The Chocolate Craze of Colonial Mexico

Once a humble domestic drink, chocolate served as a constant companion to households across the socio-economic spectrum of New Spain, offering not just flavor but function. A quirky custom that managed to find its way into the very heart of daily life, chocolate was as integral to family routines as it was to the whims of the wealthy.

In modest homes, chocolate was the stimulant of choice, particularly for breakfast and after dinner. Morning chocolate? Absolutely! In a world devoid of modern conveniences and mass-produced coffee shops on every corner, chocolate provided the perfect blend of pick-me-up and post-meal comfort. Not quite an indulgence for these families, but a practical drink that stimulated the body and, curiously enough, aided digestion.

For the wealthier echelon, however, the chocolate affair reached a higher level of decadence. The affluent could afford to drink chocolate four or five times a day, turning it into something of an art form, or rather, a lifestyle. It became the beverage du jour for every imaginable occasion: from breakfast to lunch, after dinner, in the mid-afternoon lull, and even as a nightcap. The days of the wealthy were punctuated by chocolate, which was almost a status symbol in liquid form.

In an era where social conventions ruled supreme, offering chocolate was more than an act of hospitality; it was a reflection of one's social etiquette. Visitors to one’s home would expect nothing less than a warm, rich cup of chocolate, ideally accompanied by sweet breads and delightful little sugar cubes molded into decorative figures – a display of both taste and wealth. Refusing a cup was more than just a snub to your host's choice of beverage – it bordered on a social faux pas of insulting proportions.

Travelers too were sent off with chocolate, not as a mere parting gift but as sustenance for the journey ahead. A box of chocolate bars was as practical as it was comforting. After all, it traveled well, didn’t spoil, and gave weary voyagers that much-needed push to continue their trek.

While chocolate reigned supreme in homes, its popularity quickly spilled into the streets, particularly in the urban sprawl of Mexico City. The early 17th century saw the rise of small workshops that catered to this ever-growing demand. These workshops, though modest, were undoubtedly lively hubs of production, turning out both prepared chocolate drinks and the ubiquitous chocolate bars that lined the stalls of city markets.

However, these chocolate sellers often found themselves caught in a tug-of-war with local authorities. In Mexico City, street traders, who had grown in number, were frequently met with the ire of the City Council. Officials, perhaps fearing the chaos of unchecked street commerce or eager to protect the wealthier wholesalers, placed restrictions on these vendors. Prepared chocolate, with all its warm, frothy allure, was often banned from being sold on the streets. Sellers were left to peddle chocolate bars and pastes, often pushing their carts under the watchful eye of the law.

While the street traders hustled to make a living, the true power in the world of chocolate lay with the cocoa wholesalers. This was no ordinary group of merchants. United in purpose and backed by an elusive brotherhood – the name of which, tragically, has been lost to history – these cocoa moguls controlled much of the chocolate trade’s raw materials. In stark contrast to the street vendors, these wholesalers were a solid and formidable economic force, exerting influence that stretched far beyond the humble cup of chocolate.

How a Grinding Mill Transformed Chocolate

It was the year 1652, and the Royal Court of Mexico, ever vigilant in matters of commerce and innovation, granted a unique license to an inventive man named Alonso Razo. His creation? A device that could grind cocoa more efficiently, a chocolate-grinding mill that promised to change the game. For a period of six years, Razo was given the exclusive right to use and manufacture this machine—a privilege guarded fiercely by the penalty of 1,000 pesos and the confiscation of any rival instruments. In an era when chocolate was not just a treat but an essential source of sustenance, this was no small feat.

The significance of this invention cannot be overstated. Chocolate in New Spain was not the rare, luxurious delicacy it was in Europe. It was a staple, found in the hands of the common folk just as easily as the elite. While European nobles sipped their precious cups of hot chocolate in gilded salons, in the streets of New Spain, chocolate flowed freely. It was, as chronicler Juan de Torquemada marveled, a universal drink.

Torquemada, a sharp observer of his time, couldn't hide his astonishment at the sheer scale of chocolate consumption. “There are many shops," he wrote, "with large and small pots full of atole and another drink, made of corn atole and cocoa and other things... sold not only in the markets but on many street corners." This scene, he said, would strike fear into the hearts of those unfamiliar with the vast quantities of chocolate that sustained the people of New Spain. The drink, called chocolate, was embraced by all—indigenous communities and Spanish settlers alike, creating an unexpected bond between conquerors and the conquered.

