Tequila Stories: A Unique Tequila Tale to Be Read in One-Sitting with a Sip!
When I was in college I didn’t like to drink tequila. The popular brand on the market, maybe the only brand on the market, was the color of piss and sat like an oil slick on top of everything else in my stomach. I was in a fraternity then, so I went to a lot of parties and at the same point in every party - when everyone was teetering on the brink of drunkeness and the best come-ons had been used with no success - a brother would pull out the bottle and hold it aloft like a trophy amidst hoots and hollers before passing it around so everyone could take a pull. It was a recipe for vomit and not the way I wanted to impress the latest girl of my dreams. So, rather than face questions about my manhood when I refused my turn, I would find my way to the door.
Years later, when I had achieved four degrees of maturity - job, wife, kids, mortgage - I stumbled across Sammy Hagar’s autobiography, “Red: My Uncensored Life in Rock.” Now, I’ve always preferred Van Halen with David Lee Roth fronting the band, but I have to give Sammy credit for forever changing my opinion of tequila. In his book, he relates a story about sitting in his car early one morning in Cabo San Lucas, Mexico, when a local materialized out of the sand dunes. The man had apparently had a late night, or gotten an early start on his next night, and Sammy and his date sat laughing as they watched the guy wobble back and forth across the road and into the sunrise. This incident inspired the name for Mr. Hagar’s own brand of tequila and reading his book compelled me to visit my local liquor store to renew my relationship with the famous elixir.
In my mind, tequila had always meant Jose Cuervo, so when I entered the store I was surprised to see tequila bottles spread over several shelves. There were blancos and reposados, especiales and anejos, glass bottles and plastic with cool names and designs of deer and skulls and jewels. Tequila had undergone a revolution in my absence, dethroned the golden rey, and instituted a more tranquillo regime. I could now sip it to savor the taste rather than go bottoms up to cover it. No longer did I have to make a mad dash to the bathroom to spill my guts after wetting my lips. Instead, I could enjoy the smoothness and the warmth it brought to my being as it settled into me.
Yes, tequila had matured over the years, just like I had. And although the make-up of my fraternity has changed from slackers, stoners, and drunks to fathers, professionals, and armchair quarterbacks, we still enjoy a good time. So, I don’t cringe anymore when a brother shows up at my door with a bottle of tequila. Instead, I raise my hands like we just won the Super Bowl, hoot and holler, and go get the glasses.