One of my Favorite Things

I just heard today that a friend of mine from Hospital Corps School is in Okinawa. He's a good guy and I'm really, really looking forward to seeing him, but the result of his arrival on island is that I am thinking nostalgically.

There was a time, before I joined the Navy, when I drank a lot. I still drink a pretty good amount, but at the time I'd had a severe setback in life and drinking masked the pain a little bit. It got to be egregious. But it did give me the chance to get a little taste for whiskey.

When I started drinking whiskey I was a Jack Daniel's man. Now, Jack Daniel's is a good, workman-like whiskey. It's been described as a wild-man's drink, but I think that it is really more of an immature man's drink. I still drink it when I can't get anything else, there is a big bottle of it on my counter at home right now, but it is not my favorite.

In an effort to change up the sort of whiskey I was drinking I tried a few old-school favorites. I think that I was inspired by a trip to Florida to move my great-aunt's things up to the good old Cleveland area. Aunt Mae had a stash of old whiskey, I have no idea when she started buying it or when she thought she was going to drink all of it, but there were bottles and bottles of supposedly 12 year old whiskeys that had been bought in the 1960's. Even a Canadian Club turns into a golden brown drink of the gods when aged for 50-some years. My brother Frank and I began to sample and mix drinks, when we got back, not on the drive up, and gained a little bit of a useless education. We knew what bottles of obsolete brand whiskey could be stored in a closet for 50 years and still taste wonderful, and which ones would turn. I haven't found a good outlet for this knowledge yet, but someday I'm sure I will.

I bought a bottle of Canadian Club a week or so ago and realized, without the extra closet time, it's not really worth drinking. I tried mixing it with Coke, to mask the revolting taste, but neither Coke nor anything else worked. The verdict: Except for wonderful advertisements and the occasional great-aunt-aged bottle, Canadian Club is worthless.

There was also a bottle that was shaped like a patriotic figure from history, but it was not clear which Founding Father had lent his image to an obscure and obsolete brand of whiskey. Whichever one he was, Hurrah for Him! That bottle, seemingly corked during the American Revolution, was a delicious, if slightly treacly concoction. I believe that Frank still has the bottle, though since it was two moves back for him, I may be wrong.

I bought a bottle of Cutty Sark a few years back and developed a strict rule, no blended whiskeys. I'll drink a mash bourbon any and every day of the week, and I do. But pass me a blended whiskey and I will shudder and pass it on. The sickly sweet taste of these evil demon liquors makes them unpalatable and unlikely as anything other than industrial cleaners.

But what this is really all about is a little story that Acosta, the friend I mentioned way back at the beginning, put me in mind of.

I joined the Navy in March 2005. I went to boot camp from March till May. I don't know about everyone's Navy experience, but I didn't have a lick of alcohol for that whole time. Now, I don't know if you were paying attention back at the beginning, but I was a pretty serious drinker in the time before that. After the 8 weeks of boot camp and another week or so waiting to have clothes and a place to go, I took a Friday night, all alone, and took the train into downtown Chicago.

I'd been to Chicago once before, a long time before, and it hadn't struck me as a drinking town. Most places didn't when I was 9. But getting off the train in the center of the city, all I could think about was the possibility of a thick cut glass, ice cubes, a steady hand to pour and the warm, sharp taste of Maker's Mark. I thought about it while I looked at the Sears Tower. I thought about it while I avoided drunk classmates. I thought about it as I entered and left Millennium Park and I thought about it as I straddled a bench at a little Italian bistro near where I started my journey. I had exactly 2 hours and I planned to spend both of them getting drunk on the long-lost elixir.

The bartender was an Italian woman of a certain age. Now, with most women of a certain age I am able to employ a charm that borders on mind-control. I can't explain it. If I ever had the looks to be a gigolo, I'd have been one of the best. But as it is I usually used it to charm girlfriend's Mothers or improve my tips when I was a server. But due to some sort of Nature/Nurture imbalance, Italian women are my kryptonite. They do not respond to my charms. They are not in on my allure. I am not like Mama used to make, I am Ragu.

This was a seemingly negative turn of events and I looked around for a second to see if there was an open table. Sure enough, there was. I ordered my first Maker's Mark and took a long, slow sip.

The taste was as exquisite as I remembered. So smooth, so effervescent. Like some sort of alcoholic spring water, like the beverage version of a Mother's hug. I settled into the warmth like settling into a favorite chair. The spirals of flavor and smoky enjoyment danced on my palate. A friend once described it as, "It's like licking the inside of a light socket, but it tastes better."

I got the table and a cute little waitress. (At least, I think she was a cute little waitress. Not having had a drink for 8 weeks turns a tolerance from whatever it was to 11 year old boy. My one sip of whiskey had set me along a dangerous path. At two hours I had woefully over-estimated the time it would take. Two minutes in and I was Bertie Wooster on Boat Race night.) I ordered Chicken Parm, on the assumption that it can't really be ruined. I suspect that it was not really a great meal, but I couldn't actually tell you one way or the other. By the time it came I was on my second Maker's, this time with club soda, and I was dead to other sensory input.

I dated a girl once who called whiskey and soda, "The Ocean." As in, "What are you drinking, another Ocean?" Given my newly nautical career I liked the ring of this nickname and I ordered another round of The Ocean for myself. Apparently there is a Chicagoan drink called The Ocean. Perhaps it is not a Chicago local, just a speciality of that particular bistro, but it was an evil little mixture. I think that they use linseed oil, lacquer thinner and kerosene. Maybe they had a dash of vermouth, for taste. It was AWFUL. I drank it quickly, drank some water, and asked for another Makers, this time with soda.

I don't really remember getting back to base.

I must have done it on time, I never got into any trouble. I must have made it through the gate without indicating my advanced state of inebriation. I must have paid for both my meal and the train back to the School. Beyond that, I remember waking up the following afternoon with my head screeching and pinging, my back wracked with spasms and my eyes glowing like one of the X-Men.

It didn't do anything to diminish my love of Maker's Mark, still my favorite tipple. It didn't sour me on Chicago and it didn't make me slow my roll there, either. Whiskey is the one drink I've ever had that remains sick and hangover proof. I've given up brands of beer, I've given up gin, I've given up vodka, but I'll stick to Bourbon till I die.

And then I met this:
I have four bottles of this. I want to send a couple of them to the States, but it is apparently illegal. I'll find some way before I leave, but for now I am just trying to get the courage to try it.

Has anyone out there ever tasted this? Is it good? How does it compare to Maker's Mark?