OUR STORY
It started with a whisper, a half-memory of smoke and fire, a craving for something real. I was bouncing between Mexico and Canada, chasing some vague notion of purpose, when mezcal sunk its hooks into me. Not a watered-down cocktail—no, the real stuff, the kind that kicks like a donkey and burns like truth. Somehow, during this period, I found Celestino Sernas. Or maybe he found me. A third generation maestro mezcalero from Santiago Matatlán in Oaxaca the heart of it all. We spoke in half-measures, testing each other’s resolve. He didn’t do gimmicks. No shortcuts. Just time, patience, and agave that had stared down the sun. After a few discussions he graciously agreed to work with me. We would create something pure, small-batch mezcal with the soul intact. I still remember the first sip of our mezcal, it hit like a peyote vision in fast-forward. Sweet with a hint of smoke and earth, wild heat, the raw essence of the mountain highlands distilled into something just shy of hallucination. I coughed, wiped my mouth, and grinned like an idiot. This was no ordinary liquor. This was Veneno Magico Mezcal—meaner than my ex, alluring as sin, and as pure as a rattlesnake’s intent. Celestino and I shook hands under an Oaxacan sky, the air thick with roasted agave and fate. I had come looking for mezcal. What I found was something holy - A SYMBIOTIC UNION BETWEEN SPIRITS
OUR STORY
It started with a whisper, a half-memory of smoke and fire, a craving for something real. I was bouncing between Mexico and Canada, chasing some vague notion of purpose, when mezcal sunk its hooks into me. Not a watered-down cocktail—no, the real stuff, the kind that kicks like a donkey and burns like truth. Somehow, during this period, I found Celestino Sernas. Or maybe he found me. A third generation maestro mezcalero from Santiago Matatlán in Oaxaca the heart of it all. We spoke in half-measures, testing each other’s resolve. He didn’t do gimmicks. No shortcuts. Just time, patience, and agave that had stared down the sun. After a few discussions he graciously agreed to work with me. We would create something pure, small-batch mezcal with the soul intact. I still remember the first sip of our mezcal, it hit like a peyote vision in fast-forward. Sweet with a hint of smoke and earth, wild heat, the raw essence of the mountain highlands distilled into something just shy of hallucination. I coughed, wiped my mouth, and grinned like an idiot. This was no ordinary liquor. This was Veneno Magico Mezcal—meaner than my ex, alluring as sin, and as pure as a rattlesnake’s intent. Celestino and I shook hands under an Oaxacan sky, the air thick with roasted agave and fate. I had come looking for mezcal. What I found was something holy - A SYMBIOTIC UNION BETWEEN SPIRITS