Montecristo

In the middle of New Jersey, in the middle of nowhere really, along the side of a busy highway, is a large non-descript building, looking mostly like a warehouse, that advertises itself as the world’s biggest cigar store. J&R cigars. G-Man and I had decided we needed a smoke, to go with G-man’s malt collection, and since we had a couple hours to kill, we drove down to New Jersey Route 10E in the town of East Hanover. (I mention those details only because all my readers will be running for their cars, by the time they get to the end of this posting.)

Inside J&R, one walks through the gift shop, where all sorts of junk is on sale, into what is certainly the biggest cigar store I have ever seen. Actually it’s a gigantic humidor, with twenty foot ceilings, and fans blowing mist around up near the ceiling, to help keep the room and its cargo moist. Along the outer walls, cigar boxes are stacked up to the stratosphere, so high you cannot possibly read the labels, nor reach them without a helicopter. Then there are racks and racks of what I’m guessing to be the more moderately priced inventory. And in the middle of the store is an enormous rectangular glass case, surrounding the clerks and cash registers, with thousands of different cigars displayed inside. So many we didn’t know where to start.

We had confessed to Casey, our helpful clerk, that we knew very little about cigars, when one of us noticed, through a wrought-iron divide, a retail liquor inventory. In a very little time, Casey learned that we were lovers of malt whisky, after which he recommended cigars to be paired with particular malts. G-Man treated us to a couple good cigars, but all of this was a prelude to our visit to the liquor emporium, which then opened into the Montecristo Lounge. The liquor store had an interesting collection of malts, most notable for its high end product. Lots of stuff we had rarely or even never seen before, like 29 year old Cragganmore, 25 year old Macallan, some special bottling of Ardbeg – lots of stuff running from $250 to $600. I noticed the Talisker 175 for $110. The malts we would have been able to afford were no better priced than at our neighborhood stores, so we passed on the bottles, but we did stop off at the Lounge.

Montecristo Lounge is as old school a bar as one can find – dark, smoky (what better place to smoke your new Dominican cigar?), plenty of taps, dozens of beers by the bottle, and whisky, lots of whisky. The malts behind the bar were more of the standard brands and bottlings, not the special inventory we had found in the liquor store, or at the Last Hurrah, but as far as most bars go, a very good selection. Our cigar mentor, Casey, had told us that the perfect compliment to the Romeo and Juliet Vintage he had sold us was a malt know as “Old Sheep Dip”. This is apparently a blended 8 year old whisky, nothing spectacular, but smooth and drinkable nonetheless. We really drank it to stay in Casey’s good graces, as it had immediately become apparent to G-Man that he would be making return visits to J&R. To compliment the Sheep Dip, we ordered a pour of Macallan 18, never a bad choice, even if it’s a tad overpriced. The 18 has a richness and character that’s almost unmatched.

So add J & R cigars to the map of outstanding whisky bars along the east coast. For good measure later last night, after dinner, G and I and Steven, the young G-man, finished the HP12 we had bought in Colorado last March, after Jon’s memorial service (a special drink for the two of us), and tasted some of Chcuk’s cask strength Coal Ila. While we enjoyed the Romeo and Juliet. How much fun was that, malt and cigars on Chuck’s deck? More to come.

Pops

West Coast Blues

The Sox are out on the West Coast this week, playing in San Diego and Seattle. In six west coast games so far this year, they’ve scored a total of ten runs. Yet they managed to win a couple of those games, thanks to Schilling’s one-hitter, and Dice-K’s second consecutive strong outing. But for some reason, our bats don’t seem to work well on PST. Meanwhile they have four more games on the current trip, and then return for another six in August.

And it looks like August will be the determinative month again this year. In 2004, August was when the Sox ran the table, and climbed back into the AL east, winning something like 20 out of 22 during one stretch. Last year August was the month when the wheels fell off. The pitching had been terrible for a while; Sox were allowing five or more runs in almost every game; yet Papi’s late-inning heroics had kept them in the race. Until August. By September the season was over.

This year Sox go on the road for most of August, playing tough road series with the Angels, the White Sox and the Yankees, among others. They’ve played well on the road so far this year, one of the reasons they’re 21 games over 500. But I’m holding my breath about this coming August.

Make that 22 games above five hundred. The Sox took their series with the Padres, by stealing the final game from Jake Peavy. Beckett held San Diego to two runs over eight innings; Papelbon shut the door in the ninth; and we managed to put up four runs, our season max for west coast baseball. But it was enough to sneak out of town with a win. And the way the starters are going right now, four runs is often enough to get the job done. So maybe I’m too apprehensive about these Pacific time zone road trips. Let’s see how things go in the northwest.

A Day on Yawkey Way

Last Saturday in Boston, before our celebrated visit to The Last Hurrah, we all stopped by the Yawkey Way store for some RedSox gear. For the first time, we saw Okajima Ts. I had tried to buy Susan one for mother’s day, but they weren’t yet in stock. The gal on the other end of the phone assured me they were on the way. After all, he was only the best reliever in baseball over the first two months of the season. Anyway, John and I each bought one. (Michael opted for Youkilis, recognizing the importance that Youk’s ethnicity would carry in his new home town of Miami. )

Only a few hours after we bought the two Ts, Okajima was called on to pitch in the second Diamondbacks game. And the Sox then came from behind to win 4-3 in ten innings. How many innings did Okajima pitch? Two. And what’s his record after earning the win? 2-0. So there it is. We buy two T-shirts, and on that very same day, in fact only hours later, Okajima pitches two innings, and earns win number two. Could this possibly be a coincidence? I don’t think so!

