Whisky Wind-down, Interlude: Terminology

As I was writing my latest, I caught myself drifting into whisky esoterics, and it occurred to me I should probably not assume everyone reading this series has the same level of familiarity with this, uh, hobby as I do.

With the casual drinker (or interested non-drinker) in mind, here are some whisky basics:

Wait, whisky? Or, whiskey? You seem unsure on this. 

Depends where you live.

Most of the world prefers to spell it “whisky.”

Here in the States we mostly spell it “whiskey,” but being contrary Americans we are not consistent and sometimes use “whisky.” (There is probably an American somewhere selling “wisky.” Or maybe whiskay. Whiz-K. Schwizkee. I’ll stop.)

The Irish, meanwhile, spell it “whiskey.” Or uisce beatha.

I prefer “whisky” because I prefer the way it looks. (Also, the AP Stylebook says to use “whiskey.” That book has irritated me one too many times, so I sometimes go against it on principle.)

At any rate, I use “whisky” in my writing unless the distillery uses “whiskey” in its name, in which case I’ll defer to that.

Unless I typo it. Whicth hapens.

At any rate, if spelling inconsistencies get on your nerves, maybe don’t take up drinking whisk(e)y.

Fuck the spelling, what is it?

Booze. Made from grain. (Goes like this: Make grain soup. Let it ferment. Boil it down. Let it sit for a few years, usually in a wooden barrel. Dilute. Bottle. Profit.)

If you want more detail, try Google. (Or take a distillery tour. Serious fun, those.)

What sort of grains are we talking here?

A little bit of everything. (I recently tried a quinoa whisky. It was … an experience.)

But let’s narrow focus. Most of what I drink is malt whisky.

Malt whisky?

Whisky made from malted grain (Malted basically means “sprouted.” It’s … well, it’s a whole process unto itself. Seriously, if you want more detail, hit Google.)

The grain in malt whisky is usually barley. In fact, when someone says “malt whisky” it’s safe to assume they mean a barley whisky. (I’ve never seen or heard “barley whisky” used as a marketing term.)

What about other grains?

Malted rye makes rye whisky.

There might be other single malts to which I’m not savvy, but those are the big two. And, really, when someone says “single malt” odds are they are talking about Scotch whisky.

Okay, so what exactly is Scotch whisky?

Only malt whisky made in Scotland can legally be called Scotch whisky. There are several major regions, each with a distinct whisky-making style, and some of them have sub-regions as well. (I’ll spare you several hundred words of description here, as these are characteristics I tend to mention in my tasting notes.)

And single malt?

One malt, one distillery. Single malt whisky. AKA, the good stuff.

Although the term is not limited to Scotch whisky, that’s the whisky type with which it is most commonly associated.

(Do not confuse single malt with “single barrel.” A single malt whisky, like most types of whisky, is usually a mixture of dozens of barrels, which may or may not have been from the same distillation batch or aged for the same duration. These are joined under the guidance of a distillery’s master tasters to produce a consistent product.)

In that case, what exactly is a blended whisky?

Different malts. Possibly different grains.

Generally speaking, single malts are seen as having more character than blended whiskies, but that’s not to say a master blender can’t make something you will enjoy more.

Some blended whiskies are quite popular, i.e., the (in)famous Johnnie Walker lines of Scotch whisky, which bring together multiple malt whiskies from multiple distilleries to produce their various “colors.”

Other blends have names — such as bourbon.

What about bourbon? 

Bourbon is whisky. But it’s a very particular type of whisky, with some special legal caveats. The mash bill has to be a least 51% corn. (Barley is nearly always in there, too, as is rye, though some blends use wheat instead.) The spirit must be aged on charred new oak barrels. (The time varies, but it’s a minimum of two years to be called straight bourbon, and anything younger than four years is supposed by labeled as such, I guess so people can laugh at the baby bourbon. There are currently some distillers out there flaunting these age requirements, using technology to speed the process and calling the result bourbon. Some people call them innovators. I call them assholes. Which is not to say they aren’t making good whisky; but c’mon. Call it what it is — make up something snazzy; employ a marketing department ! — but don’t pretend it’s bourbon.)

It has to be made in Kentucky, right?

