The land of Atotonilco, broken by plague and grief, bore the weight of their story. He was an agave farmer, tethered to the earth by labor and devotion. She was his wife, bound first by duty, then by love. When the call to defend the land came, he left with a promise: "I will return." But promises falter, and he never returned.
The plague came, sweeping through the fields, killing the agave on which they had built their lives. The land turned barren, the villagers hollow. Year after year, she planted a single agave in the cracked soil, her tears mingling with the earth as though they could water hope itself. The villagers, watching her vigil, whispered that the wind carried her grief. It sang through the fields, a soft, insistent murmur: Espéralo—Wait for him.
Then one dawn, she was gone. The villagers awoke to a stillness that felt alive, and in her place stood a single agave, its leaves entwined with her clothes. They believed it was a miracle, her love and sacrifice healing the land. When they distilled it, the first drop fell, and they said, "It is her tears." Its sweetness carried her love; its minerality, her sorrow.
From hand-harvested agave to careful distillation, each step shapes our tequila before it’s bottled.
Jima
Preparing the Piñas
Masonry Ovens
Roller-Mill Fermentation
Closed Stainless Fermentation
Hybrid Distillation
Aging in Barrels
