The boozy, two-ingredient carajillo has its roots in 19th-century Spain, its origins sometimes traced back to Andalusian morning rituals, or Cuban plantations, where spiked coffee was used to get through, or end, the days. Back then, it was commonly made with brandy or rum.
Yet, despite their long history, carajillos were fairly unknown in Mexico outside of the Spanish diaspora. “Fifteen years ago, you had to explain to the bartender what a carajillo was and how to make it,” remembers Carlos Fájer, a Mexico City–based hospitality executive. “It was seen as an old timer’s drink. Today, it’s one of the most popular orders in the city, thanks to la sobremesa.”
The Mexican tradition of sobremesa is the post-meal hangout, a time spent with either coffee or a digestivo—conveniently, the carajillo blends the two. Today, espresso replaces the coffee and the spirit of choice is Licor 43, a golden-hued, sweet Spanish liqueur.
“It’s the simplest drink to make,” says Jake Lindeman, co-owner of Mexico City’s Cicatriz, a coffee shop by day and local-favorite bar at night. That simplicity has led to a wide variety of takes on the drink, popping up on bar menus across the city. According to Fájer, there are variations made with everything from mazapán (a Mexican sweet made of powdered almonds) to rompope (a Mexican eggnog). Lindeman, meanwhile, has kept it simple: brandy, cream and a shot of espresso. For almost seven years, he served this version as an off-menu order.
However, when Lindeman finally added the classic to the Cicatriz menu this spring, it contained none of the original ingredients.
The latest version swaps espresso for cold-brew concentrate, ditches the brandy, drops the cream and subs in a reposado tequila, yielding a rich, thick, chocolatey drink served up in a coupe with an expressed orange peel. Lindeman went through five iterations of his carajillo in order to land on his spec. The updated version is designed to provide a jolt of energy, a start to one’s night rather than the luxurious (and languid) sips synonymous with drinking the traditional carajillo, which is often served in an oversized snifter so jam-packed with ice that drinking it becomes the activity in and of itself.
Lindeman decided to include reposado tequila to incorporate a spirit native to Mexico. It was important to him to use a responsibly sourced agave spirit. “Mass-market tequila is a very unsustainable product that uses terrible practices like diffusers and underripe agave,” he says. Lindeman favors Cascahuín’s tequila for his carajillo. “They do a lot of interesting products and experiment with the fermenting process. Working with tequila brands that are serious about sustainability is something that’s important to us.”
The tequila brings out spicy, peppery notes in the cocktail; the end result is a drier, more complex take on the classic. But what is perhaps the biggest change from Lindeman’s original recipe is the bar’s shift from espresso to cold brew.
“Pulling espresso is fairly labor-intensive. You have to drop everything [to] go over to the [espresso] machine, which is timed,” he says. “When we’re really busy, you can over-pull shots, under-pull shots. That creates a lot of variation in the quality of the espresso.” Using cold-brew concentrate, meanwhile, enables more consistent service.
“Ours is one of the best [carajillos], because there’s not a lot of places that really care about coffee and really care about cocktails,” says Lindeman, who began Cicatriz with his sister Scarlett, and originally envisioned their endeavor solely as a coffee shop. They outgrew their original plans and added an evening bar service in order to meet neighborhood demand.
Cicatriz sources its coffee beans from a rotating roster of small, independent roasters in Mexico. They lean toward sweet, balanced profiles that are versatile across Cicatriz’s menu; their current offering is from Pólvora.
To finish the drink, the mix is bolstered with a measure of Kahlúa and balanced by saline solution. Cicatriz bartenders pre-batch the combination, then, when it’s ready to be served, it’s shaken together with ice, then strained and served in a coupe glass.
In recent years, the carajillo’s popularity has exploded in Mexico City and in the U.S. Mexico City native and hospitality executive Adriana Zermeño has a simple explanation for the rise: “Somos cafeteros,” she says. “We’re coffee lovers.”
And that is exactly why Cicatriz, a coffee shop turned neighborhood bar, is uniquely qualified to reimagine the drink. Still, the bar recognizes that some guests will want the classic, sobremesa-style.
“There’s certain people who try ours and really dislike it because they want the real classic thing,” says Lindeman, who obliges. “We offer that, too. You give the people what they want.”
