Its funny. When I mention I drink single malt Scotch, I get such a range of reactions, from being somewhat impressed to a little suspicious, to - and this seems to be the dominant one - a bit defensive. And its that last one that I want to address, because it just seems so funny and out of place. How its typically conveyed is like this: Me - "Yeah, I like single malt Scotch". Them - (Pause. Sideways look.) "Yeah, well I like my Johnny Walker Black, love that stuff". Its as if by mentioning single malts, I've set up a competitive tension and force them into a posture of, "well, screw you, I drink what I drink". I know why this is, single malts are not wide spread, there is a great element of snobbery and class war-upper-echelon frippery about them (for god's sake, that goofy cartoon for The Balvenie is the architype for Connecticut Yankee breeding cycles), and let's face it, most of them can be expensive. So this reaction is almost natural, especially in America where the national religion is an egaletarian zest for commonality. (I'm not going to go into the polar opposite, the true snob - thinking he's found a kindred spirit - who launches into a laundry list of aged distillations and costly inventory he's collected and drunk: dude, I'm not impressed.) But its the first guy, the every day Scotch drinker, that's who I'm after, that's where my evangelical spirit kicks into high gear: fresh meat! A newbie! Someone to bring over to the other side, Why is that? Cause I was he!
Drawn from the steel mills of western Pennsylvania, I still hold to my blue collar roots, the sense that the high priced stuff is for the big shots and if you're drinking it, you must be a big shot, and anyways, who the hell do you think you are, some big shot? Drinking small is drinking real, at the bar across from the Amity Street gate, 5 minutes after the 4 o'clock whistle blows, downing shots of VO, washed back with an Iron and sedated with a pickled egg from the giant jar on the bar. That's drinking like a man, with burdens piled high on our shoulders and the weight of the world caught across our trenchant bellies. Been there, done that (hell, sometimes I still do that, but I'm subbing Molson for the Iron and Sazerac Rye for VO).
So I know this reaction, I've lived this reaction. And these guys hold a special place in my heart, because the journey over to really good Scotch is a truly marvelous trip, and in reality, a very short one: from one side of the brain to the other...OK, maybe that's a longer trip than I'm letting on. But there it is: its perception, its stigma, its an enculturation of preconceived expectations, its sizing a man up by what he drinks, its a shot of rye in a dirty glass in a dusty roadhouse, "its whisky and bad cocaine": all those images, notions, legends, initiations, and habits created in the heat of growing up with movies and older siblings and dads who drank the cheap stuff. I love it. But its time to move on.
There's an image burned in my mind from the old SCTV show. A bunch of hardhats are working construction, pounding jackhammers, swinging 2x4s, nailing furiously. One of them (Rick Moranis) comes up to the camera and says, (I'm working from memory here): "I work really hard, and at the end of the day my throat is parched like 200 grit sandpaper. So nothing quenches my thirst like...Dom Perignon!" And in the background the guys are popping corks and laughing heartily as the champagne flows like water. Its hysterical. So I'm approaching the everyday drinker of Scotch with a wry sense of satire: this ain't about "classin'" it up. But geez, you go into a well stocked liquour store and you just look at these labels that say Oban, Talisker, Auchentoshen, Glenfarclas, and you're telling me you don't care what's behind them, you wouldn't want to know what they tasted like (if you could do it without looking like a jackass or feeling intimidated). Of course not. And that's what this blog is about, that's the reason behind the Jet Fuel Afterburn Festival, its why the Knuckleheads are the Knuckleheads: bringing that off the high shelf and into a glass in front of you: just a little to learn, but a lot to love. Broadening the palate and not feeling like a crudite-eating, bow-tie wearing snob. Just real stuff. But different.
So if you're that guy or gal, or if you know them, or you were them but ain't no more (don't worry, re-invention is the ultimate American dream), then stay tuned and check in often. Or better yet, have a drink with us. Just wipe the dirt of the rim, huh, bud? This is a class joint we're runnin'.