Deep in the hills of Ixtlahuahuey, Don Francisco sits outside his home, one of the last elders who learned raicilla by watching his father work the taberna. He tells of hauling agave on mules, cooking it in earth ovens, fermenting in parota canoes, and trusting only water and instinct. Before legality, before labels, raicilla lived in the shadows—and men like him kept it alive.