One might even argue that it was chocolate, more than any other crop, that symbolized the cultural fusion of the colonial era. The indigenous people had long prized cocoa, using it not only in food but also as currency. For them, cocoa was sacred. But after the Spanish conquest, its availability increased and became democratized. What was once an elite privilege now spilled over into the lives of the lower classes, who could finally enjoy the rich, bitter-sweet drink. By the end of the 16th century, the once rare and exotic chocolate was no longer the purview of the elite; it had become a universal drink in New Spain.

And it wasn’t just the commonality of chocolate that stood out, but the way it was prepared and consumed. While in Europe, chocolate was often enjoyed hot and thickened with sugar, in New Spain it was made in countless forms—often cold, mixed with maize, spices, and other native ingredients, creating a variety of chocolate-infused atole drinks. These blends became indispensable to daily sustenance, fusing pre-Columbian traditions with the influence of the Old World.

Yet the rise of chocolate wasn’t just a cultural shift; it was also a logistical challenge. The growing demand for cocoa, especially in the wake of the Spanish colonization and the great epidemics that decimated indigenous populations, necessitated new ways to process and distribute it. Enter Alonso Razo and his cocoa mill. Grinding cocoa beans by hand was labor-intensive, and the need for a more efficient method was pressing. Razo’s invention, though modest in appearance, was a marvel of ingenuity—streamlining production and allowing chocolate to be consumed in even greater quantities.

The Religious Indulgence

Among the friars and nuns of the time, an unexpected vice took hold—a velvety, rich indulgence that was consumed with fervor and, at times, defiance. This vice was not wine, nor was it tobacco or other worldly pleasures. It was chocolate. Yes, the very beverage we sip today in cafés and living rooms, once held a position so revered and controversial within religious orders that it sparked debates, vows, and even quiet rebellions.

To the modern observer, it might seem quaint—nuns and friars sneaking an extra cup of cocoa after vespers. But in the 17th and 18th centuries, chocolate was no laughing matter in the hallowed halls of New Spain’s convents. In fact, it bordered on scandal.

The origins of this chocolate obsession are rooted in necessity—at least, that's how the religious framed it. Unable to partake in other stimulating beverages like wine or beer, they turned to chocolate. And, oh, how they indulged. Some devout souls consumed up to eight cups a day, claiming that the bitter brew fortified them in their rigorous spiritual pursuits. Long hours of prayer, study, and contemplation were said to demand such sustenance. In their defense, they were merely trying to stay awake while communing with the divine.

Yet, this indulgence did not go unnoticed by outsiders. Travelers and observers who visited New Spain were astonished by the sheer volume of chocolate consumed. In their writings, they marveled at the near-religious fervor with which the New Spaniards—and particularly the religious orders—treated the drink. “It is crazy what they value in that land,” one onlooker mused, noting that even the poorest inhabitants seemed to treat chocolate as a staple, almost akin to bread.

Naturally, when something as desirable as chocolate becomes scarce, tensions rise. The religious orders, who had become connoisseurs of the beverage, were particularly vulnerable to fluctuations in cocoa supply. When prices soared due to monopolies or market shifts, their complaints echoed through the land, often with more weight than those of the average civilian. After all, they were not just indulging a personal preference—they were defending a tool essential to their spiritual and intellectual labors (or so they claimed). A merchant of the time captured the gravity of the situation with palpable drama: “One cannot hear without heartbreak the complaints of the inhabitants of these vast regions… in particular those of the poor religious men and women, whenever cocoa rises to an excessive price.”

In their desperation, some religious orders even took matters into their own hands, literally. Many began to cultivate cocoa plantations on the land surrounding their convents, ensuring a steady supply of the coveted beans. For those who couldn’t, the rising cost of chocolate was a sore subject. It became, in many ways, a divine test of patience and endurance—though perhaps not the sort their spiritual founders had in mind.

As with all earthly pleasures, indulgence in chocolate soon earned its share of detractors. While some friars and nuns justified their chocolate consumption as a necessary stimulant, others began to see it as a dangerous temptation. In some convents, chocolate's reputation grew as a drink capable of inflaming passions—hardly an ideal association for those sworn to a life of chastity and restraint.

One of the more curious cases of chocolate prohibition took place within the austere walls of the Carmelite convent of Santa Teresa in Mexico City. There, chocolate had garnered such a reputation for igniting “passions” that the nuns were outright forbidden from consuming it. A novice taking her vows would solemnly declare: “I...make my profession...and I also make a vow not to drink chocolate or cause anyone else to drink it.” Imagine that—an entire vow dedicated to avoiding chocolate, as if the warm, thick beverage might unlock temptations too great to bear.

