By Marco Shalma

Here’s the thing nobody says out loud because they’re scared of getting iced out of the holiday group chat: most coquito isn’t good. There. It’s out. Take a breath. The world didn’t end. Your tia might, but the world won’t.

Every December the same thing happens. Someone shows up proudly holding a repurposed plastic bottle — an old Snapple, a Poland Spring, a Goya coconut milk can cut into a funnel situation — and announces they “made coquito this year.” Suddenly the room fills with fear. Because you know the odds of that bottle tasting good are maybe twenty percent on a good year.

We sip it because we’re polite. We sip it because we don’t want to insult someone’s “secret recipe.” We sip it because the bottle was forced into our hand like a religious pamphlet. But inside we’re thinking, “Why does this taste like pancake batter with a drinking problem?”

Bad coquito is everywhere. Too thick. Too sweet. Too much cinnamon. Too much rum. Not enough rum. Watery. Chalky. Mysteriously warm. Questionably grainy. A texture that feels like your digestive system is negotiating its contract. And the worst part? Everyone lies. Everyone forces that “Mmm, wow, so good” voice that only comes out during hostage situations and baby showers.

Let’s tell the truth.

Good coquito is a masterpiece. Silky. Balanced. Cold. Creamy without giving you PTSD. The kind made by someone’s abuela who measures nothing but somehow nails it every year. The kind you sip slow. The kind you pray shows up again next December. That version? Untouchable.

But most of what circulates in New York during the holidays is not that. Let’s go borough by borough.

In The Bronx, coquito is currency. You will absolutely get a DM from someone you went to high school with, selling “premium batches” out of foil-covered trays on Instagram Stories. Some are solid. Some taste like a scented candle melted into a drink.

In Upper Manhattan, half the coquito drops are delicious and the other half feel like someone blended holiday potpourri. Again: percentages.

In Queens, your odds get better. Queens is the Olympic Village of immigrant kitchens. If you find the right family, that coquito will change your year. But even there, get the wrong bottle and you’re fighting for your life by sip three.

In Brooklyn, it’ll be artisanal and cost $29. Does it taste good? Sometimes. Does the jar look great in a photo? Always.

In Staten Island, god bless.

The truth is simple:

We love the idea of coquito more than the average execution of it.

So let’s stop pretending every bottle is sacred. Let’s stop forcing ourselves to finish a serving the size of a baseball. Let’s admit what we already know.

Drink the good stuff proudly.

Pass on the bad stuff quietly.

And stop letting social pressure bully your taste buds.

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