Every year I swear I am not going unless someone comps me a ticket. This year I scored two! Meeting my contact and effecting a sly handoff at the Midtown Tavern moments before the show starts (Thank you Mr. NSLC!), I drag The Skipper along, kicking and screaming "No more free booze!, what is WITH you guys!". I know that sooner or later, Kempton and I will drive him back to the more sedate practice of home agriculture.
We arrive to a lineup - a room full of people from various backgrounds and interest. And why not? This is not just a Scotch show, no way, José Cuervo, there is a lot of other stuff in there too. Like Rum. Lots of Rum. I am thinking already that this ain't a-gonna be purty, no matter how it stacks up.
But what the hey, we're in like flint, and when the doors open we make our way (no we did not run) to the already well formed lineup for the $1,800 bottle of Macallan that has been opened in the farthest corner of the room. In the line I greet erstwhile Brewnoser and seal milkmaid extraordinaire Sarah, with best biologist Bruce waiting their turn for the purported elixir that none can afford to drink.
It ain't bad, actually.
The alcohol has dropped from some previously higher cask strength level, via the path of the Angel's Share, leaving a fiery somewhat dark whisky that simply explodes in aroma and flavous with a wee drop of good water, which the gentleman at the booth is happy to offer. (more on the water thing later - yes a rant is surfacing). Watching the bottle diminish, I figure that my share is worth about $175. Not a bad sip. Hey, I'm already up $220, maybe I should go to the Casino!
I wander around a bit, seeing a lot of familiar faces, few of which I can rember by name, which makes sense as I usually see them in similar circumstances. I boldly head out on a blends tasting binge, but find myself drawn to the peat. In Auld Reekie, and especially in a mystery malt from Wilson and Morgan, called W&M House Malt.
I managed to get some of the Port Ellen 21 year old, toasting the loss of this now dismantled still with Sarah and Bruce, and whoever else was close enough to hear; enjoyed the Bunnahabhain; the Icewine version of Glen Breton, and a lot of other fine things.
But it was two comments, from people there, telling me what to do, or not to more like, that got to me a bit. The first was one guy, watching me dump a part finished sample of a not-so-special malt into a dump bucket, looking at me and, like that demented child porn sucking turd who did the Keith's ads, telling me I was violating some ancient law of nature by allowing it to be wasted. I told him to go drive his pickup into a bus load of kids later on, and to make sure the breathalyzer was calibrated when he blew. Coulda been the whisky, as they say.
Then it was this old fart with a Scottish tartan tie and a name tag with a "Mac" in front of his real family name. Seeing me add water to a malt and taste it, then add a bit more and get it right, he looked at me and exclaimed "What are you doing to that fine malt?". I asked him where the hell he was from, Rhode Island? I then explained to him, in what seemed to me to be quite a patient voice about how one really should add some good water to a malt, especially the cask strength stuff I was currently sampling, in order to be able to taste the g.d. thing properly! I figure my Carnoustie golf shirt outranked his little tartan beret. And no, I was NOT shouting at him. Really. Arsehole poser that he was.
I then saved someone's evening, as he had been listening to me explain to the old ponsy fart about the water thing. Turns out it was Dave, who used to work with me long ago and far far away. He was a helpless beer drinker, stranded in hard liquor land. I told him to just keep adding water to it until he liked it. That is what they do in the pubs in Fife, I know for sure. I ran into him later on, and he was smiling, and raised a glass to me. "The water helping?" I asked. "Damn straight", he says, "I like to get a big mouthfull of stuff into my mouth just like beer. This is great!". I ask what he is drinking, and he point to the bottle on the table beside him. It is a 25 year old Cognac. Oh well.....
As the thing ends, I go buy a bottle (hey 10% off, yee hah, Thank you Mr. NSLC!) of the W&M, and we eventually head out on the town. Someone (Pierre?) has it in their head to go to Bubbles Mansion. That is full, packed and lined up. And us with a full bottle each of scotch or rum in tow, we could have had some fun in there! The Alehouse next door is empty, dead, nada happening. But they turn us away becasue they want $5 for a band we are not going to stay and hear. (good business decision, they would have sold a hundred dollars worth of beer, plus some snacks, I bet).
We bail and head to Rogues Roost, where the Friday started, as it usually does for me. Back so soon? asks the (cute) server. We order beers, and I now think, though I am not sure, that I walked out on my one-beer tab, thinking someone else got it. Oh well, they won't forget that next Friday.
I head down to Onyx, in the rain, and drink a few freebie Champagne cocktails with the Moet rep. The manager of the Joe Howe liquor store even gives me a lift home. Thank you Mr. NSLC!
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