It’s Cape Cod tequila but don’t call it that
By Seth Rolbein
Kristen Roberts from Truro Vineyards looked up at a multi-story gleaming copper cauldron that resembles a huge Aladdin’s lamp.
“I’m told this is the first legal still on Cape Cod since Prohibition,” she smiled.
But wine ferments. Why does Truro Vineyards need a still?
Ahh, spirits distill, and while wine remains front and center, the Roberts family started diversifying 10 years ago. First rum, then gin. Soon small-batch whiskey, each named for a family dog; Daisy, Moose, Ruby...
All in the name of tapping a growing spirits market. But also for the fun of it. “My brother Dave is the mad scientist,” smiles Kristen.
Now comes Cape Cod tequila, first poured this summer. But wait. Even though it’s distilled from agave juice you can’t legally call it “tequila,” any more than you can call a bubbly white wine “champagne” if it didn’t come from that part of France.
On the label “reposado” replaces the ‘t’ word, meaning “rested” in Spanish as it slumbers in an oak barrel at least two months.
In 2007, when Dave Roberts retired after working at United Liquors for many years, it took him about a day to get restless and want to invest in Truro Vineyards. Now the scene feels like California wine country transplanted. Patriarch Dave, who passed in 2023, was proud as hell of his next generation’s success.
People say our sandy soil and temperate climate mimics places around the world where good grapes grow, including France. Here Truro grapes often mix with off-Cape harvests to make 19 varieties.
And now tequila – sorry, reposado – has joined the offerings.
“We’re selling it one margarita at a time,” Kristen smiles, offering a sip.
Speaking of ‘tequila,’ a personal riff:
Four decades ago I was living in Orleans. Jay Hagenbuckle mentioned one spring day that he had a dormant tenor saxophone laying around. Playing horn had always been a desire of mine, and I said so.
“Tell you what,” Jay said, “I’ll loan it to you. Our band has a Labor Day gig at the Beachcomber in Wellfleet. If you can get good enough by summer’s end to play a few tunes with us, the sax is yours.”
We lived on Town Cove so after work I’d stand in the backyard facing the water to honk and oink and squeal. More than one sailor tacking up the cove would yell to me, along the lines of “YOU SUCK!” That was true, if uncharitable.
But come Labor Day there I was, standing in the packed Beachcomber, the Cyclones into their set. I was trying not to hyperventilate, a seriously bad thing to do when you’re playing a horn; blowing too hard kicks notes up an octave, with attendant squealing. Not cool.
Jay made up some story about a hot sax player in town and called me up. “Tequila,” he announced. Ahhh, the early rock-and-roll hit any sax player loves to cover.
I had been hoping to hide for a tune or two, play a little backline, but Jay pushed me front and center. Bruce MacLean broke into a two-chord repeating intro, Jay hit the bass as Pete Putnam had some fun with cymbals. I let them run extra measures, pretending to build anticipation but really just trying to get ahold of myself. And then, nothing to do but blow.
On the first notes people let out a celebratory cry and jumped on the dance floor.
“TEQUILA,” they yelled on cue, as the song hits a pause. That’s the only lyric.
I got to keep the saxophone. Years later (still years ago), John Basile - who of course you hear as host of “Morning Edition” - mentioned that his kid was hoping to play the sax.
I played it forward: That instrument went home with Basile.
