I normally try to avoid writing in a public place about people I know and about things that happen with these people. Not this time. And while this post is sort of (okay, ENTIRELY) about making fun of two people, I just want to say before you read on that, in case it isn’t clear enough, these are two all-around awesome dudes.
Also, I got permission from them to write about them. And my God am I going to abuse that permission.
I was starting to get tired and began slipping down in my seat while listening to two guys describing a 34-year-old with a lot of character. This 34-year-old has so much character, they said. Part of me wanted to ask more questions about this 34-year-old, but then I remembered they were talking about whisky.
Let’s back up a bit and meet Tom and Ed, the guys I was with. Well, to start, they’re both RE trainees so they’re both extremely weird (read AWESOME) and conversations with them tend to descend into debates about things like the continuity of Christian doctrine. Tom is a vaguely Jewish-looking Northerner who writes a food blog and worships a North American goddess of wind. And the only way to describe Ed is that I don’t think he realizes the full extent of his own poshness. And that when he looks at his iPad he has the same look of awe in his face that I’ve seen fathers have when they look at their newborn children.
They’re two very different people, each loveable in his own way, but what they have in common is that they both have a passion for whisky that is completely beyond the scope of my understanding. When Ed graciously invited Tom and me to the Scotch Malt Whisky Society (of which he is a member), I was pretty excited to finally understand why they both always have pleasant, wistful looks on their faces whenever they get together and discuss whiskies past.
Plus it was a nice way to rinse away the annoying other part of the day, in which we went to a Hindu temple and the dude leading us around would not shut the fuck up about how baller his temple is. But apparently I was the only one of the group who felt such strong animosity towards this guy… Guess that’s me in a nutshell—constant, inexplicable rage.
So anyway, we get to the Whisky Society and I’m delighted to find it’s a small but warm atmosphere. But then the whisky came out and suddenly I was watching two ostensibly sane individuals sniffing glasses of whisky as though they were anteaters trying to sniff up ants. I swear I saw the whisky ripple from the force of their sniffing. Then they would hold their glasses up to the light and marvel with religious reverence at how brown or not each whisky was. Desperately trying to fit in, I too lifted my glass and commented on the fact that it was, indeed, quite brown. Not as brown as Tom’s, but slightly browner than Ed’s. Mmm yes, quite brown.
The whole experience was pretty overwhelming, particularly the menu. Each whisky had a paragraph—or a lovingly crafted ode, rather—describing its flavors with words like “dance” or “journey” or other actions that whisky is clearly incapable of performing. I think in addition to my eyes being duds my tongue must also not work, because all I tasted was Jack Daniels. Some whiskies tasted slightly less like Jack Daniels, and some slightly more. And I must say, when I describe Jack Daniels I don’t talk of flowers or ice cream or smoke or fruit.
Quite honestly, when I think of the taste of Jack Daniels I’m reminded of what the kibbutz laundry room I worked in for half a year smelled like. Basically Jack Daniels tastes of harsh, industrial strength laundry detergent, dusty metal, and hummus-based body odor.
So maybe whisky tasting isn’t for me, maybe it’s just a bit beyond me. I’m still thankful for the opportunity to get to know Tom and Ed a little better, even if doing so involved learning that they are slightly more retarded than previously thought. I did have a fabulous time, and I think the next time I’m forced to drink Jack Daniels I’m going to hold it up to the light, sniff it, and try pick flowers in it.
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