The Whisky Society

Some people may think it’s a bit crazy to move 3000 miles across a large expanse of water just to learn how to make whisky. Leaving behind family and friends to go to a land where the weather on any given day can best be described as “boggy”; that’s bonkers, right? After all, there are plenty of breweries and distilleries in America. And admittedly, there’s days were I would just like to curl up to the bar at my beloved Barley’s brewpub back in Columbus with a pint and a plate of wings. But then I wouldn’t have the Whisky Society.

 Heriot Watt’s Malt Whisky Society sums up a great deal of what I love about living here. The fact that an institution of higher learning has a club dedicated to drinking whisky is astounding to me. Not only that, but unlike other college “clubs”, I didn’t have to ritually humiliate myself to join. And did I mention there’s whisky?
 
So anyway, after missing the Society’s first few tastings due to meetings, I’ve managed to attend the last three Friday sessions. This usually involves having a pint at Geordies, the campus pub (Again, a university run pub? Genius!). This has been made all the more pleasant the past few weeks since the local Stewart’s Brewery had a tap installed at the bar. Steve Stewart is a former grad of the Brewing and Distilling program, and a hell of a nice guy. I don’t think you can find his beers in the US just yet, but he’s currently expanding into new facilities, so be on the lookout for an Edinburgh Gold Lager or Hollyrood pale ale coming soon to a beer store near you.

 There is only one other second year student in the program with me (a shockingly tall and lanky Dutch/Swede named Rob who sports death metal t-shirts), so it was nice to meet some other people in the program at the tastings. These include quite a few Yanks, including one from Vermont who impressively (to me, anyway) worked for four years at the Harpoon brewery and developed their rye IPA recipe. The rest of the attendees are a mixed bag of Canadians, Brits and assorted other ruffians.

Each tasting usually has some type of theme, and last week’s was bourbon. I admit I’ve dearly missed my native hooch in my time away. A few of the guys took it upon themselves to dress up in Prohibition era fare. I didn’t get the memo, and left my suspenders and fedora back home anyway. The four bourbons we tried were Knob Creek 9 year old, Blanton’s, Jefferson Reserve and Pappy Van Winkle 10 year old. The Knob Creek I’ve had before; a straight forward slap you in the face whiskey with a big rye kick. Blanton’s is a bit more rounded, if less intense. Most people thought the Jefferson was just sweet with not much too it, but I liked the delicate herbal and grain notes. Then there is the Pappy.

If you ever happen to come across a Van Winkle whiskey at a bar, you owe it to yourself to buy a glass. Granted, this isn’t very likely to happen, given its scarcity and the fact that bourbon aficionados hunt the stuff like lions stalking gazelle on the Serengeti. Pappy comes from the lowest floors of the rick houses at Buffalo Trace, allowing it to mature slowly like a Scotch. It is everything good bourbon should be, with tons of toffee and a little roasty note, but without the harsh bite. It’s a bit annoying that I can find it here more easily than in the States, albeit at a huge premium. Unsurprisingly, this whiskey got a big thumbs up from everyone. Usually, Tom, the Society prez, asks trivia about each whisky at the end of the night, with the person who answers correctly winning the remains of the bottle (though it is customary to share with your neighbors). For the Pappy, however, one lucky gentleman had to sing karaoke. There was a strong urge to throw things at him, but the only objects available were glasses of whisky, and nobody wins in that scenario.

 Last night was a vertical tasting of an Cnoc distillery, which is Gaelic for “a hill”. A vertical tasting is simply starts with the youngest expression from a distillery and progresses through older bottlings. The first two were boubon casks; the last two sherry. As you can imagine, bourbon casks impart quite a bit of vanilla flavor, whilst sherry gives a big fruity kick and more tannin (leather, tea flavors). Sherry casks used to be shipped from Spain to Scotland, and then were used to mature whisky once they were emptied. Now that sherry is bottled in Spain, sourcing casks is becoming more difficult. As sherry casks grow more expensive, bourbon barrels are becoming the standard. Good for the folks in Kentucky, bad for lovers of sherried whiskies.

