We went to Jalisco, Mexico, to drink your new favourite spirit so that you didn’t have to.

Is it just me or do most conversations these days tend a little too much toward interlocutors flexing their particular expertise in various arenas? Coffee experts, of course, love to talk about their single-origin arabica roasted just so and only ever ground fresh for a pour over, or whatever. Craft brew snobs, wine aficionados, tailoring wonks, bread starter enthusiasts, and even sparkling water evangelists are never not trying to proffer their specialised intel. And we all seem to be marching for something – caring so very intently about something and eager to recite all manner of arcana related to its creation and consumption.

So why, then, I wonder, is that not quite the case with tequila? Tequila! Which, a good number of the above mentioned passionistos will admit is really one of the healthiest things to drink, possessing the lowest levels of calories, and... did I ever tell you about my friend who only ever drinks tequila straight and hasn’t had a hangover since the Clinton administration?

As we approach peak snob, when everyone who is everyone is obsessed with tequila, we still seem not to know very much about our favorite spirit. So, to personally correct this, I went to the region of Jalisco, where tequila is made, outside of the town of Tequila itself, to the incredible distillery of Volcán de mi Tierra, the first tequila in the Moët Hennessy portfolio, to learn a thing or two (as well as, you know, have a drink or 60).

To begin with, some basics: I know, you know, we all know that tequila is a mezcal made exclusively from 100 per cent blue agave. You can think of this designation a little like brandy versus cognac – all tequila is mezcal but not all mezcal is tequila, which is an official appellation and must be grown within the region of Tequila and made entirely of blue agave (as opposed to “mixto”, which can be blended from up to 30 varieties of agave). Still with me? Within Tequila there are two main growing regions, the red clay highlands and darker volcanic lowlands of the Tequila valley. Generally speaking, agave piñas harvested (at about eight years’ growth) in the highlands will have a lighter, fruitier, citrusy flavour, while the lowlands fruit will be more vegetal, earthy, even smoky; many of the best-tasting tequilas are made of a blend of both. Volcán, for example, an original creation from LVMH in partnership with the local Gallardo family, begun in 2017 and already winning awards, makes its Tequila Blanco with a blend of not only highlands and lowlands-grown fruits, but also a combination of processes.

Once the jimador, or harvester, has performed the Herculean task of heaving the several-hundred-pound plants from the volcanic soil (these guys often get through a few hundred plants in a day), then scythed the fibrous leaves from the heart, the piñas are gathered into a brick or stainless-steel oven and steam-roasted for several hours. The traditional method for crushing the cooked plants is with a tahona, a wheel made from the same volcanic rock in which the plants were grown, carved into the shape of a Flintstone-style wheel (which was, in the old days, propelled over the fruit mash in a circle by a donkey). Volcán uses a blend of cooking and crushing methods, before letting the juices ferment in vats and then distilling them in copper urns – and Volcán, being an LVMH entity, had the incredible luxury of consulting the master distillers from Hennessy on their hundreds of years of wisdom in that area. (Come to think of it, calling Volcán de mi Tierra the champagne of tequilas is more than just our being grand, as its CEO, Mr Trent Fraser, launched the brand after working for nearly a decade as vice president of Dom Pérignon.)

But that, of course, is just how you make tequila – before we start talking about ageing, reposados (aged in oak from two to 12 months), añejos (aged even further), et al – not what goes in to tequila. As with any other spirit, any other drink, any other region, tequila is so much about the romance, of place, of people. While in Jalisco, I visited a grand old hacienda, originally built in 1704, in the shadows of the actual Tequila volcano from which Volcán takes its name. We passed by the ruins of an ancient tahona and distillery where the Gallardo family made their home brew hundreds of years ago. Sitting down, then, beneath a psychedelic sunset, in the hacienda’s stone courtyard, with Mr Fraser and Mr Santiago Gallardo, felt like drinking Dom with the friars in their caves, or like glugging a great Bandol with Ms Lulu Peyraud in her vineyards on the coast of Provence – monumental, in continuation of a very special tradition – and something certainly worth obsessing about.