Sparkling Mezcal Soda

Serious mezcal.
Ridiculous energy.

Small-batch mezcal soda — smoky where it counts, bright where it matters, loudly carbonated everywhere else. Smooth enough for the purists, wild enough for a dance floor that never asked for him.

Join the Dance Floor Meet the soda →
5% ABV 355 ml Agave, twice Loud bubbles
The Dancing Gringo can
The Dancing Gringo himself
Who is the Gringo?

He came for the tequila.
He stayed for the dancing.

Somewhere between a work trip to Oaxaca and his fourth "just one more," a regular guy named Keith discovered a truth no distillery would print: great mezcal doesn't need a reason, an occasion, or the ability to dance well.

He put on a borrowed sombrero, kept his polo tucked in, and never looked back. The Dancing Gringo is for everyone who takes their agave seriously and themselves not at all.

Gringo Fact #01 ↻
This ain't a pimp walk. It's gout.

Read the full legend →

What's in the can

A cocktail in witness protection.

We're not printing the recipe. What we'll admit: there's smoke, citrus was involved, and the bubbles have a mineral streak you'd recognize anywhere.

01
Smoke

Mezcal out front, with a blue-agave cousin riding shotgun. Two agaves, one sombrero.

02
Squeeze

Lime, present and accounted for; agave nectar, invited. The lawyers approved this sentence and no others.

03
Sparkle

Finished with crisp mineral bubbles — the green-glass-bottle kind — and sealed at 355 ml. If you know, you know.

Field Recipe Nº 001 Declassified, mostly
  • Mezcal — the kind with a past.
  • A short pour of tequila for moral support.
  • A drizzle of agave nectar. For diplomacy.
  • Lime, administered with feeling.
  • Mineral bubbles sourced from somewhere.
Further details on a need-to-sip basis.
Small batch Additive free Agave, twice Chill & crack Gluten free
The maestro

Made by a man who won't give his name.

Everything about how this is made is on the record. Everything about who makes it is not. He handed over the method in full and asked for one thing back: leave him out of it. So here is the craft, uncut — and the man, in silhouette.

Last known photo

Declined to be photographed. We didn't push.

Maestro Profile Nº 001 Identity protected
  • Third-generation mezcalero. His grandfather's method, unchanged where it counts.
  • Distills in a valley in Oaxaca we won't name — the Santiago Matatlán style, if you know it.
  • Espadín agave, eight to ten years to the piña. Harvested by hand, by feel.
  • Roasted in an earthen pit over volcanic stone and mesquite. Days, not hours.
  • Fermented in open air on wild yeast, to the weather's schedule rather than ours.
  • Twice distilled in small copper stills older than everyone in this sentence.
  • Name: ████████  ·  Village: ███████  ·  Years active: ██
The method, declassified. The man, left alone.

Agave. Sun. Time. Him.

"The bubbles were not my idea. They grew on me."

— The maestro, through an interpreter
How it drinks

Tasting notes, minus the tasting-room theatrics.

01 · Nose

Smoke, obviously

Soft campfire smoke, lime zest, and wet stone — a desert right after the rain, up to no good.

02 · Palate

Bright, then wild

Loud mineral bubbles, a little agave sweetness, that smoky undertow. Sessionable at 5% — which is exactly how the dancing starts.

03 · Finish

Gone. Like Keith.

Clean, faintly smoky, and gone before you know it — leaving you reaching for the next can and a wider dance floor.

Pairs well with

Approved occasions.

Backyard diplomacy

Negotiations go smoother with smoke on both sides of the fence.

Garage listening sessions

Vinyl optional. Commitment mandatory. Neighbors, tolerant.

Pool proximity

In it or near it. The sombrero stays dry. Mostly.

Taco summits

High-level talks. The lime was already invited.

◆
"I came to a backyard barbecue and left having done the worm on concrete. No regrets. Ten out of ten agave."
— A verified gringo, Keith
Field report Nº 2

"The bubbles slapped. I said what I said."

— A witness
Field report Nº 3

"He did the worm again. The can survived. So did he, mostly."

— Keith's neighbor
Field report Nº 4

"Tastes like a campfire learned to dance."

— A purist, converted
The lineup

One flavor. For now.

The roadmap exists. It's in a drawer. The drawer is locked. Keith has the key and limited interest in using it.

Mezcal Soda — the original
Mezcal Soda
Available first.
A future flavor, redacted
Redacted
When it's ready.
Another future flavor, also redacted
Also redacted
After that one.
Field manual

The protocol.

01
Chill

Coldest corner of the fridge. Four hours, minimum. Patience is an ingredient.

02
Crack

Open it. Drink it from the can. Glassware is permitted, not required.

03
Lime, maybe

A wedge if you insist. The can already did the hard part.

The forbidden act

Never over ice. Dilution is a confession.

Denied
Frequently asked

Questions, answered reluctantly.

Politely. Like a campfire minding its own business two doors down.

Yes. They carpool. Mezcal drives.

Mineral. Loud. The green-glass-bottle kind, spiritually. We're contractually shy about the rest.

Cold, from the can, within stumbling distance of a dance floor. The field manual above covers the rest.

Physically.

Join the dance floor

First cans. First to know.

Drop your email for launch drops, stockist alerts, and dance moves you can practice in the mirror.

You're on the list. Stretch accordingly.
That email doesn't look right.