Whiskey a No-Go

So, I got it into my head that I liked the idea of whiskey: its amber beauty in a short, fat glass; my mom and dad's descriptions of sipping it in some Irish pub; the way its bouquet takes me back to being a kid in the 70's at a cool, grown-up pool party with the Little River Band playing on the radio. I've also had a brush with whiskey recently in a fruitcake-making day with a dear friend who's been making her recipe for 20-some years. Once the cakes are baked and cooled, she pricks the tops with a toothpick and sprinkles on half a shot of a good-quality whiskey. The cakes are put up for a week or two and treated with another half shot again before Christmas. I have a whole cake silently doubling its flavor on a shelf in my basement right now.

Then, in the last few weeks, I heard about and checked out this new book by Kate Hopkins, 99 Drams of Whiskey. In it, she talks about the history of the spirit; visits many distilleries in Ireland, Scotland, Canada, and the U.S.; and reviews various brands of the drink. I had been reading a few pages of her waxing poetic about whiskey each night before bed; its vanilla and oakey tones, its fruitiness, whether or not it has a good mouthfeel, whether it is peat-y or smokey. She makes it sound so good!

Now, I like a whiskey sour on occasion, but I had never had a whiskey and water or a whiskey on the rocks. If I ever was going to try it, now was the time with Hopkins' odes to whiskey floating in my head like so many clinking cubes. And, besides, I needed a bottle of my own to further enhance my aging fruitcake.

So last Tuesday night, after a shift at Barnes and Noble, I found myself in the whiskey aisle of Osco. Dig me! I'm buying a bottle like I know what I'm doing! I considered the many choices. Hopkins really likes the Irish Bushmills 21-year-old bottle, but that was out of my league. I ended up with a fifth of Dewar's White Label in my little paper bag and wished at least another shopper had been present to see my purchase. I was going home to have a taste before retiring to bed with my book. For once, I would know just what Hopkins was talking about as she extolled the virtues of this storied beverage. I was ready to appreciate every nuance.

At home, my family asleep, I stood in my pajamas in the street-facing kitchen, aware of the bright lights putting me on display for anyone out walking their dog, and poured a small glass of Dewar's over a single ice cube. It crackled promisingly. I sniffed it. Little River Band. I sniffed again. Irish cows in a green pasture. I drew a deep breath of it and could smell the oak! There was vanilla, too! I knew what Hopkins was talking about! I was ready to taste and enjoy.

A small sip. Whoa. A little rough. Maybe I didn't get a good mix of melty water and whiskey. Another sip. This is kind of like turpentine would taste. One more taste, bigger still. Oh my god. I shivered. I wanted to puke. I spit it into the sink. Down it coiled, "Hurry, don't be late, I can hardly wait. . .we'll go dancing in the dark, walking through the park and reminiscing."

Damn. I brushed my teeth, picked up something by Herman Melville, and went to bed.