F
Field Ethos
Guest
By Tiffany McDuffie
To know me is to know I genuinely love learning about alcohol: wine, spirits, beer … all of it, really. It’s the science behind it that mesmerizes me. Fermentation, distillation, aging, balance—it all feels equal parts art and precision.
That being said, tequila has long been the one spirit I’ve had no problem ignoring. There are certain spirits that carry a memory so strong you can taste it before the glass reaches your lips. Most of us have one, likely established sometime before our mid-20s. For me, it was tequila.
It was the early 2000s in Fayetteville: my freshman year at the University of Arkansas. It was a time defined by nights that only happen when you’re young enough to believe you’re invincible and not quite disciplined enough to handle the freedom that comes with living away from your parents. Decisions that felt right in the moment were considerably less so the next morning. Somewhere in the middle of all that … was my roommate Sierra, a bottle of very, very bottom-shelf tequila, and vanilla SlimFast as a chaser.
Yes. SlimFast.
That bottle likely cost less than $5, definitely not worth the hangover that lingered for days, but somehow still worth the foggy memories that came with it. I won’t pretend I remember the exact brand. I suspect my memory has done me a kindness there. But I do remember lying in bed with the remnants of Casa Taco from the night before, swearing I would never drink tequila again for the rest of my life.
For nearly 20 years, I kept that promise with ease.
I went on to build a career around culinary art and spirits. I learned to appreciate nuance, process, and origin. But tequila? It stayed exactly where I left it. Back in Fayetteville, somewhere between a dorm bathroom floor and a decision I was certain I’d never revisit. It was a liquor I didn’t associate with craft or deeply rooted culture, but with a hangover that echoed from the depths of hell.
Until, as these things tend to happen, it found its way back to me.
There was no grand reintroduction. Just a simple moment, sitting on a back porch, when a close friend placed a margarita in front of me. Fresh and bright, a rim dusted with Tajín, thoughtfully made with hand-squeezed limes and a little bit of love.
Growing up in East Texas, I was taught you don’t refuse hospitality. You don’t make a fuss, and you graciously accept whatever is given to you, period, the end. So, with a polite smile, and every intention of quietly abandoning the drink after a courtesy sip, I accepted the margarita, thanked her, and cautiously took a very small sip.
I paused, slightly shocked, because it wasn’t what I expected.
There was no harsh burn. No gag reflex. No instinct to discreetly dump it into the nearest planter. Instead, there was balance, bright and crisp, not syrupy. And beneath it all was something I had never allowed myself to notice, or appreciate, before: the tequila itself. Soft. Rounded. Slightly earthy, with a gentle thread of agave sweetness. In a word, it was composed.
That single sip didn’t erase Fayetteville. It didn’t rewrite the past or pretend those memories didn’t exist. But it did allow me to examine the spirit in a completely different way.
Because the truth is, it was never tequila I disliked. It was bad tequila, drunk in excess by a younger, far more defiant version of myself. Like so many things we write off in our early years, tequila had been judged long before I was ever truly able to understand it.
Since then, I’ve approached it the same way I approach any spirit worth knowing, with curiosity and respect. I’ve started learning about agave, about regions, and about the difference between something made quickly and something made well. I’ve tasted blancos that feel vibrant and expressive, reposados that carry just enough oak to round the edges, and añejos that unfold slowly and deliberately.
And for the first time, I’m beginning to appreciate tequila.
I will forever think back to those Fayetteville nights, to the version of myself who didn’t know better yet, who believed that all tequila tasted the same. I smile at the memories carved out by a group of dorm mates who took on Fayetteville like we were 10 feet tall and bulletproof. Every time I find myself with a glass of tequila, I will silently toast the lifelong friends I made on the ninth floor of Reid Hall.
1/2 part dark agave*
1 part fresh lime juice
2 parts Camarena Silver Tequila
Shake with ice, strain over fresh ice, and serve with a Tajín rim.
* dark agave offers a more robust and layered flavor profile.
The post It Was Never Tequila’s Fault appeared first on Field Ethos.
Continue reading...