The determination to keep chocolate out of the convent was not always shared by all, however. In one notable instance, an 18th-century provincial of the Society of Jesus attempted to ban chocolate from his order entirely, believing it to be an unnecessary indulgence. Yet, he met with immediate resistance. The religious, perhaps finding strength in numbers and cocoa beans, stubbornly refused. After some debate, it was concluded that eliminating chocolate was, quite simply, "morally impossible." In their view, chocolate was equivalent to the wine and beer consumed in other regions, a local necessity for sustaining spiritual life. In fact, some students even threatened to leave the Society if chocolate was eradicated—a bold declaration in the context of religious obedience.

A Deliciously Scandalous Affair

Women, in particular, had an insatiable love for this indulgence, turning it into a daily ritual. So ingrained was chocolate in their routine that depriving themselves of it was seen as a genuine hardship—a true "mortification." Whether at official meetings, in social gatherings, or even during solemn religious ceremonies, chocolate made its way into their hands with an audacity that sometimes defied the conventions of the time.

But in 1625, chocolate’s cozy relationship with religious life brewed a controversy that left its mark. The epicenter of the scandal? San Cristóbal de las Casas, where the local bishop, in a fervent attempt to impose stricter discipline, sought to ban the consumption of chocolate during Mass. His efforts, however, were not met with quiet compliance. Instead, he sparked a rebellion of sorts, as women and men alike—sacrilegiously sipping their chocolate—seemed to say, "Take our salvation, but not our cocoa!"

The outrage was not only local. The mere idea of being deprived of chocolate stirred widespread distress. In times of shortage, such as during wars or droughts, New Spain teetered on the edge of chocolate-deprived panic. As cocoa supplies dried up, complaints poured in, and one man found himself in the crosshairs of popular ire: Don Pedro Lorenzo Rodriguez, the mayor of the city at the time. Religious leaders, citizens of every class, and even the humblest residents sent him desperate petitions. The outcry reached a fever pitch, as if the very fabric of society was in danger of unraveling without its daily dose of chocolate.

That chocolate had become a staple of life in New Spain was clear. It wasn't merely a drink; it was a fundamental necessity—equivalent to bread or water. When cocoa prices skyrocketed and supplies dwindled, the local government was forced into action. They regulated the introduction and sale of cocoa with meticulous care, creating ordinances that dictated everything from price per bean to storage conditions. Merchants were scrutinized to ensure fair pricing, and, at times, street sales of cocoa and chocolate were outright banned to prevent waste.

Perhaps the boldest move came in 1635 when the city authorities proposed a cocoa warehouse, where merchants would be required to register and store their grains. The goal was noble: to create a reserve of cocoa that could be tapped into during years of low production, avoiding the chaos of shortages. But after years of deliberation, this ambitious project was rejected by the Royal Court in 1639. The ruling reflected the complexities of colonial politics and the influence of powerful interests that were resistant to change.

Behind this chocolate obsession lay a booming trade. By the mid-16th century, New Spain had become an insatiable consumer of cocoa, prompting the opening of new lands for its cultivation. However, the region's own agricultural output struggled to keep pace with demand. The demographic decline, triggered by disease and exploitation, crippled cocoa-producing areas, leading merchants to look beyond the borders of New Spain for their beloved bean. Initially, supplies were sourced from Guatemala, but by the early 17th century, imports from as far as Guayaquil and Caracas became vital.

Yet this trade was far from straightforward. Royal interests frequently imposed bans on commerce between South America and New Spain, fearing that unrestricted trade would weaken their grip on colonial economies. But smugglers saw an opportunity in this regulatory vacuum. Ships laden with cocoa from Peru and Ecuador would often "involuntarily" find themselves in the ports of New Spain. The royal officials, suspicious yet powerless to stop the flow, noted with dry sarcasm that every ship bore the unmistakable marks of a storm, conveniently explaining their arrival.

It wasn't until the 18th century that the Crown relaxed its stranglehold on colonial trade. This shift allowed New Spain to receive a steady and sufficient supply of cocoa from its southern neighbors. In a twist of fate, the market that had once lived in fear of shortage now boasted a modest surplus, allowing the prized product to be re-exported to the Old World.

In the end, the story of chocolate in New Spain is not just about indulgence; it's about economics, politics, and the lengths people will go to satisfy their cravings. Whether smuggled by ship, hoarded by merchants, or consumed in defiance of ecclesiastical decrees, chocolate occupied a unique space in the hearts—and stomachs—of the New Spaniards. And while the bishop of Chiapas may have been scandalized, history has shown that chocolate, like so many pleasures in life, has a way of winning in the end.

In-text Citation: (González de la Vara, 2018, pp. 291-308)