Taking a Life in the Valley of Mexico

I’ve been told to prepare myself for what is to come. “Taking a life is not something to be taken lightly”, is how Chef Marco Margain starts us off. We are at Hacienda San Andrés, about an hour outside of Mexico City, with the Popocatépetl volcano observing us from a distance. One of the oldest Haciendas in Mexico, dating back to 1535, this place has seen the construction of the railroad, been used as barracks during the War of Independence, was the study of Diego Rivera’s first known works, and even housed a movie studio at one point. Now, it is home to Marco, his family, and a host of gastronomic projects tied to the native corn varieties and animals of the valley. Among other reasons, we are here for barbacoa, a slow-cooked meat dish originating from the Indigenous peoples of Mexico. Barbacoa refers to both the earth oven cooking method and the meat itself, this time coming from a lamb whose slaughter is imminent. A pit is dug in the ground, filled with embers, lined with agave leaves, and used as an oven to cook meat until tender, generally twelve hours or longer.

While Marco wants Hacienda San Andrés to be well known, he is selective of the types of people and experiences that happen here. “We put one of the properties houses on Booking.com, and a group of German tourists showed up to have a bachelor party. We took it down the next day. This is not the place for that.” What is this place for, then? It is an example of rural gastronomic tourism, a bit more extreme than the taco and margarita tours most gringos in Mexico partake in. For context, the rise in food tourism is having a profound effect in Mexico, with an annual economic impact of MX$183 billion (US$8.9 billion). This has consequences. How people choose to experience a place changes the environment, it’s politics, and can exasperate wealth disparity in an increasingly unequal world. But people like Marco are working to change this reputation and showcase how we can take care of the land, and its animals, without being assholes. At the end of the day, the Hacienda is still a high-end hotel with a prestigious restaurant that wants your tourism dollars, but they want them on their own terms, from those with the right attitude and approach to the land.

Before we begin, our host lights a sizeable white cigarette somewhere between a Marlboro and a cigar. Inside is mapacho, a ceremonial tobacco used during the sacrifice. As we approach where the animals are kept, a growing sense of tension lands over the group. Are we strange for wanting to watch this? We joke that we are excited but not too excited. That would be weird, right? Many animals have been slaughtered on this land long before we got here. This ritual signifies a special occasion and a life-giving part of the natural world. Around 4 PM we arrive at the concrete slab, where a reasonably robust white lamb awaits us. “This lamb has been a bad mother,” Marco says as smoke slips through his lips. “All three of her babies died due to her neglect, which is why she has chosen her for today's sacrifice.” It seems like a good enough reason to me. Marco blows smoke onto the animal's forehead to bless her, and we're off.

The first blade isn't sharp enough, so a second and third are required. As the blood runs out of the animal's exposed neck, Marco’s seven-year-old son, Paolo, grabs the hose. After a few spasms, the body is limp, and the head is removed. The hooves are tied with rope and hung from the makeshift butchery frame. First, the milk sacks are removed, and then the hide. Paolo aims the hose inside the cavity of the animal, causing a pressurized explosion of blood, milk, and water to pop out where the head should be. The dogs are thrilled by this, playing and rolling around in the blood milkshake. I remind myself not to pet them.

Paolo grabs a large metal bowl, not unlike my popcorn bowl back home, only now filled with blood he whisks to prevent congealing. Paolo moves with vigor, shadowed by a mischievous, dirty-minded puppy slurping up every drop that is flung from the bowl. Paolo is the ring-leader in training, playing Rocky Balboa with the lifeless lamb as it swings back and forth, punching one-two, one-two-three. A flurry of energy and questions, this child is of his own reality.

Have you ever watched all of the shit be cleaned out of an intestine? My god, it's a lot of shit. We watch solemnly; I want to get closer but don't want to get in the way. This is probably not a time to be worried about politeness; I should work on that. Once the animal has been thoroughly gutted, it is plopped into a wheelbarrow and brought back to the main house for butchering. All of the ingestible insides are put into a bowl to be cooked in the barbacoa. Marco and his team dig a pit, line the walls with agave leaves to separate the meat from the embers, and leave it for the earth to heat up.

We gather around the barbacoa pit after dinner once darkness has arrived. First, the pot of consommé is seasoned gracefully by Paolo and then lowered into the burning embers. Next, the head, the legs, the ribs, the bowl of guts that has now been stuffed back into the stomach, and finally, everything is draped with caul fat lace. The smoke from the pit is so intense Marco is choking on it. A bottle of mezcal is passed around, and we are instructed to sip it and spit onto the offering before it is wrapped in the agave leaves and left overnight to burn. I take too big of a swig, but I don't think the lamb will mind. Once the lid is on, we build a fire on top to keep the wild dogs from smelling the cooking flesh. It will be watched all night but never opened.

We return to the burial place the following day, it looks much kinder in the daylight. The lid is removed, and I am gifted a piece of stomach meat on a homemade corn tortilla. No sauce, no additives, just salt and sweat. The fat drips through my fingers and begins to harden, a sign I am not eating fast enough. I try to memorize every bite, but the only thing I can remember now is that it was the best thing I've ever eaten.

Marco says I appreciate it more because I was part of the process, but I think there was magic in those embers. As the day ends, he leaves us with some final words of wisdom. “We take care of our animals. And when it comes time to sacrifice them, we do not do it without reason, without purpose. We do it with great respect and ask permission from Mother Nature, who has given them to us. They are not ours, but we do depend on them to nourish us. I believe that the purpose of sacrifice is to return to what is natural.”

Also Published at: https://gutsmagazine.substack.com/p/taking-a-life-in-the-valley-of-mexico