To know me is to know I genuinely love learning about alcohol: wine, spirits, beer … all of it, really. It’s the science behind it that mesmerizes me. Fermentation, distillation, aging, balance—it all feels equal parts art and precision.
That being said, tequila has long been the one spirit I’ve had no problem ignoring. There are certain spirits that carry a memory so strong you can taste it before the glass reaches your lips. Most of us have one, likely established sometime before our mid-20s. For me, it was tequila.
It was the early 2000s in Fayetteville: my freshman year at the University of Arkansas. It was a time defined by nights that only happen when you’re young enough to believe you’re invincible and not quite disciplined enough to handle the freedom that comes with living away from your parents. Decisions that felt right in the moment were considerably less so the next morning. Somewhere in the middle of all that … was my roommate Sierra, a bottle of very, very bottom-shelf tequila, and vanilla SlimFast as a chaser.
Yes. SlimFast.
Mistakes Were Made …
That bottle likely cost less than $5, definitely not worth the hangover that lingered for days, but somehow still worth the foggy memories that came with it. I won’t pretend I remember the exact brand. I suspect my memory has done me a kindness there. But I do remember lying in bed with the remnants of Casa Taco from the night before, swearing I would never drink tequila again for the rest of my life.
For nearly 20 years, I kept that promise with ease.
I went on to build a career around culinary art and spirits. I learned to appreciate nuance, process, and origin. But tequila? It stayed exactly where I left it. Back in Fayetteville, somewhere between a dorm bathroom floor and a decision I was certain I’d never revisit. It was a liquor I didn’t associate with craft or deeply rooted culture, but with a hangover that echoed from the depths of hell.
Until, as these things tend to happen, it found its way back to me.
There was no grand reintroduction. Just a simple moment, sitting on a back porch, when a close friend placed a margarita in front of me. Fresh and bright, a rim dusted with Tajín, thoughtfully made with hand-squeezed limes and a little bit of love.
Growing up in East Texas, I was taught you don’t refuse hospitality. You don’t make a fuss, and you graciously accept whatever is given to you, period, the end. So, with a polite smile, and every intention of quietly abandoning the drink after a courtesy sip, I accepted the margarita, thanked her, and cautiously took a very small sip.
I paused, slightly shocked, because it wasn’t what I expected.
The Other Tequila Experience
There was no harsh burn. No gag reflex. No instinct to discreetly dump it into the nearest planter. Instead, there was balance, bright and crisp, not syrupy. And beneath it all was something I had never allowed myself to notice, or appreciate, before: the tequila itself. Soft. Rounded. Slightly earthy, with a gentle thread of agave sweetness. In a word, it was composed.
That single sip didn’t erase Fayetteville. It didn’t rewrite the past or pretend those memories didn’t exist. But it did allow me to examine the spirit in a completely different way.
Because the truth is, it was never tequila I disliked. It was bad tequila, drunk in excess by a younger, far more defiant version of myself. Like so many things we write off in our early years, tequila had been judged long before I was ever truly able to understand it.
Since then, I’ve approached it the same way I approach any spirit worth knowing, with curiosity and respect. I’ve started learning about agave, about regions, and about the difference between something made quickly and something made well. I’ve tasted blancos that feel vibrant and expressive, reposados that carry just enough oak to round the edges, and añejos that unfold slowly and deliberately.
And for the first time, I’m beginning to appreciate tequila.
I will forever think back to those Fayetteville nights, to the version of myself who didn’t know better yet, who believed that all tequila tasted the same. I smile at the memories carved out by a group of dorm mates who took on Fayetteville like we were 10 feet tall and bulletproof. Every time I find myself with a glass of tequila, I will silently toast the lifelong friends I made on the ninth floor of Reid Hall.
A Simple, Well-Made Margarita
1/2 part dark agave*
1 part fresh lime juice
2 parts Camarena Silver Tequila
Shake with ice, strain over fresh ice, and serve with a Tajín rim.
* dark agave offers a more robust and layered flavor profile.
The post It Was Never Tequila’s Fault appeared first on Field Ethos.
Continue reading...
