The "E" is Silent.
Last night, on the way to a competitive table tennis match, my seemingly gracious opponent invited me up to his apartment for a cocktail.
Knowing that your narrator is an aficionado of the esoteric, the gentleman—and I use that term loosely-- produced a bottle of spirits the likes of which I had never seen before, nor do I intend to see again.
In retrospect, perhaps his magnanimity was a ploy to exploit my largest known vulnerability: an inability to say no to an opportunity to present to you, dear readers, a weird alcoholic experience. (N.B., his stratagem worked. I would go on to lose, narrowly, but honorably.)
At first glance, the bottle that my opponent brought forth from an antique globe seemed to hail from a third-world backwater, so faded was the painted label on the glass. The clear vessel displayed its contents as light amber in hue, two shades darker than one might find in, say, a fine monkey-picked Oolong tea from Fujian province.
I wanted nothing to do with it.
In hindsight, I can admit my error; my normally well-developed ability to nose out (and avoid) libations that put one’s palate (and, on occasion, one’s eyesight) at risk was not fully functional.
What I guessed to be demon rum, some cursed sugar cane spirit from a malaria-infested hellhole, was nothing of the sort.
Rather, this particular tipple proved to be of far more exotic origin; to wit, it came from a time long past.
This spirit harkened back to the days of the man in the grey flannel suit; indeed, it was distilled in the same year that the film bearing that name and laying bare its title character’s existential angst made its debut.
The provenance of the bottle was excellent. It had been gifted to my friend’s father-in-law, a man of some means, but afflicted with the great character flaw of temperance. It had been opened, once, decades ago, and had lain in darkness in a cabinet in one of the old man’s homes until quite recently.
Well-stoppered, the ullage was minimal; after bottling, the angels had been denied any further share. Sadly, however, as I attempted to open the container, the cork, which had done yeoman’s work for more than a half-century, gave its last and separated from itself leaving part attached to the bottle-top and most wedged in the neck of the fifth.
As regular readers of this column know, I am oft-prone to digressions. Today is no exception. For those who have wondered why a fifth of spirits is so named, wonder no more: traditionally, the standard sized-bottle of liquor contained a fifth of a gallon of liquid. Of course, the savagery of the metric system eclipsed civilized measure, and a standard bottle is now 750 milliliters—or 7 milliliters short of a TRUE fifth of a gallon. (I, for one, blame the French.)
With cork in peril, and no ah-so puller at hand, I was forced to use a traditional corkscrew to remove the stopper from the neck of the bottle.
Reader, it crumbled!
Thankfully, we conjured a strainer.
It occurs to me, this far into what has become a rather long-winded narrative, that I still have not said anything about what, in fact, this spirit WAS.
It was the Carleton Tower, a Canadian whisky, Hiram Walker’s top of the line rye blend. No Johnny (Walker Blue)-Come-Lately this! Here, as is my wont, I will provide a note of thanks to our neighbors to the north in recognition both of their valor in the Second World War and their kindness in keeping our nation well-stocked with aged spirits during the temporary insanity inflicted upon us in part by Andrew-Bloody-Volstead, cursed be his name.
In good time, I filled a rocks glass with ice (freezer-made, from unfiltered water. As I was a guest, it would have been impolite to point out how inadequate it was to chill a spirit thusly. Despite my reputation I manage to maintain SOME social graces.)
I dumped two fingers of whisky into the glass, topped it off with Coca-Cola, mixed the whole mess with my pinky finger, and downed the contents in one swallow.
Now, now. Of course I did NOT.
I poured an ounce into the glass, neat, and savored the nose—a lovely, oaky perfume. On the palate, the flavors of chocolate, caramel, and sea salt came through vibrantly. This was a whiskey to be savored!
Alas, as there was a match to be contested, we had no time to savor it. After another small sip of the liquor by itself, we mixed two traditional Manhattans (2:1 whisky to sweet vermouth-- in this case Martini, as no better vermouth was available—and a dash of Angostura bitters). As I was not the primary mixologist, this lovely whisky was forced to suffer the indignity of being shaken like a Polaroid picture, rather than stirred, and was served on the rocks, rather than up (with no garnish- not the traditional Luxardo Maraschino cherry; not even a lemon twist).
Nevertheless, it was quite thrilling to the senses—and a welcome surprise, as I hasten to note that this particular bottle was distilled at a time much closer to the end of Prohibition than the present.
In all, it was an exceedingly pleasant experience, and one I hope you, dear reader, may some day get to experience.
Sidenote: Some of the uninitiated may be wondering why I have misspelled the word “whiskey” in this post. Rest assured that I have not. Tradition holds that, when referring to spirits produced from mash fermented in Scotland, Canada, and Japan, one uses the spelling “whisky.” When referring to similar spirits produced in the United States and Ireland, one spells it “whiskey.” Should you not possess an eidetic memory, you may remember this simple mnemonic: if the name of the country contains an “E” (e.g., America; Ireland), so does its spirit. If the country name does not contain an “E,” neither does its spirit. Hence, Tennessee whiskey. Scotch whisky. Canadian whisky. It is my fondest hope, in providing this public service, that I will have saved at least someone in the audience from being mortified in Scotland.
The ingredients: Carleton Tower Canadian Whisky; Martini Sweet Vermouth; Angostura bitters.
The score: 8.0
How weird is it? 10/10, for a whisky nearly older than all of the Democratic presidential candidates.