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My early concept, and experience, of tequila was far from a high-brow one. It belonged to the late 1980s, when a bottle of red sombrero-capped Sierra tequila was cracked open at a friend’s house as we got ready for a night – illegally – at some terrible nightclub, wearing heels we couldn’t walk in and teased, lacquered fringes that gave us extra few inches of height.