and fermenting the nectar for use in religious rituals.

Today, agaves are still grown in Jalisco, Mexico, in the lowlands near Tequila and the highlands of Los Altos, near Guadalajara. Like Champagne, tequila is named for its place of origin. A distilled spirit cannot be called tequila unless it is made from blue agave grown in specific areas of Mexico.

So the first thing Rubin looks for on a label are the words "100 percent agave" and the NOM., the number that identifies the distillery.

"If 100 percent agave is not on the label somewhere," he says, "I'm definitely not going to drink it — it's mixto tequila, 51 percent agave and the other 49 percent is caramel coloring, sugar liquor and corn liquor."

But the real thing is made from agave pinas, which are cooked in stone ovens or modern autoclaves, then crushed to release the juices. And those terms connoisseurs bandy about — blanco, reposado and anejo — tell you how long the spirit has aged.

The variety is endless. Rubin compares a visit to a tequila distillery to a trip to Napa. The distillery is surrounded by agave and the workers are artisans, who toss around winelike terms.

At the distilleries, blanco tequila — the purest form of tequila, aged only briefly — is served with sliced cucumbers, mangos and jicama, sprinkled with salt, lime juice and chile de arbol peppers.

"Literally, the most casual appetizer in the world," says Rubin. "And guacamole, any type of seviche or seafood salad works great with blancos."

Half of Weir's new book is devoted to tequila cocktails, not just margaritas, but icy, whipped confections that use blanco tequila and smoky, jalapeno-infused creations that call for anejo. But the other half is all about pairing tequila with food that's true to the spirit, so to speak, of the spirit.

A chilled honeydew-lime soup or the puff pastry-wrapped chorizo hand pies get a generous splash of blanco tequila, while the Mexican chocolate souffles revel in reposado and the ladyfingers in her Tequila-Mi-Su are soaked in anejo.

"It's very much like wine," she says. "If you're cooking with it, there is no doubt that it's actually going to match up. It really just brings out the best qualities in both the dish and the drink."

At Maria Maria, the Walnut Creek, Calif., restaurant inspired by Carlos Santana's music and south-of-the-border flavors, Rick Delamain likes to pair reposado — the mellow flavors imparted by a two to 12 month aging in oak barrels make it his favorite — with grilled meats, braised short ribs or anything in a mole sauce. And anejo or reserve anejo — tequilas which are aged a year or more — find their way into desserts too.

Maria Maria's tequila bar features a mixture of 100 percent blue agave tequilas from both big name and small boutique distilleries, such as Clase Azul. Now they've added hibiscus-infused Rose Angel, says Delamain, a "more on the cutting edge" tequila which is aged in port barrels for two months.

But the best way to sample the nectar of the blue agave is with a tequila tasting. Taste a flight of reposados, for example, or blancos. Or try something a little more unorthodox. Rubin says his staff likes to come up with unusual tasting themes.

"Let's taste the tequilas," he says, "from every distillery that has a woman owner, president or master distiller. Or all the tequilas made using a traditional stone tahona to crush the agaves — a big lava stone. Or all the tequilas that are family owned."

Rubin pauses to laugh.

"Or," he says, "let's taste all the tequilas that people bring to my party for free."