Tequila is born of heat and dust in Jalisco's volcanic soils where blue agave stands for a decade before being cut, roasted, pressed, and distilled into something which carries both struggle and joy.
The sight of Cincoro unveiled at Apollo's Muse in Mayfair — a room of marble gods, gold leaf, and hedge-fund appetite — felt stark against that origin. Here is gloss and theatre, but also a spirit with roots deeper and rougher than the polished counter it was poured across. That clash is the reason to pay attention: because Emilia Fazzalari, who once moved at Bloomberg's relentless pace and now works to tequila's slower rhythm, insists it deserves to be taken seriously.
