3 Recipes for the Mexican Best Beer Cocktail

When trying to pin down precisely what the Michelada is, even the word “Michelada” fails us. 

Depending on where you go in Mexico, an order for a Michelada will be answered with radically different results, containing anything from a squeeze of lime juice to a cup of tomato juice to a savory stew of beef broth. It’s reminiscent of the word “sandwich,” which could mean a turkey club or possibly ice cream between two cookies, but also perhaps a hot dog, and if so, come to mention it, why not a Pop Tart? 

In Mexico City, a Michelada is beer with salt, lime, and ice (though that same preparation is called simply Chelada in the Yucatan and Suero in Oaxaca). Elsewhere, the word Michelada will return a beer served with sour plum or small pickled onions, or perhaps chamoy, or most likely, some combination of lime and tomato juices, Maggi, hot sauce, and/or salsa inglesa (worcestershire sauce). There are reports of some variations taking a detour through a whole pack of shrimp-flavored instant ramen. It’s a kaleidoscope, and with all such things, it’s best to get back to basics, to establish some ground truth.

What is a Michelada? It is always beer, and always adulterated, at minimum, with some kind of acidity, and some kind of salt. That doesn’t give us much of a frame to build on, but I’d argue that there is one more iron-clad necessity, the thing that instigated its creation to begin with: The Michelada must be stupendously, deliriously refreshing. As best we can tell, the word is a portmanteau of mi chela helada, which translates to something like “my frosty beer,” and I therefore stipulate that it must contain ice. Its entire reason for existing is that Mexico is goddamn hot, and refreshment can’t always wait for the work to be done. If I’m pouring sweat in the afternoon but I still have things to do, I’m not drinking a Margarita—not because it wouldn’t be great, but because whatever I was trying to accomplish before that Margarita, I will likely not be accomplishing after it. A proper drink tends to derail you. But a 4.5 percent beer, further softened with lime, hot sauce and ice? Please. Micheladas give us strength.

Beyond that, as far as I’m concerned, it’s open season. Micheladas, like their closest cousin, the Bloody Mary, are idiosyncratic and are subject to deeply personal tastes, and any attempt to codify an authoritative or “best” one is destined to fail. Therefore, all we can do is offer a road map, a small taxonomy, and a few admittedly subjective tips on how to proceed. 

As far as we’re concerned, Micheladas fall into three camps: Red, green, and minimalist.

The Red Version

This is your most classic version, and the one that most resembles a Bloody Mary. Across my tests, though, I universally preferred omitting the tomato component (like tomato juice, V8, or Clamato), as I felt like it interfered with the pure refreshing qualities I was after. I think you get plenty of savoriness from the Worcestershire (I also found Maggi to be a weaker form of Worcestershire and mostly redundant). In terms of basic architecture, you need that savory kick from the Worcestershire, complemented with lime juice, and hot sauce to your liking. As for the orange, I felt like it brightened the final product wonderfully, making it a bit sunnier. Note that some talented mixology people add orange but also simple syrup to the Michelada—I do not find this to be an improvement. It’s more cocktail-like, certainly, but the sweetness, for me, is strange and out of place.

Classic Michelada

Using a bit of lime, moisten the rim of a pint glass, and roll in Tajin, then give a knock or two to shake off any excess. Fill with ice and liquid ingredients, topping last with beer, and a healthy pinch of salt. You’ll likely have a bit of beer left in the can—that’s great, just keep topping off with beer as you drink it down.

The Green Version

A Michelada verde, which is to say, with a green spice and herbs instead of red ones, is an utterly distinct experience, but a wonderful one. I’ve had (and indeed made) all kinds of versions of this, but my absolute favorite is also the simplest, made by bartender Jesse Ross in San Diego, where the constant warmth and proximity to Mexico keeps the Micheladas honest.

Michelada Verde

Ross makes these in batches, blending a pint of pineapple juice with handfuls of the herbs and a whole serrano, filtering the solids out, then using 2.5 oz. of the green batch with a half lime and top with beer. This is advisable for larger groups. The above recipe and the following instructions are for a single serving: Muddle herbs and peppers into the pineapple juice, and let infuse for two to three minutes, then strain off the solids and combine in a tall glass with ice, pinch of salt, and beer. Across a half dozen styles of beer, I preferred Tecate for this, which—how do I say this nicely?—provides the structure for the drink without too much interfering character or flavor in the beer itself.

The Minimalist Version

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As mentioned, if I’m sweaty and hot and there’s no end in sight, this is the biggest gun in my arsenal, and my vote for literally the most refreshing drink I know. So much so that I save it for when I’m too warm—if it’s the height of summer but if I’m sitting comfortably in the shade, I don’t want this drink, or at least, I don’t crave it. When you’re overheating, though, there’s nothing better.

Chelada

Add lime and ice to a tall glass. Pour over beer, give it a stir or two to combine, and sprinkle a healthy pinch of salt on top. As for my insistence on Corona—I have no idea whether this is any kind of objective assessment or whether it just reminds me of my wayward youth, but I feel somewhat strongly that Corona is the perfect beer for this. Corona is already an incomplete experience without lime juice—this just takes that idea to its natural conclusion.