With drug wars and health disasters on its hands, Mexico has made the headlines recently for all the wrong reasons.

On May 5, however, the doom and gloom was alleviated around the world when people turned their focus to Cinco de Mayo, Mexico's national day of celebration to mark General Ignacio Zaragoza Seguin and his troops' unexpected defeat of the French at the battle of Puebla in 1862.

During these celebrations many a mariachi band played and a glass or two of tequila was sipped.

That’s right, sipped. Not slugged, not slammed, nor slurped down as a shooter. As someone whose understanding of Mexico stretches only as far as a college trip to Cancun, this came as news to me. But now I’m in a masterclass led by Magally Franco, a genuine senorita from the state of Jalisco, and she’s intent on scotching my preconceptions about her national drink.

“Drink it neat, take your time, and enjoy,” she tells me. “You will see what tequila is about – and Mexico.”

Tequila production is tightly controlled by the Mexican authorities to maintain high standards and like Champagne it is an appellation. Its controlled term of origin is confined to five states centering around the town of Tequila in Jalisco – a state that also gave birth to mariachi music, Magally points out. In order to be called tequila, a minimum of 51% of the sugar must come from the blue agave, a plant that “is not a cactus,” she says, “but a relation of the lily.”

Where Megally comes from, blue agaves fill the fields before being harvested. The leaves are hacked off by hand, leaving the “piña”, or sap-filled heart of the plant. The piñas are slow-cooked so that the flavour is retained in the agave juice or “agua miel” – the honey water, which is then fermented.

We’ve got three tasting glasses in front of us, but there’s not a worm in sight. I learn that if you come across a bottle with a worm in the bottom, then you’re probably looking at mezcal - a relative of tequila that’s produced by distilling various types of agave grown across the country. Mezcal de gusano is traditionally served with salt prepared with a powder made from the maguey plant worm. I make a note to myself to avoid it.

Then I make a note to myself to learn all the many types of tequila. There’s 'mixto', which combines sugars from the blue agave with other sources, as well as 100% blue agave. 'Blanco' (white) or 'plata' (silver) refers to a white spirit that’s either un-aged and stored immediately after distillation, or aged for less than two months. Then there’s 'reposado' (rested) or an 'añejo' (aged) – these must have aged for a minimum of two and 12 months respectively in oak barrels.

Most of the casks come from the US, where bourbon barrels are cast off by distilleries after one use. They lend distinctive flavours; the Partida distillery for example uses barrels shipped in from the Jack Daniels’ HQ in Tennessee.

Magally swears I’ll start to absorb the complexities of tequila if I give it half a chance, so she’s poured a selection of her grandfather’s favourite brand, Cazadores (which is incidentally aged in new American oak barrels – no cast-offs for us connoisseurs). Everything we’re drinking comes from Los Altos – the milder highlands above the arid Tequila Valley – where the red soil is rich in minerals. The chemistry and climate result, I’m told, in a distinctly sweet and rich flavour.

First we have a go on Cazadores Blanco, which isn’t aged at all before bottling. It’s surprisingly sweet and soft. Megally announces that she thinks it has a spicy finish, but I think it’s more like fire.

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