No. Common misconception. However, nearly all bourbon is made in Kentucky, due to tradition, marketing, and groovy whisky weather. Bourbon must be made in the United States. (Unless you’re a foreign government that disagrees. Also assholes.)

That it?

No, there are some regulations about distillation strength and bottling strength, but frankly that’s a lot of math, and I am a writer, not a, er, math person.

And Tennessee whisky?

It’s usually (not always) legally speaking bourbon, but most Tennessee whisky makers don’t use that term because they like their exclusive term better.

Also, it has to be filtered through charcoal. Or something. I’m not a big fan.

Irish whiskey?

There are some pesky legal specifics (on distillation proof, aging time, and something else, I think) but the big deal is to be made on the island.

Irish whiskey is generally regarded as smooth, and this is often attributed to the common technique of triple distillation (which is exactly what it sounds like).

Personally, I find Irish whiskey a little too easy drinking, but that is only a bad thing depending on context.

A while back you mentioned single barrel. What’s the big deal with those?

A single barrel is just what it says — whisky bottled from one barrel, not a mixture. This is whisky with nuance. That one barrel might have, for example, been left in storage longer or been exposed to more or less heat than typical. Maybe the distiller got a weird idea and (depending on the whether this is allowed for the whisky in question) used an unusual wood or char level. Perhaps … you get the idea. This is one-of-a-kind stuff, and it’s generally priced to match.

What about cask strength? You tossed that term around back in Whisky Wind-down 30

At maturity, nearly all whisky is diluted with pure water to bring its proof down to a standard level, usually between 80 and 90 (40-45 % alcohol) depending on style.

Cask strength whisky is undiluted. This is whisky off the wood, unadulterated the way the elements made it. The longer it aged (and the warmer the climate) the stronger a cask strength whisky will be.

Sometimes cask strength is also single barrel. AKA, the best stuff.

(Some people cut cask strength with water. I have nothing but contempt for that practice. Just save money and buy regular whisky, fool.)

You take this stuff pretty seriously, huh?

You have no idea. This is the polite, condensed version.

Anything else?

I agree with Warren Ellis on the subject of cocktails.

Who? What?

Shh. I’ll get to it eventually.

2016 Whisky Wind-down, 26: Day Job

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Today’s dram: Macallan 10-Year-Old, Fine Oak

Today’s tasting notes: Tastes like Scotch whisky, a single malt from the Highlands.* Which is what it is. Good whisky. Warm whisky. Comparable to The Glenlivet 12? Kinda. I feel like this goes down a bit easier, but it’s really a push between the two for me. It’s easy whisky. Workday whisky.

Today’s thoughts: I once worked for a man who kept a bar in his office. It was one of those globe bars, the kind that looks like it’s just a swanky wooden model of the Earth — nothing to see here, merely the fancy of a geography aficionado —  but then swings open to reveal a half-dozen bottles and glassware.

Not that this guy was trying to hide his bar; he just liked the look of the thing. He wasn’t shy about being a drinker, and on a good evening, when he was particularly pleased — with himself or, rarer, with something an employee had done — he might just offer a drink, possibly paired with a cigar from his office humidor.

Did I mention this was a man who owned his own business? Yeah. Perks of ownership.

I haven’t worked in a place like that before or since, but I do imagine one day having that sort of set-up myself. Not as a boss or business owner. I have zero interest in either. But an office with a bar appeals. Nice desk. Good view. Maybe of the mountains. Yes, I’m describing retirement.

Day job retirement, anyway.

For now — and, let’s be honest, likely the next couple of decades — that’s a necessity.

I’m not going to discuss my current work, but suffice to say it’s not an open bar environment.

On the plus side, it’s rarely so stressful that I feel like heading straight to my own bar afterwards, either.

That’ll do for now.

Today’s note on balance: I’m not going to say balance is essential, either in whisky or life, but there are areas where I prefer it. Day job is one. Happy to have that.

Today’s toast: To the working stiffs: It may not feel like it, but 5 o’clock is coming.

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* — I know. Speyside. Look, if the distillery doesn’t go to the trouble of labeling its own sub-region, who am I to go chasing after it? But, yes. Speyside.

