Entry No. 001: It Begins, Regrettably
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August 2nd, 193-something
Latitude: misplaced
Longitude: accused
Temperature: hostile
Whiskey remaining: enough to make decisions, not enough to make good ones
I never set out to become The Whiskey Idiot.
No man does.
A man sets out for a drink. Maybe a chair. Maybe a little shade if the Lord is feeling generous and the nearest bartender has not personally declared war on comfort. That is how these things begin. Innocently. Respectably. With the quiet dignity of a man who has only misplaced his hat twice that morning.
Then someone produces a bottle.
Then someone says, “You ever been to Kentucky?”
Then three weeks later you wake up in a train car full of goats, wearing another man’s coat, holding a compass that only points south and a handwritten note that says, in Portuguese, “Do not let him near the horses.”
That, more or less, is how the journal began.
My name is not important.
Names belong on passports, arrest warrants, and gravestones. I have made a lifelong effort to avoid needing all three at the same time.
What matters is what they call me now.
The Whiskey Idiot.
Not because I fail to understand whiskey. Quite the opposite. I understand whiskey the way a sailor understands storms, the way a gambler understands debt, the way a mule understands that whatever you are asking of it is beneath its dignity.
I have pursued whiskey through rickhouses, cellars, hotel lobbies, fishing villages, train depots, back rooms, front porches, and one monastery where the monks claimed to have taken a vow of silence but communicated disappointment with remarkable clarity.
I have tasted bourbon in Kentucky that could make a Baptist reconsider.
I have tasted Scotch in the Highlands that tasted like smoke, rain, and an old man refusing to apologize.
I once drank Irish whiskey with a woman in Galway who told me she was a widow, then introduced me to her husband, who was very much alive and considerably larger than advertised.
But this is not a guide for experts.
Experts are useful people, I suppose. They know mash bills. They know barrel char. They say things like “mouthfeel” without being asked to leave the room.
Good for them.
This journal is for the rest of us.
The curious. The thirsty. The underqualified. The fellow who wants to walk into a bar, order something decent, and not have to pretend he can taste “sun-warmed fig leather” just because a man with suspenders told him to.
Whiskey is not a church.
It is not a test.
It is not a costume.
It is a drink.
A good one, when handled correctly. A dangerous one, when handled by men named Earl.
In the Beginning, There Was Bourbon
My first real taste of whiskey came in a bar outside Amarillo, though the exact location has since been disputed by cartographers, lawmen, and a woman named Darlene who claimed the building was never technically a bar.
The floor stuck to your boots. The ceiling fan moved with the exhausted resignation of a government employee. Behind the counter stood a bartender with one glass eye, two working hands, and the moral flexibility of a raccoon.
I was seventeen, using a fake name and carrying myself with the kind of confidence only available to boys too young to know they are fools.
The bourbon came in a short glass.
No ceremony. No speech. No leather-bound menu. Just a pour, a nod, and a look from the bartender that suggested he had already measured me for a shallow grave.
I took one sip and learned three things immediately.
First, whiskey burns.
Second, some fires are worth standing in.
Third, I was going to need a better fake name.
That drink did not make me wise.
Whiskey rarely does.
But it made the world feel larger. Older. Stranger. Like there were rooms behind the rooms. Roads behind the roads. Stories tucked into the bottom of bottles, waiting for some idiot to come along and misunderstand them properly.
Naturally, I volunteered.
The Trouble With Maps
Since then, I have followed whiskey wherever it led.
Kentucky rickhouses where the air was so thick with angel’s share I briefly considered starting a religion.
Irish cellars where the walls sweated, the songs got louder, and a man could lose either his heart or his wallet depending on which door he used.
Scottish inns where the rain came sideways and the locals treated enthusiasm as a medical condition.
Japan, where I once found a tasting room hidden behind a vending machine and spent six hours discussing balance with a man who never once moved his eyebrows.
At one point, I traded a pair of boots for a bottle of Highland Scotch allegedly distilled during the Blitz. It may have been counterfeit. It may have been medicinal. It may have been something used to remove paint from naval equipment.
I drank it anyway.
A man must finish what he starts, unless what he starts is a land war, a marriage proposal, or a second bottle before noon.
Did I Mention Hemingway?
People are skeptical when I say I once shared a dram with Ernest Hemingway.
That is their right.
Skepticism is healthy. So is stretching before a fight. I recommend both.
It was off the coast of Cuba, or near enough to Cuba that everyone involved was sweating and lying about fish. Hemingway was standing in a boat, glaring at the sea like it had borrowed money and changed its address.
I offered him a pull from my bottle.
He took it. Swirled it. Sniffed it once.
Then he said, “Sherry casks are the adjectives of the spirits world. Useful, dangerous, and overused by cowards.”
I told him I thought that was a fine observation.
He called me a tourist.
I told him tourists do not get banned from mule auctions in Valencia.
He respected that.
Then he headbutted a marlin and disappeared into the weather.
Did it happen exactly that way?
Almost certainly not.
But I have found that truth, like whiskey, benefits from a little time in the barrel.
Today’s Whiskey: Buffalo Trace Kentucky Straight Bourbon
Now, to the bottle at hand.
Buffalo Trace.
A Kentucky straight bourbon with enough history behind it to make a man stand up a little straighter, and enough sweetness in the glass to make him forget why he stood up in the first place.
This is not a complicated whiskey trying to impress a room full of men in vests.
It is bourbon doing bourbon properly.
Warm. Familiar. A little dusty around the edges. The kind of pour that feels like it was made for wooden bars, bad ideas, and stories that begin with, “Now, I’m not proud of this.”
Nose:
Caramel, vanilla, toasted oak, orange peel, and the faint smell of a rickhouse pretending it has nothing to hide.
Taste:
Brown sugar, baking spice, honey, light cherry, and enough oak to remind you this did not come from a plastic jug under somebody’s sink.
Finish:
Smooth, warm, and easygoing. It does not overstay its welcome, but it does leave its boots by the door like it might come back later.
Best enjoyed with:
A sticky bar top, a decent chair, and enough time to let the first glass explain itself.
Do not enjoy with:
A fake name.
An unpaid tab.
Any man who says, “Trust me, I know a shortcut.”
What I Learned
A man does not need to know everything to enjoy whiskey.
In fact, knowing everything can be a terrible burden. It causes people to use words like “unctuous” in public and nod thoughtfully at glasses no one has touched yet.
Start simple.
Pour a little.
Smell it.
Taste it.
Think about it.
Tell the truth.
If it tastes like caramel, say caramel.
If it tastes like smoke, say smoke.
If it tastes like licking a saddlebag in a thunderstorm, congratulations, you may have found Scotch.
There is no shame in being new to whiskey.
There is only shame in pretending you are not.
And that, I suppose, is the purpose of this journal.
To drink.
To wander.
To make a note of the damage.
To help the next poor fool feel a little less foolish.
Until the next entry,
— W.I.