By Leila Molitor.
Every city has a tell. In New York, one of them is mezcal.
Not the liquid. The people.
Mezcal people do not drink mezcal. They study it. They explain it. They correct you while you’re mid sip. They do not ask if you like it. They ask if you understand it.
They speak in notes and regions and villages they’ve never been to. They say “smoky” like it’s a moral position. They talk about agave the way others talk about lineage. Everything is ancestral. Everything is intentional. Everything is somehow spiritual and served in a low light bar with no sign.
They are gatekeepers, but politely. They won’t tell you you’re wrong. They’ll just pause, smile, and say “interesting” when you order the wrong one.
Mezcal people love discovery, but only if they discovered it first. The bar they go to is their bar. The bottle they like is no longer good once it shows up on another menu. Scarcity is part of the flavor profile.
And yes, they are always dating your best friend. Or your ex. Or someone you once texted. It’s not personal. It’s just how these circles work. Mezcal bars are small. So are the worlds built around them.
This isn’t hate. It’s recognition.
Because mezcal didn’t do this. People did. The drink became a badge. A signal. A way to say “I know things” without saying much at all. New York runs on these micro scenes. Coffee people. Natural wine people. Mezcal people. The city loves nothing more than turning taste into identity.
The funny part is that mezcal itself is generous. It’s communal. It’s meant to be shared. Passed. Poured without explanation.
Somewhere along the way, the act got louder than the pour.
Mayamezcal – East Village
Las’ Lap – Lower East Side
Añejo – Hells Kitchen
The Cabinet Mezcal Bar – East Village
Casa Pública – Williamsburg
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