Against the grain: A guide to drinking whisky

“You put water in your whisky?” asks the bright young thing by my side. I ignore him, not quite in the mood for the usual debate that ensues when a recently converted whisky nerd feels the need to show off his newfound knowledge.

Not that I have a problem swapping tales of Scotch. It’s just that there’s nothing quite as boring as a whisky bore. Which is probably why the drink is one of those things that most men consider belongs in the same picture as their grandfathers.

Old men drink whisky. In armchairs. By fireplaces. Cigars in their hand. Not a woman in sight.

The industry is probably most to blame, with the advertising campaigns that they’ve carried in the past. With the images they’ve nurtured. With the single malt clubs they’ve carefully cultivated, you know the ones, captains of industry gathered around a bottle, garrulously talking about their latest deal. Not a woman in sight. You see where this theme is going?

So is it cool for a young man about town to walk into his local watering hole and ask for single malt? Damned right it is. And increasingly, whisky makers are recognising this, bringing to those bar shelves variants that haven’t always been around since William Wallace told Edward of England to sod off.

Think Islay and you think of paint-stripping, chest-hair-removing, coal-mine-in-a-glass whiskies. But there’s also a range of expressions that are light-hearted, witty, and still a damned good dram. There’s the new kid on the block, Kilchoman, one of the few distilleries that still malts its own barley. And Bruichladdich, which has packaging funky enough to make you buy a bottle just for the colour. Keep in mind that while it’s cool to carry these in your bar, it’s a lot cooler if you actually know how to pronounce them. Stumble over the syllables and the only thing touching your lips will be an ice cube.

There’s this newfound fascination for Japanese whiskeys, a fact reinforced for me by the staff at the duty-free section of four different airports beginning their conversation by saying they have none. Japan’s distilling tradition goes back centuries, but its whisky only dates back to the 1920s, when Shinjiro Torii, the founder of what is now Suntory, hired Masataka Taketsuru to set up the Yamazaki distillery. Taketsuru spent three years in Scotland, doing pretty much everything that could be done at a distillery, and then brought that knowledge home. He left Torii a decade later to set up what is now Nikka, so we can give him credit for two damned good drinks.

Leaving aside the ratings given by various evangelists, there are some great Japanese whiskies to be had. The 18-year-olds from Yamazaki and Hakushu are immensely drinkable single malts, but there are some excellent vatted malts as well. Like the Taketsuru 17-year-old Pure Malt. Think Monkey Shoulder. Then multiply the mind-blown factor by five. Yes. It’s that good.

About Monkey Shoulder. It’s a vatted malt, made by blending a handful of other very fine malts to come up with a whisky that’s just so drinkable it defies convention. Just knowing it exists makes you a man of mystery in the eyes of lesser mortals. Knowing that it’s worth drinking makes you a man of taste and refinement. And tell them that Monkey Shoulder is a blend of the Balvenie, Glenfiddich, and Kininvie whiskies, and even the nerds are thumping you on the back and buying you a round. And let’s face it. Order a Monkey Shoulder while leaning casually against the bar, and the woman next to you wants to know what that is and whether she can have a sip. Before long you’re lighting her cigarette, she’s looking longingly into your eyes, and you’re explaining the scratch marks on your back in the gym the next day. Think that happens if you order a vodka and soda?

Size does matter. Go small batch. Bourbon made this category one to covet, and now the rest of America has gone equally artisanal. Ever heard of WhistlePig? One of the few rye whiskies to be aged in former wine barrels. How about Angel’s Envy? I didn’t think so. But then I bet you’ve never shelled out $425 for a bottle of Charbay’s whiskey either. Once you do discover the joy of trampling the road less travelled with these hidden gems, you’ll be so cool, you’ll be smoking.

Go ahead. Bust the myths. When I pour myself a drink, I don’t hear a piper play in the glen. Nor do I want to. I hear Annie Lennox and Ian Anderson and Mark Knopfler and Franz Ferdinand, and even, yes, I admit it, The Proclaimers.

I don’t have a peat fire going at my feet while I sip in solitude. I have a hundred slightly flushed bodies next to me in the bar, each person talking noisily over the rest.

I don’t stop and sniff and swirl and sniff and sip and raise an eyebrow in reaction every time I get a glass. I quaff, then quaff some more, then raise a hand and ask the barkeep to pour me another.

I don’t collect whiskies. I don’t lay them down in a cellar and tell my friends about what lies there. I buy a bottle and I open it and I pass it around so everyone gets to pour it into their own glass.

I don’t talk about whiskeys. I drink them.

And as for the bright young thing’s question, the answer is simple. And the biggest myth buster there is. There is no correct way to drink whisky. You drink it the way you want to. This is not a science lab where each measure is carefully poured to a formula. Do what pleases you. I do. And I’ve been drinking single malts since I was 19.

Will drinking whisky make you cool? No. But it sure as hell works better than salt, lime, and a shot of tequila in your fist. After all, anyone can get a woman’s attention. It takes far more than two fingers and a glass to keep it.

(This piece first appreared in Harper's Bazaar)

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