An interviewer once famously asked Keith Richards how he had survived decades of rock ‘n’ roll debauchery—heights of hedonism that had sent so many of his cultural contemporaries to an early grave. His answer was surprisingly pragmatic: whatever the vice, he indulged thoughtfully rather than recklessly. And he insisted on only the finest, purest product money could buy. When it came to illicit vices, the King of Riffs exercised discernment as polished as his taste in guitars.
While my indulgences are, on the whole, tamer than Keith’s, I have taken his philosophy to heart when it comes to booze. Especially as hangovers grow more vicious with each passing year, I demand maximum enjoyment from every pour. Every drop of alcohol that touches my should be premium—and consumed thoughtfully.
It’s Another Tequila Sunrise: The Age of the Orange.
Which brings me to my journey with tequila. In my dissolute youth, the tequila I quaffed at sticky counters among my howling comrades came in shot glasses on a wet tray. Cheap and fiery, it would arrive with an unsanitary ziggurat of lime wedges and salt, presented by a trembling, cringing young waitress. Tequila was like a toxic ex-girlfriend: fun in the moment, but not something I wanted to repeat.
My agave awakening came in my thirties, when I discovered craft distilleries like Volcan de mi Tierra, Fortaleza, Alto Canto, Trujillo, and Herradura. Here were agave expressions with poetry and complexity, booze that deserved the reverence of a vintage Wild Turkey, a Château Margaux, or an Armagnac from 1868. Having entered the high church of tequila, I changed the way I drank it. I replaced the shot glass with a Glencairn or wineglass, and I ditched lime for an orange slice.
You see, limes represent an ugly chapter in the story of tequila. In earlier, darker times, many of the bottles that made their way into U.S. bars were hardly the pride of Jalisco. They needed industrial additives like caramel coloring, glycerin, and vanillin to soften the harshness. In a masterstroke of insidious marketing, Big Tequila tricked the customer into providing the final additive: lime.
Fortunately, in the Year of Our Lord 2026, brands like Volcan and Fortaleza are much more accessible north of the border. Gone are the days of crude swill beaten into submission by lime. We’ve entered a golden era of agave ambrosia—the Age of Orange.
While lime only serves to mask flaws, orange accentuates tequila’s subtle sweetness and perfume. There’s science behind it. Orange peel is rich in limonene, an aromatic compound that complements fine tequila’s bouquet of fruit, minerality, and spice.
Adding an orange wedge or strip of peel over the glass is a refined ritual to salute just how good modern tequila has become. “The Orange Ritual isn’t about replacing one garnish with another. It’s about redefining how people appreciate truly crafted tequila,” Volcan de Mi Tierra CEO Santiago Cortina Gallardo explained to me on a walk through the grounds of his family’s Hacienda La Gavilana, home to the Gallardos and their tequila-making heritage for three centuries.
“We believe the future of tequila belongs to rituals that celebrate craftsmanship and the remarkable flavor of agave itself,” Gallardo added. “We invite people to discover this through the bright, natural harmony of orange and agave.”
I don’t know if Keith Richards, now 82, still drinks tequila. If he does, I know he would shun those astringent, garishly green little demons. In a hand gnarled from a lifetime of playing guitar, you’d find a glass of Volcan paired with a fresh orange wedge.
