The Elusive Bunnahabhain

As any of my loyal readers knows, I’ve always been a fan of the Islay malts. It was a glass of Lagavulin that first hooked me. Before I had reached the bottom of that very first drink, I was completely taken with the pleasures of malt whisky. And returning to Rochester, at a time when Lagavulin was simply unavailable, I purchased a bottle of Caol Ila 18. After that, there was no turning back.

Over time, I’ve also enjoyed Ardbeg, the peatiest of all malts, and Bruichladdich, more notable for its malt flavor than its smoky character. And I will confess that I don’t really care for Bowmore or Laphroaig, both of which are too briny for me, too much iodine. But throughout this time, I have rarely had the chance to taste Bunnahabhain, which is not at all surprising, as Jackson calls it the most elusive of all the Islay whiskies. Elusive because it’s uncommon; elusive because the distillery is apparently the least accessible; and elusive because it’s hard to describe the flavor of this most unusual malt. On a couple occasions in Boston, I had a chance to try the 12, once at Rendezvous where they stock a private bottling, and once at City Bar, in the Lenox Hotel. There is an obscure flavor lurking deep in the Bunnahabhain. The peat flavor is very mild; Jackson describes it as the most delicate of the Islay malts. But despite its delicate flavor, there is something in there, like a spice one can’t quite identify in a flavorful dish.

Recently, when G-Man and I went to Keens, we tried the 18. According to Jackson, the distillery had sporadic production in the years before its recent change of ownership, and so perhaps there wasn’t enough stock to bottle an 18 until recently. There’s no mention of this particular bottling in the 5th edition of his guide to single malts. And Keens was the first place I’d ever seen this whisky. But then, in a stroke of good fortune, when G-Man told me he was stopping at the New Hampshire store on his way to Maine, I checked their price list on-line, and there it was -- Bunnahabhain 18. So in a second, and even more fortunate stroke of good fortune, G-Man bought a bottle for me and then carried it all the way from New Hampshire to New Jersey, and then up to the Cuse, where he hand delivered it to me this past weekend.

Everything about this malt is different. The black glass bottle has this unusual shape, and so before you even pour the whisky, you get a sense you’re about to drink something unlike other malts. The nose is distinctive, but I’m no good at describing smells. Is it cloves and hickory wood? Is it leather and peat? Is it mustard and ketchup? I have no idea, except to say that it smells like no other malt. The peat flavor is subtle, and as Jackson says, delicate. That elusive and unidentifiable spice is still deep inside the malt, but the whisky is smoother, and the edges rounder, and the flavor much fuller than the 12. Some malts are unique; they can’t be mistaken for anything else. Think of Talisker, or Rosebank. And Bunnahabhain is like that. The trick here is to make the whisky last, because if I’m not going to find it in Rochester, I’ll have to wait another year until G-Man returns to Maine .That’s not going to be easy. Maybe I’ll try to hide the bottle from myself – put it in the basement somewhere and do my best to forget about it. At least until that night when we’re looking for something special to drink, and I remember that I have an open bottle of Bunnahabhain 18 in the house. If I can only find it.

Hooked on Fenway

The first night I stayed in Boston, I went to Fenway. It was rush week, the week before orientation, when they had to find a place for about one third of the freshman class to live, and so I ended up with guys from the Sammy house, which was over by the Fens somewhere, and we went to see the Sox play. It was 1967, the year of the impossible dream. Not only that, but it was a Yankees game. First night in Boston, a night at Fenway Park, Red Sox - Yankees. How great was that?

As I recall, the Sox won 6-2. Yaz hit a home run. It was the year he won the Triple Crown. And I remember seeing Mantle play, and as I remember it, he got a base hit. I wasn’t yet a Sox fan, having been in Boston less than 24 hours, but I was already a Yankees hater. I had been a Willie Mays fan, a Giants fan, even though it was hard to keep track of them out on the west coast. Still, it was a thrill to see Mantle play, knowing that here was a piece of baseball history, even if his career was winding down.

In any event, there I was, in early September, sitting in the right field bleachers, Fenway pretty full for the Yankees, and the Sox moving toward their first pennant in twenty-one years. By the time September had ended, and the season had come down to the final day, I was hooked. It’s probably impossible to be there in Boston, especially a couple minutes away from Kenmore Square and Fenway Park, and not catch RedSox fever. They never won the pennant again while I lived in Boston. I remember going to Fenway with Jon Seigle to see them play the White Sox, in 1971 or 72, and the park being only two-thirds full. And it wasn’t until the summer of 1975, when I was living in Ithaca and then Auburn, that the Sox returned to the series. Still, that one year, perhaps that one game, had me hooked for life.

Now, forty years later, after a win, I can spend forty-five minutes on the phone with John, discussing the game, the season, our prospects, Schilling’s shoulder, Lester’s return to the lineup, Manny’s bat. When Mike calls from Israel, half a world away, we need to spend at least a few minutes discussing the last series. Three out of four in Cleveland, on the road, and what a performance by Dice-K. Is it this way for everyone? And what is it about baseball that engenders these loyalties?

Whatever it is, it’s part of the glue that binds me to my kids. Next week, I’m flying to Israel. Mike and Susan and I are going to visit sites that are thousands of years. We’ll be walking the land of the patriarchs, but we’ll be checking the scores every night. And if the Sox are winning, we’ll be finding a bar somewhere to celebrate.

