🦫 ANGUS RATING: 9.9/10 BEAVERS
By Cinnamon’s decree. The second judge has invoked constitutional protections in at least three languages.
I. CROWLEY STORY — WARPLANES, ENGLISH IDIOTS, AND THE MYSTERIOUS DISAPPEARANCE OF A MAN’S SHORTS
I’ve spent several centuries watching humanity invent increasingly elaborate ways to get itself into trouble. I’ve survived wars, shipwrecks, collapsing taverns, suspicious marriages, and one particularly unpleasant afternoon involving an English admiral, a stolen barrel of whisky, and a goat that was later promoted to lieutenant.
But I have never, in all my immortal years, witnessed a tequila tasting end with a man pleading the Fifth Amendment in three different languages while attempting to determine why his trousers were abandoning him.
And I’ve witnessed some spectacularly stupid shit.
The evening began innocently enough, which is how most catastrophes begin.
My good friend had just discovered an opportunity to return to the flightline, working on F-16 Fighting Falcons. Now, I know something about men who love warbirds. There’s a particular madness in their eyes when somebody mentions jet engines, hydraulic systems, and the opportunity to crawl halfway inside an aircraft with grease up to their elbows.
Apparently, it’s the same expression I get when somebody opens a bottle of excellent Scotch.
The man was bloody delighted.
So naturally, a celebration was required.
Cinnamon produced a bottle of Casamigos Reposado, and I regarded it with the professional suspicion I reserve for unfamiliar spirits, English tax collectors, and anyone who claims vodka has a personality.
“Right,” I announced. “We’re celebrating the possibility of getting this magnificent bastard back around fighter aircraft. Let’s see whether this tequila is worthy of the occasion.”
Now, I’ve had a long relationship with tequila, and I can tell ye that the English nearly ruined that, too.
Many years ago, during one of my less respectable adventures in Mexico, I encountered an English aristocrat named Lord Percival Thistlebottom, a pompous little parasite whose family fortune had apparently been accumulated by stealing things from countries with better weather.
Percival had arrived wearing a ridiculous white suit, carrying a walking stick he didn’t need, and demanding to know why the locals insisted on drinking something made from “that dreadful spiky vegetation.”
“Because, ye overdressed hemorrhoid,” I explained, “the Mexicans have discovered how tae turn agave into something wonderful, while yer ancestors were still trying tae make warm beer taste less like horse piss.”
He was unimpressed.
Then he tasted the tequila.
The first swallow produced a remarkable transformation. His face reddened, his eyes bulged, and he began making a noise resembling an asthmatic bagpipe being strangled by a goose.
“MY TONGUE!” he shrieked. “CROWLEY! THE BLOODY THING’S ON FIRE!”
I attempted to explain that a gentleman should sip a spirit rather than attack it as though he’d caught it stealing his inheritance, but Percival had already grabbed the nearest lime.
He bit into it, expecting relief.
Instead, he screamed louder.
In desperation, he seized a bowl of salt and began licking it between increasingly frantic mouthfuls of tequila and citrus.
I watched in fascination.
The silly bastard had discovered three perfectly respectable ingredients and assembled them into what appeared to be an emergency procedure for setting his own mouth on fire.
Naturally, he declared himself a genius.
Within the hour, he’d announced that the English had invented a revolutionary new method of drinking tequila.
The locals politely allowed him to believe this, presumably because correcting him would have required listening to another bloody Englishman speak.
I mention this because, several centuries later, I found myself witnessing exactly the same experiment.
Except this time there were two tasters, a bottle of Casamigos, salsa music, and a pair of shorts that apparently wished to pursue an independent career.
And unlike Lord Percival, these two actually knew how to taste a spirit.
At least at the beginning.
II. THE POUR — A NOSTRIL ASSAULT WITH SURPRISING AMBITIONS
We started properly, with Casamigos Reposado served neat.
For the record, Casamigos Reposado is a Mexican tequila made from 100% Blue Weber agave, bottled at 40% alcohol by volume, or 80 proof. It spends at least six months aging in American white oak barrels, which helps develop the golden-honey color and the richer flavors that distinguish a reposado from an unaged blanco.
That’s the respectable technical information. Now let me tell ye what happened when we actually opened the bloody thing.
I wanted the tequila examined before ice, salt, lime, or dancing introduced unnecessary complications.
