Bourbon

   Spring may be the time of year when a young man's thoughts turn to love, but an older and more mature and slightly wiser man's thoughts turn to bourbon. The days get warmer and the taste for the smoke and peat of single malt scotches starts to wan. The desire for the more subtle nuances of the delicious amber liquids from Kentucky seems somehow more refreshing and as I look forward to summer the first sip of a fine old bourbon brings back memories of hot and balmy nights full of adventure and, well, maybe even an older man's thoughts do hit on love every now and then. I guess it would be foolish if they didn't. 

  There will always be year round scotch drinkers, my sweet Aunt Dorothy and my Grandmother O'Hearn jump instantly to mind, and when the occasion arises I would not refuse a rare single malt at any time of year, but warmer weather has always meant American whiskey to me and to the guys at the bar. They are lighter and more refreshing and are enhanced by a splash of branch water, and when sipped slowly are thirst-quenching in a most unique way. Not thirst-quenching like a cold beer, but something more satisfying. 

  Our Bourbon collection now numbers over twenty-five bottles and Todd and I are happy to pour and ramble on about the differences between them to anyone who cares to listen, usually in the hour or so before closing. We are a moody duo and certain occasions call for certain whiskeys. Surprisingly, we always seem to have an excuse to celebrate at the end of our shift with glass of the brown stuff. We usually reward ourselves with just a touch before we lock up for the night either to toast a successful evening or to wish for better luck tomorrow. 

  I recommend, as an antidote to the ever growing list of what are now called "martinis", a Manhattan before dinner. This is a true drink that sets the tone for the evening if you're not going to have a gin martini straight up, cold and dry. Any type of vodka based fruit drink just because it is served in a martini glass is not a martini. There is a time and place for these types of cocktails but to start off a festive night of fine food and drink isn't really one of them. Call me "Old Fashion". (Which I will get to in good time.)

 The proper combination of an imported vermouth and a top-shelf American whiskey lingers on the taste buds like, well.. like an elixir meant to sooth the soul after whatever trials and distractions the day has thrown your way. The vermouth should always be kept refrigerated because it will oxidize after a few days at room temperature. This is a mistake made by almost every bar I visit and it sometimes seems to be part of my calling to educate bartenders on this simple little known fact. The maraschino cherry is key to the success of the well crafted Manhattan and I should say it's worth the effort to track down a jar from the Diana Fruit Company, they are of the highest quality and why ever skimp on even the tiniest detail of what should alway be a treat to the senses and the heart. The properly mixed Manhattan can be a restorative to one's balance and courage. 

  The Perfect Manhattan, using both types of vermouth and a lemon twist, I rarely order out because the same mistake is usually made of not keeping the Dry Vermouth chilled and because it is a rarely used bottle the flavor becomes compromised quite quickly. This is the same reason martinis these days are "mixed" with no vermouth. Palates are becoming more educated, although the whole "Dirty Martini" phase is quite beyond me. There is more than enough juice on the surface of two olives to add just the correct hint of flavor to cold gin and I feel any additional juice from the bottle damages the delicate balance of the drink.  But that's just me. I'm in the minority as of late.

 The Old Fashion as well as the lesser known Sazerac are also connected to Spring due to their popularity as a Mardi Gras staple. A final potent slug before the austerity of Lent. I gave up candy as a kid but never acquired the dirty habit of giving up bourbon, an act that goes against my my better senses that exclaim life is indeed short and there will be plenty of time when the pleasures of whiskey will be denied me. So for now I put no restrictions on my simple and well deserved delights.

  The Old Fashion is another drink that, to excuse the obvious metaphor, has become watered down. The original recipe calls for only a splash of water or, and I forgive those who prefer it, a splash of club soda. Ginger ale or 7-Up should never be used. And a splash means once the glass is seven-eighths full of liquor just enough water is added but not enough to bring the contents to the brim. Too many bartenders make these drinks as if they were a whiskey and water with the emphasis on the water. This is a drink that is meant to be powerful and substantial. It is a dark and mysterious mixture that demands precision and no tampering with the ingredients. I'm always disgusted when I see one made that is so clear that you could read the New York Times through the glass. Again I'm usually inclined to intervene and offer my often unasked for advice on the proper method of preparation. (Although once in Carmel a delightful bartender was intrigued by my expertise and a rather interesting and prolonged lesson in mixology resulted in a fun night and several ridiculous bar tabs around town. But that's another story.)  

