u/ClaudiaRomoEdelman

I've spent years working in global advocacy and narratives, so when I started learning about Sotol, one detail stopped me completely.

No manuals. No written recipes. No archives.

Eight hundred years of craft knowledge passed entirely through local hands, memory, and oral traditions. The Rarámuri and Toboso communities in northern Mexico didn't need documentation. They had something more durable: unbroken human transmission, generation after generation.

When the Spanish arrived and introduced distillation techniques, indigenous knowledge didn't disappear. It was absorbed, adapted, and continued. Quietly. Persistently.

What strikes me most is how fragile that chain is and how remarkable it is that it held.

We talk a lot about preserving culture. But most of what we call "preservation" is digitizing, archiving, cataloguing. What the Maestros who produce Sotol do is entirely different. The knowledge lives in their hands. Their memory is the archive.

I think about this constantly as someone who has worked in advocacy: what else have we almost lost without realizing it? And who are the people quietly holding it together?

Nobody tells you that launching a product means refreshing analytics at 2 am.

Or that the first order from someone you don't know feels completely different from the first order from a friend.

We're in the middle of our first ordering week for Sotol Romo, and it's been equal parts exhilarating and humbling.

A few things I didn't expect:
→ The questions people ask tell you more about your brand than any focus group.
→ The desert feels very far away from a laptop screen.

Still very much worth it.

When people think of Mexican spirits, they usually picture the coast, or Jalisco, or a romanticized version of rural Mexico that's been photographed a thousand times.

Sotol comes from somewhere else entirely.

Mexico's Denomination of Origin for sotol covers three northern states: Chihuahua, Coahuila, and Durango. This is the desert-and-mountain corridor that runs between the Sierra Madre ranges — low rainfall, rugged terrain, dramatic temperature swings. Not gentle. Not picturesque in the way travel brochures sell. But extraordinary in a way that takes a moment to settle in.

The Dasylirion plant grows wild here, not in cultivated rows. It roots itself in stone and scarcity. It takes in almost nothing and gives back everything — slowly, over years and years, until one day it sends up a tall bloom like a final act of becoming. It doesn't grow for us. It grows for the desert. We're just fortunate enough to be there when it's ready.

And because it grows wild, because it's shaped entirely by where it stands, the terrain shows up directly in the glass. The dryness. The minerality. The herbal lift. That's not a flavor profile someone designed. That's the Sierra Madre.

Northern Mexico has been overlooked for too long — its landscapes, its stories, its contributions to Mexican culture. Sotol is one of those contributions. And it carries the desert with it everywhere it goes.

Did you know sotol's origin was this specific? Genuinely curious how many people outside the community have any sense of where it actually comes from. 👇

Let me tell you something that reframes the whole sotol category.

The Dasylirion plant — the heart of sotol — takes 12 to 15 years to mature, sometimes 20. As a wild, desert plant, it requires no irrigation. No chemical inputs. It grows on its own in rocky, arid desert terrain with minimal rainfall and dramatic temperature swings. It doesn't need help from us. It just needs time.

And unlike agave, which reproduces by cloning itself, Dasylirion has separate male and female plants that reproduce through natural pollination. Which means the ecosystem it grows in has to stay healthy for the plant to exist at all. You can't fake that. You can't shortcut it.

When the plant is finally ready — and only then — the harvest is done entirely by hand. The leaves are stripped back to reach the heart, the piña or cabeza, which gets cooked to unlock the fermentable sugars locked inside. From there it's crushed, mixed with water, fermented, and double distilled in pot stills — a deliberate choice that preserves what the plant actually tastes like, rather than smoothing it away.

And at the end of that process, the maestro sotolero makes the final call. Not with instruments. With smell. With taste. With decades of accumulated wisdom about what's right and what isn't.

That's not production. That's stewardship.

What questions do you have about how sotol is made? Drop them below — genuinely want to answer every single one. 👇

I'm Claudia Romo Edelman. I've spent most of my career in diplomacy, advocacy, and communications.

And today I commercially launched a sotol.

Sotol Romo.

I want to tell you why, because the why matters more than the what.

I grew up between Mexico and the world. I spent decades talking about Latin America in rooms where Latin America often felt like a footnote.

And I kept thinking: what if the story wasn't told with words? What if it were told with something you could taste?

Sotol is made from a plant that survives the harshest desert conditions. It doesn't bend. It doesn't rush. It takes 15 years to mature before it can be harvested.

I don't think that's a coincidence as to why it chose me — or I chose it.

This is the beginning. If you want to try it:
[sotolromo.com](http://sotolromo.com)

Sotol Romo is officially available as of today.

For those unfamiliar: Sotol Romo is made from 100% Dasylirion Cedrosanum, not agave. Different plant, different terroir, different traditions — and under Sotol's Denomination of Origin, granted to the category in 2002.

We'd be happy to answer any questions about the production process, the plant, the region, or how it tastes compared to what you already drink.

Every time someone asks me if sotol is a new thing, I have to take a breath.

Because it's not. Not even close.

