The Higher You Go, the Farther You Fall

Finding your path can be a difficult thing.  It could be hard to know where to start looking.  Maybe you found the start of your path, but it is small, winding, and overgrown.  Perhaps, you are walking a path so worn by others that nothing distinguishing is left.  For me, my path was muddied by starting at the end.

My introduction to scotch was a masterpiece in a glass.  If I had to do it all over again, I'd start small and preferably crappy.  But, I can't.  This... is my curse. If you have to pick a curse, give it a shot.  The problem I now face in finding a solid scotch is that my base line is all out-of-whack.  Solution: reset my "normal".

Attempt #1 - Johnny Walker Red Label
This hopefully is a base-line, drinkable scotch.  I can put it in my face and not hate myself.  It is a touch smokey (not my preference, but I'm trying to appreciate variation), as smooth as a cobblestone drive, and generally seems like what light-beige would taste like.  There is a hint of self loathing with every sip.

Attempt #2 - 1835 Bourbon Whiskey
Not a scotch, fair enough.  On second thought, up yours!  I live in Texas, a long way from Scotland, and sometimes you make do.  If my horizons are broad, then so may be my line of shot glasses (no, I don't do shots).  This one was suggested by a high quality customer of mine and donated by a person who owed me a favor.  I like sipping it.  There were some pleasing flavor molecules.  It is just fine.  But, you see, that's the problem: anything better than meh suddenly becomes a sad farce.  It is not the Macallan.

Attempt #3 - Monkey Shoulder Blended Blended Malt Scotch
OK, this one is helpful to me.  It wears it's lack of pedigree right on the label.  "Blended Malt!"  How I love those words on this bottle.  I really enjoy drinking this stuff.  Smooth, flavorful, and pleasant to drink, but it never claims to be great.  The greatest success of the Monkey Shoulder (aside from having monkeys on it) is that it doesn't try to run with the big dogs.  Instead, I takes on the mid-range market, keeps affordable, and just beats the shit out of almost everything else in the price range.  I have found my new normal!  I'm happy, I'm enjoying my scotch, and I don't need to beg the mafia for a loan to have it.  Having no aspirations to the loftiness I have known before, this bottle is a sign post on my journey.

So, Monkey Shoulder, and I'm on my way down my path.  Neat-o.

Scotch Costs Money

No Free Drinks

The problem with good things is that, despite what we have been told, they do not come to those who wait, but those who can pay.  Good booze, especially, is reserved for those who can part with some expendable income.  I  have very limited cash to spend on my little quest. 

So what is the budget conscious booze hound to do? When I take a field trip to my local, I try to do the mental gymnastics of cost vs quality and want of scotch vs fear of the unpayable bill. Haven't bought  anything yet.  I'm not sure what that says about me.  Here I am writing a blog about how much I want a drink. But, no. I don't want a drink, I want a very special drink. I don't even know if I am casting myself as Sisyphus, reaching for something forever out of reach, or perhaps I have lashed myself to the mast of financial insecurity while yearning for my killer scotch on the jagged rocks.  

OK, time to slink cowardly forward into being a man of action!  I will, tonight, buy a bottle.  It won't be the One that I am looking for, but it will be a step.  I will buy something I have never had before, something mysterious and unknown.  And I will see what there is to see.  It is decided.

And it is done.  Johnnie Walker Red Label: just as if someone set out to achieve the mediocher, and did so blandly.  It is peaty with overtones of light beige.  We'll call it a toe in the water for now.

