There are cocktail bars today that seem almost church-like - hallowed spaces where the faithful come to taste and engage in acts of exegesis, analyzing every nuance and extolling how spirit and bitters come together in the glass.
The margarita is not a drink of such bars.
Like most cocktails, the margarita - a combination of tequila, lime and triple sec that has been around since at least the 1930s, with a roster of claimants to its invention - has been endlessly upgraded and complicated by the modern craft cocktail movement. And there are serious and sublime agave spirit bars, in Mexico and domestically, that treat agave spirits, tequila and especially mezcal, as the complex and varied spirits they are.
Still, the vast volume of margaritas is still shaken up and slurped down at countless summer parties, mid-tier bars and Mexican restaurants, places with sunny patios and bottomless baskets of chips and salsa. The blender whirs, the sour mix splooshes and Roberto's your tío. The deepest contemplation you'll be doing is wondering how you're going to get that guacamole stain out of your T-shirt.
But in New Orleans recently, I popped into Vals, the gas station-turned-Mexican-restaurant started by the team that runs celebrated cocktail haven Cure, and we got a round of margaritas that reminded me how good the drink can be. Vals' frozen margarita was perfectly balanced - tart, sweet, the spirit gentle but present in the flavor, complemented by its Tajín chile-lime-salt rim.
As I sipped, I considered the various mediocre-ritas I've encountered - the too-diluted, the cloying, those dragged down by the lemon Pledge flavor of bad sour mix or Splitting Headache brand tequila. Of late, though, the most common problem, for me, has arrived in the form of a relative newcomer: the spicy margarita, in which the heat of chiles is added to the classic template.
The spicy marg is a drink that, done well, is everything I want in warmer weather. The tart-sweet-booze balance takes on a new dimension when peppers enter the scene. Incorporated well, they add complementary flavor and a zing of welcome heat. Overdone, you can end up with a stunt drink, the sort of thing base-jumpers would sip as they plunge off skyscrapers, yelling "EXTREME!" into each other's GoPros.
Inviting chiles to your margarita is like asking a newbie to your longstanding happy hour: Will they get along with your other friends? Will they dominate the conversation? Will they throw their weight around? If a fight occurs, how do you get guacamole out of cotton?