H&T no. 1

 

HEARTS & TAILS WHISK(E)YBLOG       #1

6/11/2012

Greetings and salutations to the thirsty hordes of the greater north Willamette area, and beyond! 

Mr. Riggs here, back from a long hiatus during which I a) got out of retail, b) married a beautiful Alaskan girl,  c) got a crazy Doberman puppy named Grace, and d) started a new band. 

One important thing that happened (and I promise this is going somewhere; I just can’t promise where) was that, having fallen for said Alaskan, I changed my domicile, moving into a nice wee flat in leafy Southeast Portland.  Garage space, garden box- perfect, right?  Well, except for one polydactyl little detail: my wife’s cat.

I’m horribly, cripplingly allergic to this cat.  My ol-factory is on chronic strike, only ever running on about 80% capacity, and that’s moments after a hot schvitz.  Long story short, the big Roman nose on which I’ve hung my winescribular hat these last several years has largely deserted me, leaving  the subtler, sexier nuances of the vine just out of reach.  Don't get me wrong, I still love wine, it's just that I can no longer appreciate it in all its multifaceted finery.

Enter Bourbon.  Well, re-enter, I should say.  Having been born in Kentucky in the mid-1970s, my blood is at least five parts-per-million pure limestone-water Bourbon.  Years after high-school excesses and plastic cup after plastic cup of Beam and Coke on Duval Street in my early twenties, I found myself ever so slowly rediscovering what I inelegantly called “Kentucky wine.”  Her sultry, honeyed aromas soared right up through my constricted nasal passages and liberated my sinus from dandric oppression.  #swoon.

A long courtship ensued, and when my wedding was largely conducted while floating on two to five inches of Knob Creek, I figured I’d tie the amber knot as well as the nuptial one.  My new wife and I roamed through the sage and purple hills of eastern Oregon on our honeymoon, and kicked up our heels on the screen porch at the Frenchglen Hotel, my l’il flask ever close at hand.   When we got lost on logging roads in the Ochocos, it was there.  When capillaries of lightning fanned out across the desert sky, and the cottonwoods whipped and hissed over our centenarian ranch-house bed, it was there.  Hell, when I stumbled steaming out into the cool night air on a setbreak outside Mt. Tabor Theatre, it was there.  Warm.  Naughty.  Expansive.  

By the time we spent a week on the southern Oregon Coast in January, and I’d made a few pilgrimages across the CA border to salivate over (to me) breathtaking, serried row after row of water-of-life, it was on like donkey kong.  I grabbed a bottle of Macallan 12, and one of Eagle Rare 10; and damned if they didn't grab me right back.

Since then I’ve gotten serious about my hooch.  I approached it just as I’d approached wine; I focus on a given region or style for awhile, I drink thoughtfully, and I take detailed notes.  I watch how a whisky will open up over a few days, and weeks.  I note how stupid yummy sharp cheddar can be with a rich Bourbon.  I taste a smoky Islay without, and then with, a few drops of water.  I listen; I pay attention to what the spirit is telling me.  I’ve found that, as I gain knowledge, I also gain palate, and now a creamy, tropical Speyside gets me off at least as hard as any mineralriffic Arbois ever did.  More, maybe, for I find the art of distillation itself to be of massive interest… More on that later.

For now, I just want to say howdy, and welcome y’all back into my prolix fold (which isn’t nearly as dirty as it sounds).  I believe I offer a unique perspective which will greatly benefit those who have not yet begun to approach their whisk(e)y in systematic fashion: I have an educated palate, and years of experience in describing organoleptic impressions in print, but I am also a relative neophyte to the world of spirits.  My beginner’s enthusiasm is only stoked by every new dram I try- and I mean stoked- and I’m finding the answers to the questions that have plagued me as I tried to learn and hone this new knowledge.  Questions like: 

• ·         What’s single malt mean? 
• ·         Does Bourbon have to be from Kentucky?  
• ·         How do you pronounce Bunnahabhain? 
• ·         Are Oregon whiskeys any good? 
• ·         Should I take my whisky neat, or on ice? 
• ·         Why the hell are there two ways to spell that damn word? 
• ·         Will drinking whiskey make me more attractive?  

So.  Look here during the week for tasting notes, announcements of exciting new arrivals to our market, reviews of whisk(e)y lists around town, recipes, and general overlong ramblings.  I’ve been a busy dad, bartender, musician, and husband lately, but it’s time I get my “pen” back out and put it to use.  I’ve missed you folks, and look forward to making many more friends as the weeks go on.

yrs, 

Riggs Fulmer