After making it 30 years on the planet, I’ve discovered a handful of universal truths. Prices will rise. Politicians will philander. Brown liquor is better than clear. Jose Cuervo and I had a disagreement in college that put me off tequila forever and somewhere in the void between my apologetic youth and womanhood, I discovered whiskey. How I discovered whiskey is the story that follows.
The year is 2014. I am 24 with a very fancy title. My first job out of graduate school is as the Deputy Director of Operations at a large company in Washington D.C. My boss, a stately, reputable, metrosexual gentleman with a very large collection of perfectly tailored suits, had read a Harvard Business Review article about prioritizing talent over experience. Graying and midway through his years of mentorship, he decided to give me an opportunity and bring me into the brave new world of Govcon (government contracting). I was excited to be there, star-struck by the fancy dinners and plethora of BMWs, and had absolutely no idea how to do my job. A few weeks into my new role, and after the purchase of a lightly used all black Cadillac ATS, we won a contract. Or lost a contract. I don’t actually remember. My boss (the Vice President of Operations) saunters into my office around 4pm on a Thursday to announce the news – again, good or bad, I couldn’t say.
“This calls for something special!” he announces, loudly. “You drink whiskey, yes?”
“Of course!” I sputter, attempting to be nonchalant. And he proceeds to pull a bottle of Laphroaig Quarter Cask from his bottom desk drawer and retrieve two glasses from the communal kitchen. For those of you who have read my Whiskey Post, you know that Laphroaig has a reputation as one of the peatiest scotches one can purchase. It’s basically like learning to MMA fight first time go in a UFC ring. I was brazen.
He handed me a healthy pour and downed his in a single gulp, slamming his cup to the table and reaching for the bottle to refill. I, not wanting to seem timid but also not knowing what to expect, sloshed half the liquid haphazardly into my mouth and held it there for a second. My tongue ached and the peat hit the back of my throat like liquid fire as I clumsily swallowed my share. I tried not to let my eyes water or sputter or wince, but I’m sure it was all over my face. It was terrible. I finished my glass and accepted another.
This ritual repeated itself almost every Thursday or Friday for several years. As time wore on and my boss and I grew closer – like friends – we went out whiskey tasting, scotch tasting, cigar smoking, and I was gradually inducted into the secret world of Gentlemen. It felt a bit like Mad Men but I wasn’t opposed. It took me four years to tell my (now former) boss that I had never had whiskey when we met.
A few weeks before the Laphroaig incident I had wandered into a liquor store looking for a bottle or two of something to have on the shelf for ‘entertaining.’ I had a brand new, modern-styled, Arlington apartment, and had it in my head that I was going to host dinner parties and happy hours like an adult. Why I thought the rarified air of Washington D.C. was suddenly going to make me a raging extrovert, I’m not sure, but somehow I saw myself abandoning videogames and quiet evenings writing on the deck for the parties thrown by John Cusack’s ex-girlfriend Charlie in High Fidelity. This didn’t turn out to be the case. Here I am eight years later, in a nicer house with an even nicer Cadillac, still playing videogames on a Friday night.
Anyway, I had selected from a shelf of libations, none of which I recognized save the Cuervo and the Cruzan, a large bottle of Woodford Reserve Double Oaked Bourbon Whiskey. Why? I liked the bottle and needed something that would look nice on my kitchen counter. Again, for ‘hosting.’ The bottle had been sitting unattended on said bar for several months. One particularly lonely Friday evening several months into my D.C. residence (after the Laphroaig incident), I decided to give it a try. After all, it had to look like I actually drank the stuff when someone came over. I poured some over a few ice cubes and started to sip.
For several months after, I drank whiskey ginger – Woodford Reserve with Maine Root Ginger Beer. It was kind of like a Dark and Stormy – a drink I had come to appreciate in graduate school along with the local Erie bartender’s version of a Hemmingway (my version coming soon to the blog). Eventually my tastes became accustomed to straight bourbon whiskey, scotch, and the like. Today, it is obviously my favorite beverage, but it definitely took some acclimation. I am proud to say there are several whiskey converts out there in the world due to my influence – an ex boyfriend or two, my 21 year old nephew, a former intern-turned-friend. My shelf is filled with smooth scotches and interesting bourbons, and my recipe book filled with Manhattans, Boulevardiers, Sazeracs, and Old Fashioned smoking techniques. It has been a journey but, in the end, I’ve found my flavor. For now. They say your taste buds change about every seven years. 🥃
