GUADALAJARA, MEXICO – The man I will come to know as the Pope of Tequila plunges his nose into his glass, takes a long, contemplative whiff and explains his job.

“I’m an ambassador,” Ruben Aceves says matter-of-factly, admiring the dancing caramel colors in his Casa Herradura reposado tequila. “I meet people like you, all over the world, educate them about the product and hopefully show them a new way of thinking about tequila. And drinking it.”

Though he works for no embassy, government or mission, Aceves is unmistakably a diplomat. A cultured, genial fiftysomething who bears a passing likeness to funnyman pundit Steven Colbert (as evidenced by the exclusive video below... stylishly shot sideways), Aceves has the kind of florid job title that would be the envy of any statesman: Ambassador and Director of International Brand Development. He works for Herradura – a 139-year-old premium beverage institution that hopes to seize a bigger share of the estimated $1.06 billion U.S. tequila market from the likes of Cuervo and Sauza.

For the record, Aceves thinks none too highly of his better-known rivals, whom he blames for tequila’s checkered reputation in America; specifically, that of a skunky, hangover-causing hooch best slurped off the body of a sunburnt coed.

“Back in the 50s, no one was buying their stuff down here,” Aceves alleges, surveying the clientele at an upscale downtown restaurant. “So what Cuervo did was ship it up north to America, fill it with artificial additives and colorings, and convince people to drink it in bulk. To do shots.”

He continues: “That’s not the classical tequila. We do it the right way. Ours is the best in the world. And tomorrow I’ll show you why.”

The Pope has spoken. I gratefully accept another glass of his reposado and await my conversion.

You know what I love about vodka, besides how smart and dashing it makes me? I love that you can manufacture the stuff out of practically anything: grain, grapes, potatoes, sugar beet molasses, ketchup . . . why, an enterprising distiller could mop the octagon after next week’s Randy Couture fight in Oregon and turn that into a passable vodka spirit, once he filters out the bits of flesh and teeth and such.

Not everyone in the vodka world is so open-minded. In fact, the so-called “Vodka Belt” countries (Russia, Poland, Ukraine, etc.) reserve the “vodka” designation exclusively for spirits distilled from grain, potato and sugar beet. Grape-based vodkas have to be called something else. “Decadent Westerner Pussy Juice” is commonly used. In deference to the Putinist vodka purists, we at The Imbiber have limited the following double-blind taste test to grain-based vodkas. Happy, comrades?

THE TASTE TEST
Our taste test was conducted using five well-known commercial vodkas, with a panel of three testers: Tester A (female, mid 30s, sensitive palate), Tester B (male, late 30s, medium palate) and Tester C (male, early 30s, semi-alcoholic). All vodkas were chilled and consumed straight.

Grey Goose
Arguably America’s leading premium brand, this high-priced tipple was the concoction of septuagenarian billionaire Sidney Frank, the booze visionary who first imported Jagermeister to the States. Frank suspected that Americans would pay above-slot for a vodka bottle emblazoned with the French tricolor and fitted with a classy cork top, so he set up a distillery in Cognac and started exporting it to the U.S. in 1997. It was an immediate commercial smash and has since become a favorite lyrical trope for hip-hop stars like L’il Jon (“The Goose/Got me loose”).

Our panel was surprised by the Goose’s comparatively pungent nose and rich body. Off-put at first, Tester A called it “kinda buttery and viscous.” Tester B lauded its “velvet” texture and stomach-soothing finish, which supports the old adage that first-rate vodka is felt, not tasted.

Suggested use: Dry martini