It’s Cape Cod tequila, but don’t call it that
Truro Vineyards keeps diversifying, by distilling
“I’m told this is the first legal still on Cape Cod since Prohibition,” chuckles Kristen Roberts, glancing at a multi-story gleaming copper cauldron that could be a huge Aladdin’s lamp — or something up from Jules Verne’s 20,000 leagues.
But why does Truro Vineyards need a still? Wine ferments.
Ahh, but spirits distill, and while wine remains front and center, the Roberts family started diversifying 10 years ago. First came rum, cane juice trucked up from Florida and Louisiana. Then gin, from Eastern red cedar berries. Next, Amaro, an Italian digestivo. Soon small-batch whiskey, each named for a dog in the family; Daisy, Moose, Ruby...
All in the name of tapping a growing spirits market, staying busy before and after grapes. But also for the fun of it. “My brother Dave is the mad scientist,” smiles Kristen.
Now comes Cape Cod tequila, with the first local-alcohol margarita poured this summer.
But wait. It looks and tastes like tequila, distilled from blue agave juice. Yet 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.
What you can call it is “an American agave spirit.”
Spirits take a week or so to ferment, a day to distill, then go into barrels to nap. “Reposado” replaces the ‘t’ word on this label, meaning “rested” in Spanish as the “tequila” must slumber in an oak barrel at least two months (an “añejo” sleeps for at least a year).
“Pescado grande” is the brand, in honor of patriarch Dave Roberts, who was indeed the family’s big fish.
Dave worked at United Liquors for many years, and when he retired it took him about a day to get restless and make a family proposition to invest in Truro Vineyards. That was 2007. The vineyard had been a bed and breakfast with some vines planted in 1991, limping along until the Roberts crew stepped in.
“When my father said we should buy this place, everyone was like, ‘Damn bad idea,’” Kristen recalls. “But here we are coming up on 20 years. That’s wild to me.”
With five-plus acres, cultivation up the hillside, a handsome homestead and outbuildings, tours and tastings, special events including a recent music festival, the scene is California wine country successfully transplanted. Dave, who passed in 2023, was proud as hell; four of Dave’s grandchildren worked there this summer (younger Dave’s children), and Kristen’s are coming along too. Their sister Stephanie took a different path, becoming a law professor with a major role in the acclaimed Innocence Project.
The vineyard mashes homegrown grapes as well as imports to make 19 wines; people say the sandy Cape soil and temperate climate mimics places around the world where good grapes grow, including France. Truro’s wine can legally ship to 28 states now, though spirits only distribute in Massachusetts; Prohibition vestiges?
For awhile 75 percent of the vineyard’s sales took place on site, tastings and tours driving drinking. Now it’s more like 60 percent, Kristen reports, the rest in liquor stores or direct mail. The tequila — sorry, reposado — all moves from the property.
“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. Wonderful musician, radio producer, sound designer Jay Hagenbuckle mentioned one spring day that he had a dormant tenor saxophone laying around. Playing horn had always been a desire of this guitar guy, and I said so.
“Tell you what,” Jay said, “I’ll loan it to you. The 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, Bruce MacLean vamping on guitar joking with the crowd, Pete Putnam pounding the beat, Jay on bass. 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 signature early rock-and-roll hit any self-respecting sax player loves to cover. I had been hoping to hide with Pete for a tune or two, play a little backline to get settled, but Jay threw me into the deep end — the right thing to do.
Bruce broke into a two-chord repeating intro, Jay hit the bass as Pete had some fun with cymbals. I let them run extra measures, pretending I was building anticipation but really just trying to get ahold of myself.
And then, nothing to do but blow.
On the first notes the crowd let out a celebratory cry (not a single “YOU SUCK”) and people 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 many of you hear as host of “Morning Edition” on WCAI, mentioned that his kid was hoping to play the sax.
I played it forward: That instrument went home with Basile.
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