Adventure Calls

I went looking for a drink.
It was time for a journey, and luckily I have just friend to drag with me.  He is either camera shy, has a warrant out, or there is something really cool he isn't telling me about.  So we brought along two masks made with the latest technology, creating a perfect disguise. The car was packed and we set out FOR ADVENTURE!
There is a distillery about an hour and a half west of me, where, if you show up and give them ten dollars, they will (like Lydia) show you the world (but without all the nudity).  When we arrived there was a welcoming porch, pleasant rocking chairs, a fridge full of beer and wine, an honor box, and a note politely asking for a donation if you wanted to have a drink while you wait.  Now, I never carry cash, because I am not a freak or an old person unable to accept modern life, so I had nothing for the honor box.  I am certain that Thompson stole a beer or two though.  The bastard.  Then we climbed on the wagon with the other tour-goers and headed towards destiny.
They took us through the hooch making process.  There were words and gestures and walking.  It was very infotaining, but I couldn't help but think this was all to put off giving me my damn booze. I heard the call of the "White Dog", the pre-barrel distilled spirit, my ice cream before dinner, the first of two stops for which i drove so far.  Then they handed me a thimble of clear happy liquid.  And with it, a warning, "160 Proof."  I have certainly had better things, but this was... exciting.  That thimble was way deeper than it looked.  There must have been some other things and goings on after that, a bottle-neck may have been waxed, some chocolate may have gone missing, and, just before someone handed me a sniffer of bourbon, a limpy dog could have given me a weird look.  I liked the dog, but I liked the bourbon more.  My second stop, the last stage of the whiskey life-cycle was my favorite.
After the tour we considered going to one of the wineries, luckily, we drove another half hour west to Oktoberfest instead.  Here is what you need to know, Oktoberfest is a challenge, a test of how far you can go before you have gone too far.  If your thing is food, how much is just this side of inappropriate? Like beer, how many before the cops are called?  Enjoy social interaction, when does a casual joke become a restraining order?  There were a number of fried foods, dark beers, and furtive glances down cleavage. Oktoberfest is where Normal goes to really live.
The drive back gave us time for reflection.  We had that day seen some of the natural beauty of Texas, driven down a lonely dirt road with Texas' first legal distillery at it's end, drank White Dog, sniffed bourbon, snuck off to Germany, ate a crawfish sausage, and basically had an adventure.  A good day by any measure.  I was happy to have accomplished what I set out to do, and, while I didn't find my scotch that day, I did have a drink.

Act I: Beer in a bottle, Whiskey in my dreams

I am out of scotch.
Actually, I am out of scotch, whiskey, vodka, sake, and rum; the tequila, brandy, and wine are fading fast too.  But, I still have beer.  One of my customers went for the brass ring of bribes and brought me a 12 pack sampler.  On-time and highest quality prints: coming up!  I am not an alcoholic, mind you.  This isn't self-destructive, ruin-your-life drinking. Booze is just tasty (except grappa, that's nasty).   Heck, I hate feeling drunk, anything past a buzz makes me queezy and bleh.  But, booze tastes better than water, ice tea, or milk, so I know what I want to reach for with dinner.  But pickings are slim at home these days.
Andrew had suggested Johnny Walker Blue label for our next drink.  If I had learned to crap out money, then I'd be on board, but sometimes life doesn't let you drop $200 plus bucks on a bottle of glory. I went to the local liquor store today, $220.  Fucking hell, I would make an excellent rich man. Shame I'm not.
I took a look at the local labels while I was at the store.  Some Ranger Creek, Garrison Brothers, Herman Marshall, Treaty Oaks, and a few others.  Some more affordable than others, but nothing over $60 a bottle. On my income, that still hurts, but what is the point in working so damn hard all the time if I can't occasionally treat myself, right? Well, I hope that is right because tomorrow I'm going drive to Hye, Texas, home of Garrison Brothers Distillery.  See what they have to offer, sip a little joy.
I'm packing along Hunter Thompson and Earnest Hemingway. We'll make a trip of it.  There is a winery in that burg too, might as well pay a visit while I'm in the neighborhood.  I don't know what my Sunday has in store for me, but I  know too well what waits on Monday.  Plus, like I said, I'm out of scotch.

Prologue

I need a scotch.
Andrew, my good friend, and I have shared two bottles of scotch over the years, and now it is time for a third.  

The first one was an 18 year old Macallan single malt, it was a graduation present shared between Andrew, myself, and a strange bong disguised as a man named Pike. We drank it to nothing with a sort of half-ceremony and reckless abandon of people jumping into a strangers back yard pool in the middle of the night. It was (and I quote the wine maker I give the very last bit to), "Fucking Smooth".  

The second was 25 year old Macallan single malt, a splurge to celebrate a long overdue reunion. We had to hunt this one down.  It took time and patience to find it, and restraint not to mainline it when we finally got it back home.  It was amazing, like pouring happy fire down my undeserving gullet.  I can't be sure, but I remember the 18 year old as being smoother (who knows what gets colored by memory).  

Today, a new chapter of scotchy goodness must be written.  My friend and I are separated by half a country and the budget is considerably choked back, none the less, our friendship has been measured by food, booze, and strange occurrences, and this next drink must carry that forward.