Oaxaca, the Morning After the Mezcal

A man from the land of rakı learns humility from a smoky clear liquid.

I am from Istanbul, where we drink rakı slowly over long dinners, so I thought I understood strong clear spirits that smell of something. Then a mezcalero in Oaxaca poured me a tobalá, and a cuixe, and a tepeztate, and I understood nothing at all.

The morning after, my head felt like a clay pot somebody was gently tapping. The cure, said the hotel receptionist with zero sympathy, was a tlayuda and a market juice. So I went to the Mercado Benito Juárez and drank a giant glass of orange, beet and celery at a stall called Jugos La Resurrección, a name that felt personal.

Then breakfast proper at Comedor Doña Sombra: a tlayuda the size of a bicycle wheel, crisp, smeared with asiento, black beans and quesillo, with an egg on top for the soul. I spent the afternoon at the Jardín Etnobotánico behind Santo Domingo, among giant columnar cacti that stood in rows like a jury. The tour is guided and I understood one word in four, but the word "agave" came up a lot and I flinched every time.

At sunset I sat in the Zócalo under the laurel trees, ate corn on a stick, and drank only water. A mariachi played for the table next to me. I tipped him to keep it gentle.

Lived February 21, 2026.