Vino y Vida. Casa Anza: Where Wine Stops Migration

By Arael Gómez Tello

At the foothills of a mountain that separates San Miguel de Allende from Juriquilla, in a still-undefined stretch of México’s winemaking map, there’s a ranch that decided to become a vineyard—or rather, that decided never to stop being a ranch, even after the vines arrived.

There, on land where buffalo once grazed—right where Cabernet Franc grows today—a wine is made that doesn’t try to resemble anything else. The project, born more than a decade ago as a family pursuit, doesn’t just ferment grapes; it cultivates permanence in a land of migrants.

In a region marked by the constant departure of its people toward the United States, this winery found in viticulture a way to plant roots. What began as a desire to preserve a connection to the land became a liquid manifesto: wine as resistance, wine as return.

Winemaking here follows a minimal-intervention approach. No chemicals. No additives. The process is allowed to flow, just like the family that created it: free, natural, organic.

The fermentation process happens in unusual vessels: Italian clay spheres, cocciopesto, and concrete tanks. No cooling systems are used; the chosen materials let each fermentation follow its own rhythm. Terracotta, for example, preserves fruit aromas and contributes a subtle texture impossible to replicate in stainless steel.

The planted varieties—Sauvignon Blanc, Semillon, Cabernet Sauvignon, Malbec, Merlot, Syrah, Tempranillo, and Cabernet Franc—respond not only to the climate and soil, but also to an intuition deeply rooted in their relationship with the land. This vineyard was an ecosystem first: it’s still home to wild boar, donkeys, and an active apiary.

And while many talk about sustainability as a slogan, here it’s a practice. This project is part of the first state to join national sustainability plan for viticulture. Its water footprint is minimal: just 200 liters of water per bottle, compared to the more than 600 typically used internationally.

More than a winery, it’s a place where the land and time understand each other. Where making wine isn’t an industry, but an act of staying. Where a vintage isn’t just a number—it’s a year that never left.

This is not a vineyard open to wine tourism. No scheduled tastings or scenic tours. The experience isn’t in visiting it, but in stumbling upon it—or finding it by luck—in a glass.

If you ever see a bottle of Casa Anza on a table, don’t hesitate to try it. Because that wine carries a story that isn’t told, but felt.

Arael Gómez Tello

araelgomeztello@gmail.com

@araelgomeztello