Cinnamon raised her glass, took a cautious sniff, and immediately informed me that the aroma was strong, spicy, and almost burning.
My other taster approached with considerably less ceremony.
He sniffed.
His eyes widened.
“It burns my nose!”
I looked from one to the other.
“Well, that’s a promising start. We’ve apparently purchased a bottle of tequila that doubles as a personal attack.”
The important thing was that neither taster immediately identified an inviting parade of sweet aromas. The alcohol sensation dominated the first impression.
Casamigos wasn’t introducing itself politely. It was kicking the bloody door open.
III. THE TASTE — SALT, LIME, ICE, AND AN INTERNATIONAL COMMUNICATIONS FAILURE
Then came the first sip, and everything changed.
Cinnamon immediately identified caramel up front, followed by vanilla and ginger. Her palate was finding warmth, sweetness, and a distinct spicy character beneath that aggressive nose.
My second taster discovered something rather different: honey, agave, coconut, vanilla, and possibly caramel.
Coconut!
Now that caught my attention.
It wasn’t something I intended to dismiss simply because another person hadn’t identified it. People experience spirits differently, and I trust an honest individual observation far more than a tasting note copied from the back of a bottle.
I had two people drinking the same tequila, both finding vanilla, but exploring different corners of its character.
Cinnamon was following caramel and ginger.
My friend was wandering through honey, agave, and coconut.
And both were considerably happier than their nostrils had suggested they would be.
The tequila, it seemed, had a rather more sophisticated interior than its manners indicated.
Naturally, somebody decided we needed to test the traditional shot.
Salt.
Tequila.
Lime.
In that order.
I watched closely.
Cinnamon took hers and delivered an immediate assessment.
“IT BURNS!”
The gentleman followed.
“That’s good.”
He paused.
For one glorious moment, I thought we’d discovered a man immune to the fiery consequences of his own decisions.
Then his expression changed.
“IT BURNS!”
I nearly fell off my bloody stool.
And the lime? Did it soothe the situation?
Absolutely not.
My friend thoughtfully considered the question before concluding that the lime had apparently added fuel to the fire.
Somewhere in the depths of history, Lord Percival Thistlebottom was laughing from his grave, the English bastard.
Fortunately, there was more serious work to be done.
We introduced ice.
Cinnamon found the tequila remained broadly similar to the neat pour, but vanilla became more prominent on her palate. On the nose, she now identified vanilla and nutmeg, a far more interesting aromatic combination than the initial assault.
My other taster was still being attacked through the nostrils, although vanilla had begun emerging from the wreckage.
On the palate, however, the ice revealed an intriguing combination: agave, orange, ginger, spice, and honey.
Orange was new.
Ginger, previously identified by Cinnamon in the neat tasting, was now making itself known to him as well.
And the honey and agave he’d enjoyed earlier hadn’t disappeared.
I was genuinely impressed by the way both tasters continued identifying distinct flavors rather than simply watching the ice drown them.
Unfortunately, somewhere during this investigation, our scientific terminology began deteriorating.
While attempting to explain that each person’s individual flavor notes continued through the finish, my friend produced the immortal sentence:
“She hers. Me mine.”
I stared at him.
Cinnamon stared at him.
I considered asking whether he’d suffered some kind of neurological injury, but the enormous grin on his face suggested the condition was self-inflicted and thoroughly enjoyable.
“That’s it,” I declared. “We’ve moved beyond conventional tasting terminology. We’re conducting research in prehistoric fucking English.”
And we hadn’t even reached the margaritas.
Then somebody turned up the salsa music.
And the margaritas arrived.
Cinnamon took a sip.
A magnificent smile spread across her face.
“I like that!”
Clear. Enthusiastic. Decisive.
The kind of response a distiller dreams about.
My friend tasted his margarita, considered the matter carefully, and offered a more restrained assessment.
“It’s okay.”
Then he looked down.
“Why are my shorts falling off?”
He was grinning from ear to ear.
I looked toward the ceiling and briefly wondered whether centuries of immortality had been given to me solely so I could witness that particular moment.
The tequila had apparently achieved something no other spirit in my experience had managed: it had convinced a grown man that his trousers were independently plotting against him.
I made a mental note to inform the authorities that the shorts were last seen attempting to flee the tasting area.
IV. THE FINISH — A TEQUILA THAT REFUSES TO LEAVE
If the nose was Casamigos kicking the door open, the finish was the bastard deciding to move in permanently.
