No Way, Jose!

Jose Cuervo, you were a friend of mine.

I have a bone to pick with Jose Cuervo but, before that, I have a few things to say about tequila.

When I think of tequila, I think of shots. Margaritas are a close second. I certainly don’t think of any other tequila drink. The last time I ordered a tequila sunrise, I was underage in a bar. At that point, ‘vodka soda with a lemon’ wasn’t rolling off my tongue.

But, I hate shots. Anytime I’ve taken a shot and said it was good, I was lying. Yet, shots can happen. Whether I’m at a bar, party, or have friends over, if someone suggests shots, I’m on board. I won’t instigate them, but I rarely say no.

If shots happen, tequila is my default. With salt and lime or straight up, I don’t care. At that point, I’m reluctantly agreeable, not saying no, and I just want it over. The quicker the better. So long as it’s not rail or a liqueur, I’m not unhappy.

Tequila has grown on me. With training wheels, they are merely strong mini-margaritas.

However, tequila isn’t always a good idea. Tequila means it’s late. Tequila means I might forget things. Tequila is sobriety’s bouncer and accepts no bribes. Tequila hurts. Tequila reminds me that it’s important to have Excedrin and Gatorade at home.

There’s one thing I don’t think about: ruining it.

What doesn’t cross my mind thinking about tequila is cinnamon. Cinnamon tequila is real. It shouldn’t be a thing. But, it is and it’s a travesty.

I’m not a fan of cinnamon flavor to begin with. I can barely chew cinnamon gum. Mouthwash? Forget it. Mints? Nope. Those dumb chewy bears? I’ll pass. Alcohol? Yuck. Tequila? NO!

I remember thinking I liked Goldschlager for two minutes in college, but that’s because it was the express lane to inebriation.

At some point since, Fireball happened. Suddenly, every bro with a bright idea bought rounds of this stuff at every bar in every town. Then, Pitbull dropped a song about it. It was official. Fireball became the white boy’s Pumpkin Spice Latte.

On the heels of Fireball’s success, other whiskeys followed suit. Eventually, a lot of whiskeys offered a ‘fire’ option. At least whiskey made sense. I’m still no fan, but I understand what they’re doing.

Then, Jose Cuervo had an identity crisis. Jose Cuervo produced Cinge – a cringe-worthy cinnamon play in the tequila space.

This stuff is awful! This is tequila abuse. I’m boycotting Jose Cuervo for this very reason.

How did I get introduced to Cinge? A friend stopped by. Like any good guest, he brought alcohol. He called it tequila. He poured shots. I went to cut a lime and he stopped me. “You don’t need lime, trust me,” he said.

I told him I wanted training wheels.

Then, he told me it was cinnamon tequila. Huh? Is there such a thing? Ok, I guess I’ll try it. And I did. A few times.

Something about it is just wrong. Technically, it’s tequila – a tainted, ruined, tryna-be-something-it’s-not version of tequila. Cinge is just another example of how, sometimes, we can’t leave well enough alone.

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