Tasted at the distillery. This is their high proof Blanco. The Way They Make It They work with stone and fire, not haste The oven’s heat, the tahona's weight. No cultured yeast to guide the brew, Just wild-born air, and time, and fate. The stills are copper, broad and bold, With fibrous hearts that breathe the steam. And when the fire has had its say, They let it rest, as in a dream. Steel cradles hold it, cool and bright, Till bottled clear, with strength to spare. Yet not a burn, but warmth that stays— A honeyed touch on mountain air. It speaks in scents: of mint and clay, Of blossoms crushed beneath the sun. And tastes of earth, and lemon’s kiss, With pepper sharp, but never one To bite too hard or linger sore— Though strong, it’s kind, and proud, and fair. For what it gives, you'd pay far more In other bottles, other lairs.