Both tasters agreed that the finish lingered noticeably, remaining on their tongues well after swallowing.
Cinnamon identified spicy lime, with the ginger she’d detected earlier contributing to her overall impression of the tequila’s warm, spicy character.
My friend continued finding honey and agave, accompanied by a spice he was certain wasn’t pepper, although he couldn’t identify precisely what it was.
And I respect that.
I’d rather hear “something spicy, but not pepper” than have somebody invent an exotic botanical because it sounds sophisticated.
Over ice, the remarkable thing was how the flavors continued carrying through the finish.
Cinnamon retained the flavor character she’d identified, particularly the increasingly prominent vanilla.
My friend continued experiencing his own combination of agave, orange, ginger, spice, and honey.
Neither reported that the ice had simply flattened the spirit into a watery shadow of itself.
The tequila retained its personality and its lingering presence.
V. ANGUS’S VERDICT — NINE POINT NINE BEAVERS AND THE RIGHT TO REMAIN INCOMPREHENSIBLE
By the time the evening reached its conclusion, I had witnessed a remarkable collection of events.
A tequila that burned both tasters’ noses had revealed caramel, vanilla, ginger, honey, agave, coconut, and later orange and nutmeg across their separate tasting experiences.
The neat pour delivered surprising sweetness beneath its aggressive opening.
The traditional salt-tequila-lime shot turned into a two-person fire drill.
The ice encouraged additional flavors to emerge without stripping away the long finish.
And the margarita earned an enthusiastic endorsement from Cinnamon, while my other taster became distracted by a developing constitutional crisis in his wardrobe.
Then came the rating.
I turned to Cinnamon.
“Well, lass? What’s yer verdict?”
She didn’t hesitate.
“9.9 out of 10.”
I raised an eyebrow.
Nine point nine!
Not nine. Not nine and a half.
Nine point bloody nine.
A score delivered with the confidence of a woman who had thoroughly enjoyed her tequila and saw absolutely no reason to apologize for it.
I turned to my other judge.
“And what say ye?”
He considered the question.
Then he considered Cinnamon.
Then, demonstrating the survival instincts of a man who had somehow managed to reach adulthood despite considerable evidence to the contrary, he announced that he was taking the Fifth.
Or the fünf.
Or the cinco.
At that point, even he seemed uncertain what language the proceedings were being conducted in.
I looked at Cinnamon.
I looked at the tequila.
I looked at the gentleman whose shorts had apparently declared independence.
And I made my decision.
9.9 BEAVERS.
Not because every single sip was without criticism. The nose was aggressive, the burn was undeniable, and the margarita received mixed enthusiasm.
But because Cinnamon had delivered her verdict with absolute conviction, her fellow judge had voluntarily surrendered the right to object, and I was damned if I intended to overturn a ruling under those circumstances.
Besides, I found plenty to appreciate in their observations: expressive sweetness, evolving spice, noticeable agave character, intriguing differences between neat and iced pours, and a long finish that refused to disappear.
That’s a tequila with something to say.
And on this particular evening, it apparently had considerably more to say than one of the people drinking it.
So here’s my final word on Casamigos Reposado.
If ye want a quiet, uneventful tasting where everybody agrees on the same flavors and maintains a dignified command of the English language, perhaps look elsewhere.
But if ye want a tequila that inspires two people to explore their palates, celebrate a possible return to fighter aircraft, dance to salsa music, and eventually conduct a spirited debate over whether the Fifth Amendment translates into German or Spanish, then this bottle has certainly demonstrated its capabilities.
I raised my glass to Cinnamon and her increasingly cheerful companion.
“Here’s tae warbirds, fine company, long finishes, and the wisdom tae know when a woman has already won the argument.”
Then I glanced beneath the table.
“And for Christ’s sake, somebody find the man’s bloody shorts before the English claim they’ve discovered them.”
FINAL RATING: 🦫 9.9/10 BEAVERS
Cinnamon’s verdict: Outstanding. Especially in a margarita.
His verdict: Honey, agave, coconut, ginger, orange, an impressive finish, and the Fifth Amendment.
My verdict: The tequila was memorable. The tasting was magnificent. The English remain responsible for everything that went wrong.
Slà inte, ye magnificent bastards!
— Angus “Pub” Crowley