The Dasylirion plant — what we know as sotol — has been woven into life in northern Mexico for at least 800 years. Indigenous communities across what is now Chihuahua, Coahuila, and Durango were using this plant long before modern spirits existed. It fed people. It fueled ceremonial traditions. It was part of how communities understood themselves and their land.

When Spanish settlers arrived and introduced distillation techniques, sotol didn't disappear — it adapted. It became part of the cultural fabric of the north, produced as a spirit at a family and regional level for generations. Quietly. Without needing an audience.

For most of the 20th century, it lived outside formal markets, largely unrecognized beyond the communities that kept it alive. Formal recognition only came in 2002, when Mexico granted sotol a Denomination of Origin — protecting Chihuahua, Coahuila, and Durango as the only places where it can be legally produced. Production standards were established in 2004.

That's a spirit with centuries of history that only started reaching the wider world in the last two decades.

To me, that's not a gap in the market. That's a gap in the story we've been telling about Mexican spirits.

For those of you who've been following Sotol for a while — what moment made you realize how deep this history actually goes? 👇

There's something I've been wanting to write for a while.

I didn't discover sotol. I grew up near it. It was always just there — quiet, honest, not performing for anyone. It wasn't marketed to me. It wasn't positioned as the next big thing. It just existed, the way many things from northern Mexico exist: without asking for recognition, but earning it day after day.

What I've come to understand is that sotol carries its place of origin in a way very few spirits do. Every sip pulls me back to the desert — not as a romantic idea, but as something physical. The vastness. The silence. The kind of landscape that makes you feel small and grounded at the same time.

The sotol plant survives where almost nothing else can. It takes years — sometimes decades — to mature. It doesn't rush. And when it's finally harvested, that patience shows up in the glass. Earthy. Herbal. Complex. Unapologetic.

I think what I love most is that it hasn't been smoothed over for mass appeal. It still has edges. It asks you to slow down and actually pay attention — and in a world that rewards the loudest, fastest thing in the room, that feels almost radical.

This is my love letter to the plant, the people who protect its legacy, and the desert that shaped them both.

Does sotol have that kind of meaning for any of you? Curious how others in this community found their way to it. 👇

I've only tried it on its own so far, but I'd love some ideas on how you like to drink it.

During U.S. Prohibition, Al Capone needed alcohol. A lot of it. And somewhere along the way, he found sotol.

The story is set in Ciudad Juárez, Chihuahua — just across the border from El Paso, Texas. Capone reportedly traveled there to source spirits during the dry years, and according to local legend, sotol became a personal favorite. He reportedly liked it enough that he convinced Chihuahua producers to start making whiskey-style spirits for him to traffic back into the United States.

That last part is interesting: the demand from Capone's operation apparently pushed some sotoleros away from their own tradition and toward producing what American bootleggers actually needed. A Mexican spirit that had survived 800 years nearly got redirected by organized crime.

The ban in Mexico was lifted in 1938. U.S. Prohibition ended in 1933. Sotol survived both, largely because the communities in Chihuahua, Durango, and Coahuila kept producing it quietly, passed the knowledge down through families, and waited.

Eight decades later, Sotol has a Denomination of Origin, growing U.S. distribution, and a place on craft bar menus in New York and Chicago.

Did you know about the sotol-Prohibition connection before today?

When you buy a bottle of Champagne, you know it came from Champagne, France. That's what a Denomination of Origin means — it ties a product to a specific place and a specific set of rules. Sotol has one. Most people buying it in the U.S. have no idea about this.

Since 2002, sotol can only be legally called sotol if it's produced in one of three Mexican states: Chihuahua, Durango, or Coahuila. Not because of politics, but because that's where the Dasylirion plant grows in the conditions that make the spirit what it is. The denomination is enforced under the NOM-159-SCFI-2004 standard, which governs everything from harvest to bottling.

What that means practically: every authentic bottle of sotol comes from one of those three states. The region shows up in the flavor — desert expressions from Chihuahua taste noticeably different from prairie expressions in Durango or mountain-grown plants from Coahuila. Geography isn't just a label here. It's in the glass.

If authenticity matters to you, check the label for the NOM number and one of the three states. That's how you know what you're actually buying.

Does Denomination of Origin influence what you buy when it comes to spirits?

Tequila feels ancient. Even though commercial production only took off in the 17th century, and the industry as we know it is largely a 20th-century construction.

Sotol has been around longer.
Indigenous communities in the Chihuahuan Desert — the Tarahumara, the Anasazi, the Toboso, the Apache — were fermenting the Dasylirion plant over 800 years ago. Not distilling yet, that came later with Spanish colonization, but consuming sotol in fermented form as part of religious ceremonies, medicine, and daily life. The plant wasn't just a drink. It was food, fiber, and ritual wrapped into one.

When Spanish colonizers arrived and introduced distillation techniques, sotol moved from a fermented beverage to a distilled spirit. That's roughly where the modern product begins — except "modern" here means several hundred years ago.

Then came the complications. In 1920, President Plutarco Elías Calles banned sotol production as part of a crackdown on regional spirits. For nearly two decades, sotoleros made it underground, hid bottles in fake graves, and kept the tradition alive through pure stubbornness. The ban was lifted in 1938, the same era when Al Capone was reportedly sourcing sotol from Chihuahua producers during U.S. Prohibition.

