It’s a shame, really, that Ernest Hemingway never chanced an encounter with high-quality before he died in 1961. It feels a little like a child who never got to meet his grandfather—to cradle a bottle of 100 percent agave blanco tequila, and to say, wistfully and as much to yourself as anyone else, “my god…he would’ve loved you so much.”

Even if he had never written a word, it’s tempting to believe Hemingway would be famous for his drinking exploits alone; if alcohol were a sport, Ernest Hemingway would be the Michael Jordan of the game. An entire nearly has been written solely of the author’s relationship to drink, the various permutations of wine and Champagne that he favored, his Bloody Marys in Hong Kong and Martinis in the African bush, his gin and rum and whiskey and pisco and heroi

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