Booze Reviews | El Jimador Blaco

Booze Reviews | El Jimador Blaco

I bought my bottle of El Jimador Blaco on a Thursday afternoon, dreading the prospect of consuming the sheer volume of a full box of beers. While perusing the RTD section of Leith Liquor, inspiration struck me like a bolt of lightning: spirits were the answer to my problem.

Pleased with my cunning plan, I scoured the shelves for some suitable piss. Scotch was beyond the reach of my funding, as was mixer, which made vodka an unappealing prospect. Rum was off the menu given a near death experience while in High School. That left one contender, somewhat out of left field: tequila. Having only ever drank the cheapest bilge water sold at Suburbia and Catacombs, I didn’t know the first thing about it. I chose El Jimador in the vain hope that its lack of colour would be gentle on me.

14 hours later I woke up, my breath stinking of ciggies, my phone nowhere to be seen, and my left index finger broken. No memory could be conjured to explain any of this.

At the start, Old Jimmy went down surprisingly easily. Being a white tequila, there was no burn, simply light hints of citrus. It was as if I was drinking water with those flavoured lime drops. Drinking out of a glass, the plan was certainly coming together. I was tispy without all that much effort. Spurred on by this success, I decided it would be prudent to skull a third of the bottle, saving me from spending money at the bar. My plan worked! At the bar, I attempted to buy a pint. But after falling headfirst down the stairs on my way to grab one, the barman refused to serve me. Great success.

From there on out, my memories get hazier. I possess no memory of leaving the bar. Flashes of beer pong played at an unknown flat with unknown people appear through the fog. Yakking in a concerning variety of bushes was in there somewhere, as well as running away in shame from the passersby that asked if I needed help. I wish I didn’t remember the very wounding chat I had with the man in Poppa's Pizza, who clearly just wanted me to leave so he could go home. Sometimes, when people make good pizza, you just have to tell them, at least 20 times.

So, here I sit. Lying in my bed, at 4pm the day after. No phone, a finger short and praying to God in the vain hope that he may smite me out of pity. I’m unsure how I feel about Jimador. On the one hand, it does what is meant to do, and does it extremely well. I got fucked up, no bloat, no effort. When drinking has become a chore, and the prospect of drinking a box doesn’t seem worth the effort, Jimador is there for you.

However, I wonder if mere mortals were ever meant to possess such a powerful drink. Can I trust myself to maintain control if I drink it again? Can one man truly wield such incredible power and remain uncorrupted by it? If you choose to walk this path, do not do so lightly.

You have been warned.


Tasting notes: light hints of citrus, afternotes of extreme existential regret

Froth level: the shame of returning to Poppa’s Pizza and asking if they have my phone

Pairs well with: the Sigma Grindset, self-loathing (preferably both)

Taste rating: 7/10, honestly not bad


This article first appeared in Issue 26, 2021.
Posted 3:24pm Sunday 10th October 2021 by Abraham Drinkin'.