Questions for Heschel

I have a question for all the Heschel experts. (That would be Danny and Mike by my count.) The question goes something like this: Is it possible to be a believer, yet at the same time believe that there are mistakes in the interpretation of scripture? In other words, is it possible that the sages got it wrong?

For my example, I’d like to look once more at the Akeidah. Isn’t it possible to believe that Abraham received a divine message, but that the message was limited to the instruction not to kill Isaac. In other words, God never told Abraham to sacrifice his son; he said the opposite. He enjoined Abraham from killing Isaac, and told him instead to sacrifice the ram. Really, what purpose would it have served the almighty to test Abraham by instructing him to commit an act that was merely the social norm at that time, even if it seems so heinous today? If human sacrifice was common before Abraham, why would it have been remarkable for him to agree to perform that practice? And what divinity would have needed to test his messenger by demanding conformance with the norms of the day? How does that serve to select the exceptional person who can carry the divine message forward? This interpretation allows for the possibility of a divine message to the Jews, and merely credits Abraham with first hearing this divine message to cease human sacrifice. Thus it suggests that the text, the Torah, is more than the creation of some writer’s mind; it’s not just historical fiction, as Danny observed.

Now I know that generations of sages have read the Torah completely contrary to this interpretation. And if I’m right, it means that every one of these sages was wrong. But after all, aren’t the sages, as wise as they are, limited by human understanding? And aren’t there countless examples of human understanding failing to grasp the larger truths of how the world worked? All those sages before Einstein were unable to grasp some simple truths about the universe – simple truths that he, one man, Einstein, was able to understand.

So forget for a moment my assumption that the Torah is a text written by humans. Let’s assume that it’s divinely authored, in one form or another. Why are we so sure that it has been correctly understood, when it’s been human beings, who are limited by human understanding, who have been trying for ages to understand this text?

Or, is it simply not possible to pick and choose what makes sense from the Torah? Is one compelled to believe it literally and completely, or in the alternative to reject it altogether? What does Heschel say about these questions?

The Last Hurrah

We’re always on the lookout for great whisky bars, and John made an extraordinary find in downtown Boston – The Last Hurrah. It’s located in the Omni Parker House Hotel, at the corner of Beacon and Tremont Streets, in downtown Boston, about a block or so from the Commons, a short walk from the Park St. subway station. I provide all this detail, so that anyone reading this blog, who is moved to drop everything else he is doing, and travel immediately to Boston, will know exactly where to go.

It was Saturday afternoon, the day after John had received his Masters Degree. All the family had gathered in Boston. Susan was buying Mike a few ties, now that he’s dressing like a lawyer on a daily basis. Jill and Jane were at the Gay Pride celebration down near Government Center, and John and I were sampling malts at a couple of Boston’s finer bars. We started at the City Bar in the Lenox Hotel on Boylston Street, in Back Bay. City Bar had a nice selection of malts, reasonably priced, and served in a dark, sophisticated setting. High styled, a nice place for an elegant drink on an evening out. Afterward, we walked downtown to the Parker House, to meet the bartender who had chewed John out for ordering Old Potrero, but then poured him a glass a Hirsch on the house, so he could know what a great whisky should taste like.

The bar wasn’t crowded, not empty either, and we found a couple seats close to the malts, and with a view of the TV, where the Belmont had just run. A gal working behind the bar gave us a listing of all the whiskeys, and then our host, whose name remains a mystery, made his appearance. John identified him as the critic who so disdained his Potrero selection, so we held our breath as we ordered. John chose the Hirsch, partly because it’s such a wonderful whisky, and not readily available, and partly to establish credibility with the proprietor. I ordered Aberlour A’Bunadh, a cask strength vatting of Aberlours, 10 to 15 years old. (An aside: we had been drinking Aberlour all weekend, first at John’s barbeque the night before, when we shared some Aberlour 12 with John’s boys – well received by all. Then at the City Bar, John had a glass of their 16.) The A’Bunadh, by the way, is a fine malt, full flavored, cask strength, and even without water, very tasty, very flavorful.

As of this point, our reception at the Last Hurrah had been cordial but distant -- the staff professional, but not overly familiar. Things were about to change. Our host asked me if I preferred full strength whiskies. I said not especially; it was just that I liked Aberlour, and I wanted to taste the A’Bunadh. He then offered to show me what a great full-strength whisky should taste like. At first I begged off; we would be ordering another round when the rest of our party arrived. But he replied, “You do what you want; I’ll do what I want.” Then, best of all, he reassured me, “I’m not hondling you.” I apologized profusely. Not only were we both whisky lovers; we were landsmen. And he was treating me to something he considered special. It was a Bruichladdich cask strength. I never saw the label, and according to Jackson, Bruichladdich has several cask-strength offerings, but our host loved it, and I readily admitted to him that I too loved it. John and I are big fans of the “Laddie”, and like their best offerings, this whisky had a huge taste, which seemed to open up more as I watered the whisky down to normal drinking proof. But the best part was that by not only accepting, but appreciating his gift, we had finally established our credentials as fellow whisky lovers.

