You’ll taste rare Oaxacan chocolates—from pure cacao to sweetened bars—guided by someone whose family has made chocolate for generations. Hear personal stories from the Zoque tradition, try cocoa toast with organic bread during a relaxed break, and finish with a house-made drink. This is less about just tasting chocolate and more about feeling part of an old story for a couple hours.
The experience lasts about 2 hours.
Yes, it’s ideal for vegans as well as families and anyone interested in chocolate culture.
You’ll try 15-20 types of cacao and chocolate plus a cocoa toast sandwich on sourdough bread.
Yes, infants can join if seated on an adult’s lap or in a stroller; there’s also another experience recommended for kids.
Yes, you’ll finish with a house-made cocoa-based drink as part of the experience.
The cacao is endemic to Oaxaca’s region and tied to the host’s Zoque family heritage.
Yes, public transportation options are available close to the meeting point.
Yes, service animals are allowed during this activity.
Your visit includes guided tastings of 15–20 types of regional cacao and chocolates (from pure to sweetened varieties), a cocoa toast sandwich made with organic sourdough bread during a relaxed break, plus a final house drink—all led by someone from an Oaxacan Zoque chocolate-making family in an intimate small group setting.
The first thing that hit me was the smell—warm, almost earthy, but sweeter than I expected. We’d just ducked into a quiet space off one of Oaxaca’s busy streets, and our host, who introduced himself as part of a Zoque chocolate family, was already grinding something by hand. The sound was soft but steady. I tried not to stare at his hands (they moved so fast), but honestly, it was kind of mesmerizing. He grinned when he caught me watching and said something about how every batch starts with patience—“paciencia,” he repeated, like a little lesson.
We started the tasting with pure cacao—no sugar at all. It surprised me; bitter but not harsh, more like the smell after rain than anything I’d eaten before. Our guide explained how this is what his grandparents would have tasted growing up in the Isthmus region. There were maybe fifteen or twenty tiny bowls lined up, each one a different shade of brown or red. Some had local honey stirred in; others used agave or even piloncillo. At one point I tried to pronounce “Tejate” (the traditional drink), and Li—the woman next to me—laughed so hard she nearly spilled hers. I still think about that taste: cool, nutty, almost floral.
Somewhere in the middle we took a break for a sandwich made with cocoa toast and sourdough bread—honestly, I didn’t expect to like it as much as I did. The bread was chewy and warm, and there was this faint chocolate aroma that lingered on my fingers afterward. The whole time our host kept weaving in stories about his family’s traditions and why certain beans are only grown in specific Oaxacan valleys. It wasn’t rushed; if anything, it felt like we could’ve stayed all afternoon listening to him talk about harvests and old recipes.
The last thing we tried was their house drink—rich but not heavy—and then suddenly it was over. Walking back outside into the bright Oaxaca sun felt strange after all those deep flavors and stories swirling around my head. Sometimes you don’t realize how much you’re carrying until you step out into daylight again.

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