2016 Whisky Wind-down, 27: Actually, We Have Tried Turning It Off And On Again

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Today’s dram: Jack Daniel’s Special Edition White Rabbit Saloon Tennessee Sour Mash Whiskey

Today’s tasting notes: Near as I can tell — the bottle description is not helpful — this is just the regular Jack Daniel’s whiskey, only bottled at 86 proof rather than the usual 80. It’s been a decade or so since I’ve had the regular stuff, and I never much cared for it. This? It’s not bad. Drinks pretty light to me. Still has that signature almost-cloying sweetness of Tennessee whiskey.

Oh, it’s a limited bottling, only available at the distillery or select locations in Tennessee. The name refers to the saloon where Mr. Daniel first sold the old No. 7.

Today’s thoughts: So, here in the States it’s Repeal Day, which marks the anniversary of the end of Prohibition. Yes, once upon a time (1919) a majority of the country thought it was a good idea to ban the consumption of alcohol, to the point of enshrining said ban into the U.S. Constitution. It only took a little more than a decade to admit that wasn’t working and then go through the constitutional shenanigans necessary to reverse course.

On December 5, 1933, the booze started (legally) flowing again.

And then …

You know, what? I’m not going to get into it. Suffice to say the nation remains a patchwork of varying legalities on the matter of booze, as it does on any number of other issues.

Since I’m drinking Tennessee whiskey, I should probably mention that prohibition there was even longer (1910-1938). Also, Jack Daniel’s distillery is located in a county that is still a dry county today. The “land of freedom” is weird, man.

Some other day I may post the thousand words I just wrote (and chopped) on the subject of constitutionally guaranteed freedoms beyond legal inebriation, but that’s a more serious topic than I want to dash off just now.

 

Today’s note on valuing what’s legal while it is legal: Drink ’em if you got ’em. Who knows what tomorrow brings.

Today’s toast: To the United States Constitution: It mostly works. Mostly.

2016 Whisky Wind-down, 28: Home is Where the Dice Are

A whisky bottle containing dice sits on a bookshelf. Leaning against it is a filled black dice bag. Foreground: A d6 bearing the 2016 World Dice Day logo. Background: Books in The Vampire Files series, stacked horizontally, topped with a bookworm from the Giant Microbes plush figures collection.

Today’s dram: 13th Colony Southern Corn Whiskey, Limited Release, 2013 Bottling, #621

Today’s tasting notes: This is corn whiskey, distilled to sweet, smooth excellence. I daresay any drinker could enjoy sipping this straight-up, but I allow it is suitable for use in cocktails and would probably go well in a pecan pie. Possible best use? Pour a hefty measure into a good coffee, then add heavy cream for a decadent delight that is ideal on a cold, rainy winter morning.

Today’s thoughts: Yeah, so I didn’t drink this today. More’s the pity. I do know it, though, having consumed all of a bottle I was a gifted a couple of years ago. I enjoyed it to the last drop, then kept the bottle because I liked it and saw a suitable purpose for it as a place to keep some extra dice.

Yes, I have extra dice.

Um, a lot of them, actually. So many, in fact, that I was able to half-fill that bottle using only my extra dice of a particular sub-type (rounded 16mm Chessex d6).

Today is World Dice Day, by the way.

I know that because I’m part of a world-spanning dice-collecting club.

We cool.

Right?

It wasn’t always thus.

These days it’s cool to be part of Geek Culture ™, patent-pending, as seen on the big screen, only $19.95 at ThinkGeek …

I’m from a time before that.

I explored my first dungeon with a borrowed d20 in the music file room during lunch break of rookie band camp my freshman year of high school.

I got your cool right here.

I bought my first set of dice* shortly after that session and never looked back.

From that day to this, gamers have been my people.

If I meet someone who makes a reference to rolling a critical fumble and how it got their character killed, I know we’re going to get along.

I mean, yeah, that person could still be a complete asshole in other ways, but we’ve got common ground, and it is drenched with the blood of many critical fumbles.

We are one people.

The people who smile at Stanley Two-Brick, and Wood for Sheep, and so on and so forth.

The people who judge a home on how it’s arranged to make room for books.