Right at this moment the rest of our party arrived. The gals ordered traditional cocktails, which were well prepared, and Mike went bananas about the opportunity to drink Hirsch. He explained that he had been in Colorado, and had seen a couple bottles, but didn’t know enough to buy them, and so forth and so on. Our host was pleased to be able to satisfy Mike’s yearning for this wonderful bourbon. Plus, here’s Mike, the bourbon enthusiast, with his big-ass Jewish star out there for anyone and everyone to see. Now the real fun began. First, he offered us a pour of what he described as the finest whisky in the world, without letting on to what we were drinking. I knew it was an HP, and was then shocked to find out that we had been treated to a glass of HP 30. Can you believe that? We shared our love of HP with our host, but were schooled in his preferences for their whiskies. The 12 is no good, needs more time in the cask. The 18, however, is a great malt. A wonderful whisky at a reasonable price. It made me pleased to hear that, as I have several bottles stashed in the basement right now. But then, while praising the 30, he informed us disdainfully that the 25 was “crap”. Why? I have no idea. And we were enjoying ourselves far too much to let on that we had tried and loved the 25; that it had been the star of our entire week at Maltings; and that we broke it out only for special occasions.

But before we even had time to worry about why HP25 was so lousy, we found ourselves moving on to Rye whiskies. It was at this point that he remembered John. Holding up a bottle of Potrero, he said, “I remember you; you’re the one who likes this stuff!” And just to show us how little we know about Ryes, he poured us a taste of Rittenhouse, a 21 year old rye whisky that John proclaimed the smoothest rye he’d ever tasted.

By now, my sister Jill was agitating for us to leave so we could get to dinner in Malden, but who would want to rush out of the Last Hurrah, particularly when every five minutes we were being treated to a free pour of some absolutely amazing whisky? So with the vocal support of our host, we resisted an early departure, and continued to enjoy our respective malts, and our host’s many narratives about these whiskies, his travels, the industry, all the stuff we love discussing over good drinks. We spent a couple hours in The Last Hurrah, and the check was very modest for the amount of whisky, quality whisky, we had drunk. Not to mention free pours of Bruichladdich, HP 30 and Rittenhouse.

The only problem was that, with all the cask strength whisky I had consumed, I was pretty loaded. Fortunately, Mike was driving; Jill had made the dinner reservations; and our dinner host, Douglas, had prepared a sampling of Asian salads for us when we finally arrived at the restaurant. It was a remarkable evening, and I look forward to our next visit to Boston. Imagine, Fenway Park and the Last Hurrah in a single weekend! How great would that be?

Okajima Gets His Win

Tonight, in his twenty-fifth relief appearance, Hideki Okajima earned his first win. For the season, he’s 1-0, with four saves, a seemingly modest line. But on closer inspection, his stats are far more impressive, if that’s the correct term for statistics that are so small one can barely detect them. Like his ERA, now an even 1.00. In twenty-seven innings pitched, he’s surrendered only three runs. Or to look at that from the opposite perspective, in 22 of his 25 appearances, he hasn’t surrendered a run. In sixteen of those appearances he hasn’t given up a hit. 27 Ks to only seven walks. And tonight, he faced the Yankees for the seventh time this season; as yet, they haven’t figured this guy out. Four up, four down. It was a 1-2-3 eighth inning. A pop fly to shallow center; a weak-ass grounder to Lowell; and Phelps caught staring at strike three. As that Yankee announcer likes to say, “See ya.”

The other interesting thing about Okajima is that it’s hard to see how or why he’s so effective. There was never any mystery about Rivera; every pitch was a cut fastball, the only uncertainty being whether it was 94 or 95 miles an hour. Every one. Papelbon similarly overpowers batters; they have trouble catching up with his stuff. But Okajima is not a power pitcher; and he’s as effective against righties as lefties, maybe more so. But whatever the guy is doing, I hope he keeps it up.

Now I don’t want any of my readers to think that I believe in superstitious stuff; I’m in this debate right now with Danny about the patriarch Abraham, and I’m advocating the rational interpretation of Genesis. But tonight, after Jeter hit that home run in the top of the seventh, I took off my Manny Ramirez T, and threw it in the laundry. I realized I’d been wearing the thing on and off for the last few days, and here we were, facing a three game losing streak for the first time this year. No sooner had the shirt hit the hamper than the Sox scored five in the bottom of the seventh, aided by a couple Yankee errors, and the losing stopped. Now I suppose that doesn’t prove anything; I could have kept wearing that shirt and the Sox could have rallied anyway. But I’ve got other RedSox Ts, and how could it possibly hurt to make a change? And who knows? Who can tell me that it didn’t make a difference to make that change? Sometimes, it’s the little things, like Okajima’s ERA, that matter most.