The mood for the tasting was a bit more subdued, with a few of the regulars unable to attend, though some young, fresh faced undergrads took their place (nice to get them hooked early). In terms of the booze, an Cnoc would be great as a “starter” whisky—a light melon and malt sweetness, almost delicate. If you think of Scotch as being harsh and smoky, definitely give it a try. The older sherry expressions were more complex and interesting, and much appreciated given their relative scarcity these days.

 In the few months that I’ve been here, I’ve probably tried more whiskies than in all the time I’ve been drinking the stuff. In addition to being a hell of a lot of fun, it has also convinced me that there is a whisky out there for everyone. Trust me, there are as many styles of whisky as there are of wine or beer, if not more, so keep trying till you find something you like. And if you already like it, drink more (I’m looking out for my future employment here). If, however, you need someone to point you in the right direction, why not call a friendly member of the Malt Whisky Society?

Tasting Whisky at the Kilderkin

On a Thursday evening last month, I was on my way to taste the latest beer release at the Brewdog brewpub. Passing by the Cadenhead whisky shop, I spied a notice for a whisky tasting that evening. By the time I got to the pub, it was so thick with the standard crowd of students, hipsters and beer freaks that you couldn’t get within shouting distance of the bar. I 180’d it back past the whisky shop, down to the Kilderkin pub, sliding into a booth just in time to hear a short bald guy deliver his witty commentary on the whisky in his glass. A few tastings later, I am now a semi-“regular”.

 Since we started having spirits industry meetings on Thursdays at school, I haven’t been able to attend the tasting for a few weeks, so I was glad they scheduled the latest rendition for a Friday. The place was packed with the usual mix of regulars and tourists, though a bit livelier than usual. Heading into the weekend, everyone had downed a few more pints than usual, and the atmosphere was amped up to the level usually not attained until three or four whiskies into the evening. I sat at a table with the other usual suspects; Willy (a business prof and obsessive collector of whisky), Johann the Mad Swede (no explanation necessary), a couple other regulars I hadn’t met before, plus a Finn in town on a “working holiday”.

The format for each tasting is thus: 1) Taste whisky. Discuss. 2) Our whisky MC, Mark (the short bald guy) asks everyone for general comments, how old they think the whisky is, what the alcohol content is, and what they’d pay for it. 3) The bottle is reveled and Mark gives some background on the whisky and distillery. More discussion ensues. 4) Repeat.

 Being the gracious whisky ambassador I am, I supplied Mark with a bottle of OYO Whiskey from the homestead that the wife had helpfully transported on her last trip. In addition to this, the tasting also included a 50 year old North British single grain, along with three other mystery whiskies.
 The general structure of each tasting is P/O/U/R/S: peaty, old, unusual, rare, and sherry cask. Most grain (corn, wheat, anything other than barley) whisky is used for blends, so the North British ticked the boxes for both rare and old, and the OYO filled the “unusual “slot.

The other three whiskies turned out to be an 18 year old Burnside, a surprising 3 year old Bladnoch, and Arbeg Uigeadail. That last one is Gaelic, pronounced Oog-a-dal, named after the water source for the distillery. If in doubt when ordering a whisky, it’s best to just point and say, “That one”, lest you misspeak and accidentally call the bartender’s mother a mule. I’ve made a similar mistake before when ordering a Bunnahabhain (that’s Boon-na-ha-vin); I may have accidentally implied the barman fornicates with barn animals, but I can’t be sure.

 The Burnside is actually a Balvenie with a “teaspoon” of Glenfiddich vatted in, or just enough for the bottler to sell it as something else. I like Balvenie (honey, sherry, raisons, bit o’ leather), and this one played true to form. The Bladnoch was so spicy I originally thought it was a rye. Really complex for such a young whippersnapper. The Arbeg I’d tasted before; a big smoky, briny, meaty, flavor bomb. Nice if you like that sort of thing (I do).

The nearly universal winner on the evening was the North British. Older whiskies can tend to turn musty or overly woody, but this was still very zesty and fresh. I guessed it to be much younger, and was surprised when the regulars said it was over 40 years old (Turns out they’d had it before and knew what it was. Bloody cheaters.). This particular bottle was never made available to the public, but similar bottlings sell for around £ 130. So not a bad return on the 20 quid I paid for the tasting.

