Perhaps it was the Catalonian sun. Or maybe it was too much Spanish partying. More specifically, I wondered if it was the two Chartreuse-spiked Mamadetas I’d drunk that morning. But for the first time in my life, I fainted.

I was in Tarragona, a town on Spain’s Mediterranean coast an hour’s train ride west of Barcelona, for the Santa Tecla festival, a nearly two-week celebration that takes place every September to honor the town’s patron saint in the form of noisy parades, Catalonia’s iconic castells—or human towers—and lots of drinking and eating. It was on the final day of the festival, when I was among thousands of others in the town’s main square awaiting the castell competition, that I started to feel woozy. Within a few seconds, I collapsed. 

Only moments earlier, I was at one of several stalls that line the square ordering a Mamadeta. Admittedly, this was an odd request, as in Catalonian, the term means “blow job.” Yet in Tarragona, it also refers to the signature drink of Santa Tecla, a highlighter-yellow mix of lemon granita, green Chartreuse and yellow Chartreuse. Over the previous couple of days, I’d enjoyed a few Mamadetas with no serious repercussions. The drink was sweet, tart, subtly herbaceous and refreshing—seemingly innocuous. During the festival, people were downing Mamadetas in plastic cups or in Chartreuse-branded containers that resembled bicycle squirt bottles, complete with a lanyard for hands-free drinking. (I was told by more than one person that 2024 was the 30th anniversary of this particular vessel.) Was this festive, silly, sugary drink the source of my fainting spell? I didn’t think so. But I did wonder how such an iconic herbal liqueur made by monks in France became so intrinsically linked with a festival in Spain. 

The history of Chartreuse can be traced back to the early 17th century, when Carthusian monks in France were given a recipe for an “elixir of long life.” Over the centuries, it took different forms, ultimately arriving at something close to its current state—an herbaceous green liqueur—in 1764. In 1841, the Chartreuse brand was officially registered. The monks continued to produce the drink at their monastery in Fourvoirie, north of Grenoble, until 1903, when France banned monastic orders and subsequently booted all of its monks out of the country. The Carthusian Fathers regrouped in Tarragona, Spain, which is where they produced the drink until 1989. These days, Chartreuse is made, once again, in France, the mix of 130 different herbs allegedly known by only two monks. Yet the drink remains beloved in Tarragona.

To familiarize myself with the stuff, I stopped into Bodega Gerard, a tiny wine shop in Tarragona’s medieval city center. 

“Ninety percent of Chartreuse production goes to Tarragona,” says proprietor Gerard Esquerré Tomàs, who adds that he’d already sold 92 cases during Santa Tecla alone. For years, he’s been a collector of rare bottles of Chartreuse, and he climbs a ladder to show me some of his prized examples: a Tarragona-made bottle from 1976 that he claims is worth 5,000 euros, a case of mini-bottles from the 1950s that sell for 90 euros each, and a special-edition bottle from 2007. His stash also includes an open bottle from 1959, and he is kind enough to give me a thimble-sized nip of it—my first taste of Chartreuse. I find it unctuous and spicy, almost wasabi-like, with boozy, peppery aromas that rise into my nose. 

“Like Sichuan pepper—but with more electricity,” says Ricard Llop, the chef of El Cup Vell, a local restaurant, and one of my companions that day. That Chartreuse is one of the most unique liqueurs I’d ever tasted, yet just opposite those rare bottles worth thousands of euros, Gerard also has four slushy machines churning away lemon granita for Mamadetas. I ask him what he thinks about the festival’s signature drink.

“Mamadeta is a masquerade,” says Gerard with clear contempt. “They add lemon granita to it because they don’t appreciate the flavor of Chartreuse.” I order one anyway, and he pours a shot of green Chartreuse into a plastic cup and tops it with granita, serving the drink with an oversize paper straw. It’s sweet, the granita industrial-tasting, with an ’80s-era neon green hue. Apart from the alcohol content and raunchy nomenclature, my first Mamadeta reminds me of something I would have drunk at 7-Eleven as a kid. 

Gerard had mentioned that French people come to Tarragona specifically to drink Chartreuse, and as if on cue, directly outside his shop I meet an entire French extended family decked out in Chartreuse-branded merch: hats, sunglasses, T-shirts and wristbands. 

“We’ve been coming here since 2016—we love Chartreuse,” says Agatha Devoireau, the matriarch, who has nails painted green and yellow with Chartreuse iconography. “We come every year to share this ambiance with our family—it’s very special. In France, it’s not the same.”

I ask how many Mamadetas she’ll drink today, and without missing a beat, she tells me, “It’s not the number, it’s the quality.”

Elsa, a native of Tarragona, makes it clear to me that locals aren’t slamming Mamadetas year-round.

“It’s only for Santa Tecla,” she says, adding that she might occasionally have a glass of Chartreuse after lunch or with dessert. “The rest of the year, we drink vermouth and beer.”

I wander through the narrow, ancient streets of Tarragona with my plastic cup, struggling to navigate the crowds, which number in the thousands. There are seemingly endless processions complete with marching bands, animal effigies spouting piercingly loud firecrackers, traditional dancing and creepy medieval-looking masks, all set to the backdrop of Chartreuse pennants and neon yellow drinks. 

Late the next morning, I head to Tarragona’s main square in advance of the big castell competition. I’m early, so I go to one of perhaps a dozen stalls equipped with slushy machines and order a plastic cup of anchovy-stuffed olives and a Mamadeta. Sergi, a native of Tarragona who’s working the stall, shows me the bottle of Chartreuse he uses, a blend of yellow and green made especially by the distillery for the festival.

“It’s fantastic. It’s easy to drink,” says Sergi, when I ask him what he thinks about the Mamadeta. I, on the other hand, am still struggling with the sweetness, and am tempted to season it with some of my olive brine to make a dirty Mamadeta. Recalling a tip from a local, I head across the square to Sirvent, a producer of ice creams and granitas since 1860. 

“We make it with real lemons,” says the server, of the house granita. “We think this is better.” And he’s right: A generous pour of Chartreuse combined with this more nuanced granita results in a drink that’s just slightly boozier, more herbaceous and less sweet.

I was close to understanding—maybe even liking—this drink. But only moments later I’d find myself with a powerful rush of the cold sweats, semiconscious and held up by locals, being steered toward a first aid tent. Even if the Mamadetas—more sugar than booze—were to blame, it was worth it.