Tequila, meanwhile, faced no such restrictions. It industrialized. It globalized. It became the default Mexican spirit worldwide.

Sotol only received its Denomination of Origin in 2002. After 800 years, it's commercially a toddler.

That gap between history and recognition is exactly what makes the category interesting right now.

Did you know sotol predates commercial tequila production?

If you're looking at a sotol menu for the first time, two words are going to show up: Blanco and Reposado. Here's what they actually mean and which one makes sense depending on where you're coming from.

Blanco (unaged)
Straight from the still, no barrel time. This is the purest expression of the Dasylirion plant dry, mineral, herbaceous, sometimes piney. Nothing is added, nothing is softened. It's the version that shows you exactly what sotol is before wood gets involved. If you want to understand the spirit, start here. If you're coming from mezcal, this is your entry point.

Reposado (2–12 months in oak)
The barrel adds vanilla, caramel, and a mild spice that rounds out the sharper edges of the Blanco. It's not trying to become whiskey, the plant character is still clearly there, but it's more approachable for people who find the Blanco too austere. If you drink Bourbon or Reposado tequila regularly, this is probably your on-ramp.

So, if you're a first-timer, start with Blanco, then move to Reposado.

Which expression did you like the best?

The most common description I've heard is: "it tastes like the desert." Which sounds poetic and tells you nothing. Let me try to be more useful.

Sotol is dry. That's the first thing to land. Less sweet than tequila, less smoky than most mezcals. The base character tends toward earthy and herbaceous — think dry grass, mineral stone, sometimes a faint pine or eucalyptus note, depending on where the plant grew.

There's often a subtle grassiness that reminds people of a grassy scotch, except with a completely different origin.

It doesn't burn the way you'd expect for something between 38 and 55% ABV. It warms, but it doesn't scratch. That surprises most first-timers.

The type matters a lot:
Blanco is the most honest expression — no barrel influence, straight plant character. If you want to understand what sotol is, start here.
Reposado spends 2 to 12 months in oak. Vanilla and caramel start showing up, and the edges soften. Easier entry point for whiskey drinkers.

Terroir is also a real variable. Desert-grown plants produce drier, more mineral expressions. Mountain-grown ones tend toward woodsy and piney. Prairie expressions can lean floral. Same spirit, genuinely different characters.

The honest advice: try it neat first, room temperature, wide glass. Give it five minutes before the first sip. It opens up more than you'd expect.

What were your first impressions the first time you tried sotol?

Sotol doesn't start on a farm. It starts with someone crossing the Chihuahuan Desert on foot, looking for a plant that's been growing undisturbed for over a decade.

The harvesters — called tumbadores — locate mature desert spoon plants in the wild, cut away the long spiny leaves, and extract the heart, or piña. It looks roughly like a large pineapple. Each plant is harvested by hand. There are no machines that do this efficiently in rocky desert terrain, and that's not an accident — the whole process is built around working with the land, not against it.

The piñas are then roasted in underground pits or stone ovens for several days. This is where a lot of the flavor gets built: the heat caramelizes the plant's natural sugars and creates the earthy character that shows up in the glass. Different producers roast differently — longer roasts, different wood, open fire vs. covered pit — and those choices follow you all the way to the final product.

After roasting, the cooked piñas are crushed, mixed with water, and left to ferment naturally — typically 5 to 7 days, often with wild yeasts present in the environment. No shortcuts here either.

Then it's distilled, usually twice, sometimes three times, depending on the producer. The result comes out anywhere between 38 and 55% ABV.

No additives. No coloring. No shortcuts. Just plant, fire, water, and time.

The whole process from harvest to bottle can take weeks — for a plant that took 15 years to grow in the hardest conditions.

What part of the process surprised you most?

Most spirit categories lead with the drink. Sotol should probably lead with the plant.

The desert spoon (Dasylirion wheeleri) grows wild across the Chihuahuan Desert northern Mexico, parts of Texas, and New Mexico. It looks like a sea urchin crossed with a yucca: long, spiny leaves radiating from a central core. No farming, no irrigation, no monoculture. It just grows, slowly, in rocky desert soil where almost nothing else does.

The slow part matters. The plant takes 10 to 15 years to reach maturity before it can be harvested. Compare that to blue agave for tequila at around 7 years. The patience required changes the economics of the whole category, and arguably the mindset of the people who produce it.

Here's the part that makes it genuinely different from most spirits: when harvested correctly, the root stays in the ground, and the plant regrows. It's polycarpic, meaning it can reproduce multiple times before it dies. No replanting needed. Producers need government permits to harvest and are capped at 40% of mature plants per acre.

That's not a marketing claim, it's built into the production regulations.

The flavor connection is real, too. Desert vs. prairie vs. mountain expressions of sotol taste noticeably different from each other, because the plant absorbs the character of wherever it grows. Terroir isn't a borrowed concept here, it's a biological fact.

When people ask why sotol tastes the way it does, the answer starts here, not in the distillery.

Anyone here familiar with the Dasylrion plant outside of the spirits world?