What is another word for mescal?

Pronunciation: [mˈɛskə͡l] (IPA)

Mescal is a type of distilled alcohol made from the agave plant and is also known as mezcal or mezcal tequila. This smoky and flavorful drink has gained popularity in recent years as a trendy spirit for cocktails and sipping. There are several synonyms for mescal such as agave spirit, agave liquor, tequila, pulque, and sotol. These beverages all share a common ingredient, the agave plant, and are distilled using similar methods. However, they each have unique flavors and characteristics that make them stand out from one another. Regardless of their differences, they each offer a taste of Mexico's rich cultural heritage.

Synonyms for Mescal:

What are the hypernyms for Mescal?

A hypernym is a word with a broad meaning that encompasses more specific words called hyponyms.
  • Other hypernyms:

    alcohol, alcoholic beverage, liquor, spirits, intoxicating drink, fermented beverage, Agave-based Beverage.

What are the hyponyms for Mescal?

Hyponyms are more specific words categorized under a broader term, known as a hypernym.

What are the holonyms for Mescal?

Holonyms are words that denote a whole whose part is denoted by another word.

What are the meronyms for Mescal?

Meronyms are words that refer to a part of something, where the whole is denoted by another word.

Usage examples for Mescal

He would have exclaimed even more if he had witnessed the mescal experiment, that is briefly mentioned in the letter that follows.
"The Letters of William James, Vol. II"
William James
"Your mescal probably killed him," said Rodrigo indifferently.
"The Missourian"
Eugene P. (Eugene Percy) Lyle
When I had taken my place upon the dais, my wives came forward one by one, and kissing me on the brow, offered me sweetmeats and meal cakes in golden platters, and cocoa and mescal in golden cups.
"Montezuma's Daughter"
H. Rider Haggard

Famous quotes with Mescal

  • Manuel Mercado Acosta is an indio from the mountains of Durango. His father operated a mescal distillery before the revolutionaries drove him out. He met my mother while riding a motorcycle in El Paso. Juana Fierro Acosta is my mother. She could have been a singer in a Juarez cantina but instead decided to be Manuel’s wife because he had a slick mustache, a fast bike and promised to take her out of the slums across from the Rio Grande. She had only one demand in return for the two sons and three daughters she would bear him: “No handouts. No relief. I never want to be on welfare.” I doubt he really promised her anything in a very loud, clear voice. My father was a horsetrader even though he got rid of both the mustache and the bike when FDR drafted him, a wetback, into the U.S. Navy on June 22, 1943. He tried to get into the Marines, but when they found out he was a good swimmer and a non-citizen they put him in a sailor suit and made him drive a barge in Okinawa. We lived in a two-room shack without a floor. We had to pump our water and use kerosene if we wanted to read at night. But we never went hungry. My old man always bought the pinto beans and the white flour for the tortillas in 100-pound sacks which my mother used to make dresses, sheets and curtains. We had two acres of land which we planted every year with corn, tomatoes and yellow chiles for the hot sauce. Even before my father woke us, my old ma was busy at work making the tortillas at 5:00 A.M. while he chopped the logs we’d hauled up from the river on the weekends.
    Oscar Zeta Acosta
  • Suddenly he saw them, the bottles of aguardiente, of anís, of jerez, of Highland Queen, the glasses, a babel of glasses—towering, like the smoke from the train that day—built to the sky, then falling, the glasses toppling and crashing, falling downhill from the Generalife Gardens, the bottles breaking, bottles of Oporto, tinto, blanco, bottles of Pernod, Oxygènée, absinthe, bottles smashing, bottles cast aside, falling with a thud on the ground in parks, under benches, beds, cinema seats, hidden in drawers at Consulates, bottles of Calvados dropped and broken, or bursting into smithereens, tossed into garbage heaps, flung into the sea, the Mediterranean, the Caspian, the Caribbean, bottles floating in the ocean, dead Scotchmen on the Atlantic highlands—and now he saw them, smelt them, all, from the very beginning—bottles, bottles, bottles, and glasses, glasses, glasses, of bitter, of Dubonnet, of Falstaff, Rye, Johnny Walker, Vieux Whiskey blanc Canadien, the apéritifs, the digestifs, the demis, the dobles, the noch ein Herr Obers, the et glas Araks, the tusen taks, the bottles, the bottles, the beautiful bottles of tequila, and the gourds, gourds, gourds, the millions of gourds of beautiful mescal . . .
    Malcolm Lowry

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