Oddly, the OYO turned out to be the major divisive point of the evening. It received about a third “likes”, a third “dislike”, and a third “meh”. A couple of the regulars thought it was “weird” and “chemically”, but my table thought it was really nice, and a somewhat sloppy Scott the Scot thanked me for bringing it. I got to explain a bit about the whiskey and distillery, somewhat less wittily than Mark usually does, and I may have mistakenly said the wheat was malted. Apparently the job of whisky ringmaster is not as easy as it looks.

Octoberfest in Scotland? Ja!

Due to popular demand (OK, Andrew Cornell told me to do it), the wutchadrinkin blog has been resurrected on the shores of bonny Scotland in the ole town of Edinburgh. To the uninitiated, I have relocated to the UK to study the dark arts of brewing and distilling via Heriot Watt’s BSc program. Whilst my coursework thus far consists largely of studying the minutiae of molecular biology , the city provides a veritable smorgasbord of opportunities to taste spirits that are unavailable to anyone in the US. Yay me.

I had intended on writing my first post on the Stockbridge Tap’s excellent Ale Festival a few weeks ago, but conspired to lose my tasting notes on the beers I tasted. Hazard of the job, I suppose. The Tap being the fine establishment it is, rest assured I’ll return soon to give you the lowdown.

The pub I will write about was, and is, one of my favorite establishments in the city. There are ale pubs, and whisky pubs, but rarely do you find a place that is excellent at delivering both. The Bow Bar may not have the whisky menu it once had (still over 200 different malts mind you), but it still delivers drams (that’d be a drink to the rest of us) in the preferred 350 ml pours instead of the stingy 250 ml served at most places. And the beers are excellent.

Despite being tucked away on Bow Street just down from Edinburgh Castle, the Bow Bar remains a haven for locals and those seeking out exceptional booze. The small space is consistently packed after work hours and weekends, so expect to wait by the bar if you want a seat, but it’s worth it. Consistent with the best traditional British pubs, there are no TV’s, no music blaring, just great bevvies (beverages) and conversation.

I make regular stops to the Bow, but the occasion for my recent visit was decidedly un-Scottish. Octoberfest is upon us, and Scots are as likely to use any occasion to hoist a pint as Americans are. I really love American takes on German beers (Columbus Brewing Company’s Summerfest and Bock spring to mind, as well as Barley’s Octoberfest), so I was excited to see how brewers in the UK interpreted the style. The Bow had seven different UK beers on cask, and the same number of kegs from Germany, as well as a number of different bottles they’d brought in to celebrate the occasion. Prost!

 I’d always heard ordering a “half pint” was a custom reserved for the lassies and wee old men, but apparently that goes out the door for special events such as this, much to the exasperation of the bartenders. I, of course, drank full (manly) pints, though I opted to stay away from the big two pint steins they were offering. You actually had to put a deposit down on the glass, and If I’m going to make that kind of investment in a beer, it better be served by a sturdy haus-frau wearing lederhosen accompanied by wurst (sorry that’s all the German words I know).

First brew up, the wittily named Smokey and the Band Aid from Buxton Brewing in Derbyshire. Rauchbier is a smoky style of dark German beer, typically using beech wood to smoke the malt. Phenols, the compounds that we associate with smoky flavors, vary in character from roasted meat to bonfires to burning tires to band aids, thus the name of the beer. It lived up to its name, but like a lot of smoked beers I’ve tasted, those smoky flavors fade into the background with time and the roasty malt shines through. If you’ve ever had a peaty whisky, you’re used to that medicinal flavor, but newbies might find it a slap in the face. Not the most complex smoked beer I’ve tasted, but everyone seemed intrigued, and it was selling like hot cakes. Try out the excellent Cinder Bock from Sammy Adams if you’d like to try something similar.

I didn’t think anything could wipe my palate clean after that, but the Island Hopping Spalt from Highland Brewery on Orkney proved me wrong. It’s a pale ale dry hopped with German Spalt hops. If you don’t care for the big piney, citrusy American take on Pale ales/IPA’s, British IPA’s are typically more malty, earthy and floral. This rendition was grapefruity to start, but finished spicy and dry on the German hops. Not a “German” beer per se, but well balanced and highly recommended.



