The things we will do for free crap

As much as I love Port, I have a friend who loves whisk(e)y, in all its forms, much more. He is a walking library of tasting notes and production techniques. So much so that he reads the industry periodicals. I am in awe of this devotion and possibly a little jealous. So when he informed me that one of our local dives, Snug Harbor, has started a whisk(e)y club, I was immediately intrigued. I myself am not much of a whisk(e)y drinker, Irish is my preference, but I love the opportunity to widen my horizons. The fact that I can be rewarded for my alcoholic adventures with cheap branded swag is also a selling point. Last night was our first foray into the endeavor.

The rules, we learned as we sat down, are as follows. There are three categories Irish, Scotch, and Bourbon and Rye. Each category has eight drinks in it and you have one month to have one of each. If you finish this task you get the afore mentioned bag of swag. If you complete all three categories you are entered into a drawing for the motherload of swag including a bourbon barrel (empty unfortunately), some bottles of liquor (full) and some more branded stuff.

First up, Bourbon and Rye. The whole thing is being sponsored by the Jim Beam company, as we learned from the Jim Beam rep who was flitting around the bar pushing this and other events in the area, so the selection was predictably all Jim Beam products with the exception of Makers Mark.

My first drink was a Bookers. Which is a barrel strength bourbon that is an all out assault on your mouth. It is sweet, spicy and front loaded with alcohol. It burns, it burns in all the right places. It takes a sip or two to settle into the abuse, but once you do, you are rewarded with all of the flavors a young brash whisk(e)y should have. I learned with my second drink why you do not start with the Bookers. As I sipped a Makers Mark it was evident that I had completely worn my tongue out. I am not predisposed to Makers Mark in the first place but this was a truly unfortunate experience. The bookers had gobbled up my ability to taste sweet or spicy and had completely numbed my mouth to the effects of alcohol. What I was left with was an unpleasant mineraly flavor, not unlike that of stale air from your grandmothers basement, on my tongue and a fierce fire in the very back of my throat. The moral of the story is; ask your friend, the expert, the order in which you should proceed when you have no idea what your doing.

Until next time