“We sell our tequila by talking about tradition,” offers one distiller. “We’re proud to make spirits according to centuries-old processes that connect us to our grandfathers.”
“Ah, well, we make our Tequila with science,” counters another. “We’re not chained to the past! Instead, we use chemical breakthroughs to give consumers new and exciting tastes.”
The third distiller in the room looks up, aware the other two are awaiting a response. “Me?” he offers sheepishly. “Well, I don’t know about all of that stuff. I just thought it’d be cool if I put my tequila in a gun.”
Such is the story of Hijos de Villa, a novelty product if there ever was one. It is kin to cognacs that come in a glass Eiffel tower (France, you see!), vodkas shipped in Russian nesting dolls, or mezcals with a worm or insect that inevitably turns the surrounding liquid nauseatingly cloudy.
I'd like to tell you I'm above falling for marketing shenanigans, but the truth is I know how strongly gimmickry tugs at the soul. See, I have vivid childhood memories of going to a cowboy-themed restaurant (Black Angus, for reference) and ogling the cocktail menu. Etched into my mind is a picture of an electric blue margarita that—get this—was served in a glass cowboy boot.
Never mind that I was twelve. Never mind that I probably would have gagged after sipping any quantity of hard liquor, even if it were mixed into 500 calories of liquid candy. Never mind that, objectively, I was pining for a product that was undoubtedly designed to move the most bottom of bottom-shelf tequila. They served that shit in a glass boot. It was emblematic of the kind of fun adults were constantly having while I had to do homework with fractions and learn about biomes. To this day, I yearn to drink from that glass boot.
My point is that when it comes to novelty in the spirits world, if the liquor inside of the packaging is good, it's purely incidental. In all honesty, it doesn't have to be. Nobody expects it to be. It’s primarily a souvenir, and only secondarily a drinkable liquid.
“Though it’s a novelty, and although Hijos de Villa isn’t a perfect tequila, its flaws aren’t numerous or intense enough to sour my overall impression.”
The eagle-eyed will note that Hijos de Villa comes in a glass package that is a passably decent replica of a US, GI-pattern, .45 Caliber model of 1911 pistol. While I appreciate the attention to detail, it did not set expectations high for the spirit it contained. One of these came my direction only because my friend Mark was cleaning out his garage and said, “Dude, I don't drink tequila. Do you want this?”
Skepticism aside, show me a person who turns down the gift of a glass handgun filled with liquor, and I'll show you a person I don't understand.
But against all odds—inexplicably—Hijos de Villa is a decent tequila. By all accounts, it should have been terrible. Not only did this get poured from the barrel of a glass firearm (did I mention?), it's also apparently a Mixto tequila, which means that only 51% of the spirit needs to be produced from agave plants— i.e., that characteristic thing that makes tequila tequila. The remaining 49% of the product is typically some kind of corn-based, neutral grain spirit, because that's what's cheap. In a worst-case scenario, figure that Hijos de Villa is essentially half vodka, which again isn’t promising. And it still isn't bad.
Although you’ll definitely smell the booze writhing its way into your nostrils (as is typically common with cheap stuff), slap me if there isn’t complexity here. Alongside some very enticingly sweet aromas of brown sugar, vanilla, and tropical fruit, there’s also an intriguingly savory quality with hot peppers, sage, and baled hay bringing up the rear.
Those aromas actually telegraph a bit of the experience to come, as the tequila doesn’t stray too far from the sweet-and-savory playbook. Serrano peppers turn to bell peppers, and sage turns to rosemary, but in general there’s a lot of agave richness and a good interplay of vanilla and oak that you’d be looking for in any quality tequila. The buttery development carries through into the finish, and in general there’s a lingering aftertaste of caramel, oak, and pepper. Color me real surprised.
It’s not all rosy, though. There are some mixto hallmarks past the smell of raw ethanol. Your first sip punches hard, and you’ll get a smack of rocket fuel before you get to the good stuff. Additionally, there’s something synthetic and funky in the finish. Collectively, all of this isn’t great, but the flaws aren’t numerous or intense enough to sour the overall impression.
Around my neck of the woods, a gat’s worth of Hijos de Villa will set you back anywhere from $23 to $27. If you want a glass pistol filled with booze, the Hijos de Villa is undoubtedly a fair bargain. (You can even drink the booze, and it won't be terrible!) However, consider that the Hijos de Villa comes in a 200ml container that’s narrow and almost entirely glass. It holds less than a third of the volume of your bog standard 750ml bottle.
Packaging aside, and if we scaled up the price proportionately, a standard-sized bottle of the Hijos de Villa repo would cost $86 to $100. This puts it on the same pricing tier as craft tequilas where the agave piñas are roasted in fire pits and squished by a stone wheel pulled by donkeys. Hijos de Villa would be the same price as those single-estate mezcals where someone's abuelito has to forage in the mountains for wild strains of agave. If you look at it from that perspective, the price of $22.99 for 200ml is highway robbery.
But here's my ultimate takeaway. If you've stayed away from a .45 filled with tequila on principle, I applaud your rationality. But if you succumbed (or will succumb) to the boozegun's siren song, there's no shame: sometimes life requires us to embrace the ridiculous. And supposing you were gifted this particular novelty, go ahead and open fire. The juice can't stand toe-to-toe with the best in the category, but it's a damn sight better than Jose Cuervo Gold and I enjoyed it better than even some “authentic” 100% agave tequilas.
I wouldn't recommend this as tequila alone. But, supposing you've read all of the above and still thought, “Man, a glass 1911 filled with Tequila sounds totally sick,” buying Hijos de Villa isn’t the worst mistake you could make.