Lastly I tasted Little Valley’s Octoberfest from Yorkshire. Not as overtly malty as a lot of American versions, but with a touch of caramel sweetness, this one finished dry and herbal on the hops; a nice finish to the evening. Given the German beer will keep flowing at the Bow until next Sunday, I suspect I’ll be back for a pint or two before all’s said and done. Hard study makes a man thirsty.

Tipsy in Cleveland

I realize I could probably begin each blog post with an apology for not posting in so-and-so long, but that seems really boring. Plus, I’m not really sorry—I post something on here when I’ve got the time and something (relatively) interesting to say. So let’s have at it, shall we?

The ‘Ole lady and I recently spent a weekend visiting my pal Evan up in Cleveland before school gets too revved up. Our main objectives were twofold: booze and food, in both ample quality and quantity. To achieve these ends, our Friday itinerary included Morton’s, The Steakhouse and the Velvet Tango Room (VTR, for short). Before the Columbus branch closed, Morton’s was our go to anniversary spot. The Cleveland iteration is pretty much exactly the same as C-bus—waiters decked out in penguin suits presenting the menu items tableside on a trolley. It’s the type of place that changes its menu once every couple of decades, where you half expect to see Frank and Dino in a neighboring booth packed full of dames. The drinks and wine (and everything else) are old school and mucho expensive, but if you feel like blowing a paycheck or two on a meal, I guarantee you will eat the best steak of your life. My New York strip, as always, was perfection.

We stumbled onward to VTR for post-meal cocktails. Tucked away in an anonymous residential neighborhood, VTR doesn’t look like much of anything—then you step inside and the joint is jumpin’. The narrow space is decked out in dark wood and plush seating, with Prohibition era nick-knacks adorning the walls, and a sharp dressed dude slapping a mean bass for good measure. I kept expecting to have to deliver a password or secret handshake at the door. Unsurprisingly, this place specializes in pre-Prohibition era cocktails.

So I ordered my usual, a Manhattan. Anywhere else that’s a simple procedure, but not at VTR. I chose Old Overholt rye for the booze, the house made vermouth, and blood orange bitters. You could also select the house made or another variety of bitters, several vermouths, and of course various bourbons/ryes for the alcohol. Every ingredient is top quality and usually house made. Three ingredients, dozens of permutations, but only one of them yours. In addition to a list of signature cocktails, the menu has sections devoted to sours, sidecars, Old Fashioned’s, etc., each with the nano-customizability of my rockin’ Manhattan. For those not fluent in cocktail, the waiters are more than happy to make suggestions, as was the case with the wife’s tasty White Lady, a gin cocktail topped with whipped egg whites.

(Forewarned, a cocktail at this place will set you back around $15 bucks, but let me try to explain where that money goes. There’s a guy whose job it is to make ice. That’s it. Perfectly round spheres of super cold ice with no impurities that will chill your drink without diluting it. That’s the level of detail that VTR strives for, and that’s just the ice.)

We retreated back to Evan’s stomping grounds in the ‘burb of Tremont for a nightcap. Within stumbling distance of his apartment, Tony’s is another hidden gem. From the old sign out front, you’d think it served take away pies to drunken college students, but inside they’re slinging high end cocktails. The owners are an ex-cop and his wife who open two nights a week to a full house of loyal locals. He stands at the end of the bar and bemusedly shakes his head at his guests’ drunken ramblings; she mixes badass drinks. There’s barely enough room to stand three wide, but the atmosphere is cozy and everyone knows everybody else.

I’m normally a bit skeptical when someone tells me so-and-so makes amazing cocktails. Some call me snooty—I just call it standards. Well, I ordered a rye drink called a Pumpernickel, and it was good. Like, slap yo mamma good. While a very strong flavor, and probably not to everyone’s taste, the cocktail tasted just like a buttered pumpernickel loaf, and really hit the right balance of sweet elements, spicy rye and savory caraway. The drinks menu changes with the season, and there were plenty of other lookers on there to keep the Pumpernickel company.

