To visit Casa Faro, you must be of legal drinking age in your country of residence.
Casa Faro is named for the lighthouses of México's coast. A single light, kept through the night, for a stranger, for a sailor, for the one still at sea. The oldest hospitality we know.
The bottle takes their shape. The mark, an arched door, is the way in. The light, still on.
Stoneware ceramic, the clay of México's coast. Hand-poured into a plaster mould. Set, drawn, and marked before firing. Sealed with cork.
No paper. No glass. Poured slowly. Kept after.
At the foot of the Volcán de Tequila, the agave grows in mineral-rich volcanic soil. Six years to maturity. The jimador cuts only those that are ready.
The hearts are split and slow-cooked in stone and brick ovens. Then the tahona, a two-ton volcanic wheel, crushes them by stone. It asks for more fruit, and more time.
Open wood. Wild fermentation, no added yeast. Twice through copper. Every step favors the slow choice.
A blanco. Tahona-crushed. Unaged. What the agave is, before anything is done to it.
Organic agave. Nothing added. Nothing hidden.
La hora del farol. The hour the light is lit.
A short glass. A small pour. Nothing on it.