The door closed and locked behind us shutting out the noise from the busy city street that now felt a world away. We were standing in a small bar lined with floor to ceiling bookcases filled with bottles of clear mezcal. The labels on the bottles looked like the old library cards that were used to check books in and out back in the eighties. It gave the bottles an appearance of having been shelved as though they were books in a library – each one an ode to a life’s work.