The next day we nursed the previous night’s wounds with a greasy breakfast (with Bloody Mary’s, of course) and some shopping at the Westside Market in the Ohio City neighborhood. Luckily we didn’t have to wait long for libations with Great Lakes Brewery nearby. Most people in central Ohio have probably sampled at least one Great Lakes beer, but the brewpub also has a few special offerings that don’t make it to the bottle. The first of these we tried was the excellently named Triple Dog Dare, a Belgian tripel. It seems a lot of craft breweries slap the tripel label on any boozy beer that uses Belgian yeast, but this beer has some of the dry, sweet elegance of a Duvel, if not the depth.

In addition to a lager whose name I can’t recall, the brewpub also served Alberta Clipper, a porter with Belgian chocolate and raspberries. Now some fruit beers strike me like the sickly mystery chocolate in the box, but the Clipper’s fruit served as a nice tart sweetness to offset the bitterness of the chocolate and roasted malt. I decided to take a growler of it home, but sadly, the pub was out of growlers after the holidays. A reason for a return visit, I suppose. A note of caution—the brewpub was packed and standing room only for our visit, and the barmen were absolutely slammed. I’d definitely recommend a weekday or early afternoon visit if possible.



We retreated to the relatively relaxed confines of the Bier Markt, which specializes in Belgian brews. The space, like a lot of the recovered industrial buildings in Cleveland, is cavernous, with one of the longest bars I’ve ever seen. After finally getting to try Dogfish’s excellent Chicory Stout (roasty coffee flavor with an interesting dry, tea-like finish), Evan and I decided to split their ten sample tray. Ouch. A “sample” is more like a high ball, most of them full of potent, high gravity Belgian beer. Though this exercise in gluttony left my pallet and my frontal lobes scorched, I can make a few recommendations; Bear Republic’s Racer 5 is a friggin awesome IPA, Kwak (that’s the name, seriously) served a nicely malty/sweet contrast to the other nuclear Belgians, and the Belgian IPA Hop Chouffe was the unanimous Best In Show. Oh, and stay away from the Duchese de Bourgogue, a Belgian sour that is like drinking balsamic vinegar. Icky.

Though my body screamed “enough”, I just had to try Cleveland’s newest brewpub, the Market Garden Brewery. First, I love what they’ve done with the big, open space. Some might find the spare, open look to be a bit hipster-ish, but I dug it. There are separate bars for beer and wine/cocktails, and the crowd seems to congregate along those lines. I had the wickedly named Cluster Fuggle IPA, named after the iconic hop varieties of America (Cluster) and England (Fuggle). True to form, it skates a tasty line between the citrusy and earthy styles of American/English IPAs. They also had a Scottish Ale and a Winter Porter that I’ll have to investigate further.

Back to Tremont, for one last stop at Michael Symon’s restaurant Lolita for cocktails and bar nibbles. Note: While the smoked prosciutto and bacon-dates were awesome, the Brussels sprouts are a game changer. I’ve always hated sprouts—no more. Slap some bacon, capers, anchovies and walnuts on those bad boys, deep fry em, and you’ve got something worth selling your kid into slavery for. Or, if not your first born, a second cousin, at least. Best. Bar. Food. Ever.

We were introduced to Will the bartender. Will’s a bit cocky, but he should be: I tasked him to come up with a cocktail using a peaty Scotch whisky, and he nailed it. The Scotch Bonnet really incorporates the smoky notes of Islay malts whilst enhancing the tropical fruit notes that often get overlooked in super peaty whiskies. Just gets nudged by the Pumpernickel as the best drink I had all weekend, but only on creativity points, not taste.

I haven’t always viewed our Northern neighbor on the lake so fondly. A large part of that has to do with my college roommates, who at every turn told everyone within shouting distance how Cleveland rocks and whatever city they were from sucked (actual wording). There’s also the post-apocalyptic, blasted cityscape that greets your drive into downtown like some dreary Cormac McCarthy novel. But far from hanging their heads, entrepreneurial Clevelanders are reclaiming industrial spaces and turning them into something extraordinary. In particular, the Tremont area has a cool Village vibe minus the uppity attitude. Sadly, I’m finishing my last Great Lakes Christmas Ale as I write this, but I’m looking forward to seeing what Cleveland offers up in the near future.