What Sort of Monster Would Put Mint in a Drink Made With Chicken
What Sort of Monster Would Put Mint in a Drink Made With Chicken
Pájaro Azul in Bolívar Province
It took four men to haul Tobías Azogue’s sugar mill onto the truck bed, its tap dripping liquor on their hands. I climbed up after them, grabbing onto a banana plant to keep myself stable. To the right, tourists tip-toed on the Salinas salt mine. To the left, there was mayhem in the town plaza.
It was a Monday in early February, the peak of the Carnival celebration in Ecuador, and the relative order of that morning’s parade was giving way to something more anarchic as the afternoon wore on. Teenagers took up strategic rooftop positions, dropping water balloons on unsuspecting pedestrians. Kids armed with canisters of foam sprayed people and things at random. Borrachos trampled on half-eaten potatoes scattered across the ground. A round man in a dress danced alone with a baby doll, his identity hidden by a black Mama Negra mask. Azogue and his friends prepared to set off for another town; their work here stirring up good-natured trouble—distributing a homemade brew of Bolívar Province’s most famous spirit, Pájaro Azul—was apparently over.
Before taking off, Azogue, a carpenter from La Palma, described to me his process for preparing Pájaro Azul. He’d picked up the hobby four years ago on a trip to a hacienda in Echeandía, a subtropical canton one hour to the west, where the Andes meet the Tropical Lowlands.
“We spend eight days cutting the sugarcane, milling it, and turning it into guarapo,” he said, using the word for sugercane juice. “After the whole concoction ferments, we return again to cook the venilla”—the leftover sugarcane rind—”and out comes the puro.”
Azogue’s friend leaned over, reminding him to talk into the tape recorder.
“Then we add oranges, strawberries, grapes, apricots, plums, and apples,” he continued. “And some people”—he said the words with a hint of disdain—“like to add coconut and mint.”
Various herbs are also crushed and mixed in, including anís. Bits of beef and chicken are added near the end (“vitamins,” as Azogue called them, and also the inspiration for the name pájaro, or bird).
He poured me half a shot in a disposable medicine cup.
“You like it? he said.
Given all the ingredients, I was surprised, to be honest, that this version of Pájaro Azul tasted pretty much like a standard aguardiente: vaguely poisonous licorice.
“Que chévere,” I said.
Then we were done. I took Azogue’s picture and left the truck. His friends hopped in the cabin to drive away, Azogue still sitting next to the mill, grinning and waving.
My girlfriend Maritza and I walked back to the plaza, ducking grenades of foam. Soon clouds rolled in, blinding the town at 12,000 feet above sea level, and we took cover from the rain under a cafe awning on the edge of the square. We watched as neighborhood groups from around the province danced, and from a nearby stage a panel of judges waited to assign a cash prize to the day’s best performer.