The people who know that it really doesn’t matter whether the Leeroy Jenkins video was staged or not because we all know a Leeroy, and he’s like that whether the game is WoW, or D&D, or Risk. Hell, he’s probably like that at Tic-Tac-Toe.

The people who live by the phrase “there is no such thing as too many dice.”

My people.

Today’s note on finding your people: They’re out there. They always were.

Today’s toast: To my people: May your dice not try to kill you next session!


—–

* It was a black/smoke double-set** from Armory. (Those dice are in the bag in the picture. Original bag, too.)

** Back when a set meant six because we didn’t have a fancy d10 with percentile numbering to make seven.***

*** If you chime in with a comment along the lines of “Pfft. In my day, we not only had six-dice sets, but they were made of cheap plastic, and we had to fill ’em in with a crayon” … not only will I love you, I will invite you to my next game day. Bring the dice.

2016 Whisky Wind-down, 29: You Might Like It

A whisky tumbler with a double measure of The Glenlivet 12-Year-Old sits on a desk before a half-size bottle of same and a stuffed Yoda keeps watch. Background: Bookcases.

Today’s dram: The Glenlivet, 12-Year-Old

Today’s tasting notes: Do not fear to drink this. Perhaps maybe try this if you’ve never had Scotch whisky before. It is the definition of approachable — an easy-to-enjoy whisky exemplifying the basics of a style, in this case a single malt from the Scottish Highlands.* Smell it, and it will take you to a warm happy place. Sip it, and feel that warmth flow into you. Hold it in your mouth briefly, savor the heat and subtle sweetness. Swallow, and feel smoothness with just enough of an edge to let you know it is actually Scotch whisky.

Today’s thoughts: Growing up I was a picky eater. That is a true statement, but it also rather understates both the past and present. When I was a kid, I hated eating almost everything. Ever heard a parent lament that their kid will only eat chicken nuggets and ketchup? Yeah, I hated those, too. Especially the ketchup. Bleh. And I still hate it. I hate nearly all condiments, in fact. And yes, hate is the right word. It’s not a word I ever really go for, but I will allow myself to be an absolutist and use that word in regard to those things. Ketchup? Hate. Mustard? Hate. Mayonnaise? Hatehatehate!

Send me food with any of that on it and tell me to just scrape it off? Fuck you. Scrape your face off.

My younger sister told me at Thanksgiving that her two-year-old son can’t stand mayonnaise, and she thinks he might be allergic because he throws up when he encounters it. When she said that, I wanted to run to him and hug him and tell him, “You are not alone! Uncle Jon also knows this pain!”

But he’s two years old, so I didn’t.

I will as soon as he gets a handle on this language thing, though.

What I will try not to say to him are things like “Try it, you might like it” and “Your tastes will change.”

How I loathed those phrases, which were thrown at me so often in my youth.

And yet … I now grudgingly admit they hold glimmers of truth.

I mean, I did finally learn to like pizza, a burger in a bun rather than separate, potatoes, pecan pie …

Oh, and whisky.

Contrary to appearances, I was never against trying things. I just wanted people to listen after I tried a thing and said, “No, this isn’t for me.” Usually, the gag reflex got the point across, but people are surprisingly persistent when you tell them you can’t stand a thing they love.

Here is where I nominate my mother for sainthood, because wow did I ever make her life difficult, what with the not eating most of what she ever put in front of me, which necessitated an awful lot of cooking something extra just for me, and so much special ordering at restaurants, and entirely too many patient conversations explaining my eating habits to other people, and … god, how is she not completely mad?

She is made of steel, that is why.

But under her steel beats the softest heart in the world, and she never let me go hungry or forced me to be miserable just because I was picky.

I am going to go call her as soon as I post this.

Today’s note on meeting the expectations of others: Fuck ’em. Yeah, me included, for telling you to try Scotch whisky. Don’t want to? Don’t. Grinning and bearing is overrated. Graciously decline where possible, threaten to stab as needed, repeat as necessary. And always, always, to thine own taste buds be true.

Today’s toast: To picky eaters everywhere: May the person who takes your order always listen carefully and get it right!


—–

* — Speyside. I know. But if you know enough about Scotch whisky to know Glenlivet’s sub-region, then that paragraph really isn’t for you, now is it?