 The Sazerac is even more inclined to result in an altered state of perception that may make you wonder just what you were slipped. And indeed you were slipped absinthe. That remarkable aperitif that is partially responsible for the great impressionist paintings by Degas and Toulouse-Lautrec, among others.  Not to mention contributing to Van Gogh cutting off his ear and mailing it to a prostitute. Although to be fair he may have also been eating his lead based paints.  Regardless, absinthe is, when done properly, an artisan craft beverage best sipped slowly and preferably with the sun setting over a large body of sparkling water in the company of an intellectual equal. High stakes I know, but ever so worth it.  

  There is a certain shifting of light that happens part way through a second small glass of absinthe where the colors of flowers and water and sky start to shimmer and on more than one occasion I've felt as if I'm walking through a painting by Claude Monet. This is a finely balanced high that is difficult to maintain and only achieved with the best quality absinthe made from recipes that are over a hundred years old. A dear friend brings me some from Paris for special celebrations. 

  But I'm supposed to be writing about bourbon, and Spring time.  The Jacaranda in the yard are starting to bloom, their light purple flowers brightening up the neighborhood and the rose bushes are exploding. The poppies seemed to appear out of nowhere one morning a day or so ago. The tiny buds on the guava hedge are attracting bees and small grey birds. The mint plants in the garden are growing and providing a pleasant aroma that drifts in my bedroom window.  Misty wisps of fog roll in off the Pacific just after dark and and in the morning burn away as the sun rises and the warm winds blow down from the hills. 

  Derby Day is almost here and it's time to pull out the silver mugs and to get ready to prepare a batch of Mint Juleps. How many cases of bourbon are opened and how many tons of mint leaves are muddled at Churchill Downs on race day I wouldn't dare estimate.  But once a year our usual group gets together to gamble with abandon as we drink what would otherwise be an odd combination of mint, sugar and Early Times. But tradition is, after all, tradition. I can usually handle one before switching to a simpler and more masculine straight whiskey with maybe a cube or two of ice. I save my enjoyment of mint for the mornings such as this when I sit in my garden scribbling these notes. 

 My love of bourbon started early, while in college, after my friend Ted recommended reading Hunter S. Thompson, particularly The Great Shark Hunt. Wild Turkey 101 was a much mentioned accompaniment to the good Doctor's high octane lifestyle and fuel for his late night writing marathons. So 101 became my go to beverage for a long time. Doctor Thompson influenced me towards other questionable habits but it was the Wild Bird that stayed constant for many years. It had it all; fine flavor, a hard unmistakable kick and the price was right. I have other favorites these days but when HST pulled the trigger and called it a game I sat that night in the bar with the door locked and the lights dim and made a hefty dent in our dusty bottle of 101. It was, as the Doctor himself might have said, the right thing to do.  

 A whiskey sour is a refreshing afternoon drink when the days are hot and dry. My old recipe is a bit more complicated than most and I stay away from any type of concentrated sour mix, which is no substitute for fresh squeezed lemon and lime juices and the white from a single egg. A double slice of orange is an enhancement that brings the mix to a level of refinement rarely encountered in even the swankiest establishments. Sly's in Carpenteria is a pleasurable exception. And the whiskey sour absolutely must be well shaken, no matter if it's served up or on the rocks.    

 A variation of the sour that originated in my home Commonwealth of Massachusetts is called the Ward Eight. It's a similar recipe but a hint of cherry juice is added and the garnish is a cherry. Back in the day the swizzle stick proudly waved the Massachusetts state flag.  

 Enough for now about bourbon except to say a friend of mine is about to release a batch aged locally and anticipation runs high.  Be assured I'll follow up after conducting the proper amount of research.

 Recipes for the drinks mentioned above are available upon request.