Jon Lester

Jon Lester is back. First of all, he’s healthy. He’s only twenty-three and lymphoma is not the chicken pox. So to be declared cancer-free, and to be feeling well enough to play, are the most important things. Second, although he had some decent outings with the PawSox, he wasn’t really dominating the International League. So it wasn’t at all clear how he’d perform back in the majors. But two runs over six innings, with six Ks, is a pretty good performance for anyone, let alone a kid who’s back in the majors after suffering a serious illness. Pitching out of a couple jams, mixing his fastball in the low 90s with a very good curve, and beating the Indians at Jacobs. That’s about all anyone could ask for.

This also means the Sox have four solid starters in their 20s – Beckett, who’s been the anchor of the rotation this year; Dice-K, who’s been brilliant at times, but inconsistent over the course of the season; Gabbard, who’s had four very good starts in a row, and now Lester. Hard to believe that the pitching is what looks best for the future; what a change.

Now let’s see Schilling recover from the shoulder injury; and as long as we’re asking for a healthy roster, let’s get Papi back in the line-up. Manny’s been picking up the pace these past few games, but we need these two guys three and four. And imagine if Coco keeps hitting. We haven’t had anyone setting the table much this year. So some base runners on board for Papi and Manny can only help.

It’s a short wish list, but if we have to have a single wish, one above all others, it’s for Lester to stay healthy. Go Sox.

Fenway is not for Everyone

Yesterday, Willie Harris, playing centerfield for the Braves, went six for six, and knocked in six runs besides. For the season, he’s batting over .330, not at all bad for a leadoff hitter. But only last summer, he was playing back-up outfield for the Sox, and batting a meager .156. Clearly, there was little interest in having him stay in Boston; who really needs a speedy leadoff hitter who can never get on base?

Playing with Harris this summer is Edgar Renteria, who’s also batting over .330, and who has already knocked in 50 runs this year. Renteria didn’t have a terrible year at the plate when he was in Boston (It was 2005, and Renteria had replaced Orlando Cabrera, for reasons that still escape me.), but his batting average with Atlanta is sixty points higher than it was in Boston. And more significantly, he has had only 8 errors through about 100 games, far fewer than the 30 he committed in 2005, when he led the league in that dubious statistic.

I also read that Rudy Seanez, who seemed to offer up more meatballs than any other Boston reliever of recent memory, is having a pretty good year in Los Angeles. He’s 6-1, with an ERA in the mid threes. Even accounting for the switch to the National League, where the pitchers always have better numbers, this is far better than his performance of a year ago.

So what’s the point exactly? When we say that Theo looks like an accidental genius, because sometimes he hits the mark, and sometimes is way off, maybe it’s not Theo that makes the mistake, maybe some guys just don’t do well in the spotlight that inevitably follows them around in Boston. The park is packed every night; all of New England seems to hang on the team’s fortunes; and papers aren’t shy about discussing poor performance, underachievement, whatever. Maybe it’s more relaxed in Atlanta, and Renteria doesn’t feel the same pressure he did in Fenway. And maybe Seanez just needs a bigger park to pitch in. So then that means the front office has to find guys that not only have good numbers, but who can perform well in front of the full house, day in day out. Or maybe baseball is less predictable than we think, a little like the weather. One can predict the outcome some of the time, but not always.

On the positive side, we took three of four from the White Sox; Manny’s bat seems to have come alive; and maybe, just maybe, we can shake the doldrums that have been plaguing the team for the past seven weeks. Lester is coming back; Gabbard is stepping up; and guys seem once again to be hitting. Let’s see how things go in Cleveland.

Aberlour Revisted

We’ve long been fans of the Aberlour malts. Way back when we got started, I gave John a bottle of Aberlour 15, which was finished in sherry casks, and he opined that the 15 was as good an example of sherry matured highland malt whisky as was generally available. I also recall sharing the 15 with G-Man as we smoked cigars at Turning Stone last summer, on the afternoon of Jessica’s wedding. So it’s been well recognized that the Aberlour 15 was a great whisky at an affordable price.

I have also, on occasion, sampled the 10, which is a fine everyday whisky. A full flavored highland malt, very reasonably priced, and just about right for the first drink when one arrives home after a particularly aggravating day at work. One of those days when everyone wants something by 5 o’clock, and when no one in the universe seems able to get through the day without soliciting your opinion on whatever it is they’re doing that afternoon. The phone has been ringing incessantly; everyone is in their offices, no one playing golf; everything needs to be done immediately. After one of those days, when you get home, a glass of Aberlour 10 is just about right. Also, this whisky can usually be found at the duty free store, in the convenient one-liter bottle.

More recently, Aberlour introduced a 12 year old malt, finished in sherry casks. It’s like a cross between their 10 and 15; not quite as smooth as the 15 was, but a very enjoyable whisky nonetheless. At $40, a good buy. But at $32, the price currently being charged at the New Hampshire state store, a steal. Now I don’t live in New Hampshire, or anywhere close to New Hampshire for that matter, but G-Man stopped by on his way back from Maine, and picked up a bottle at that ridiculous price; and of course, John lives only an hour away. A quick drive up 95, perhaps on the way to the butcher, and a chance to pick up some Aberlour 12 at bargain basement prices.

Once, I think it was at City Bar in the Lenox Hotel, John and I tasted the 16, but I cannot recall much about that whisky, probably because, by the time we had left downtown Boston that evening, after a couple hours at the Last Hurrah, I was lucky I could remember my middle name. In fact, we forgot to get the parking claim check from Susan, and had to pay the full 24 hour charge at the Pru parking garage. We practically needed a second mortgage to conclude that transaction.

Lastly, and most recently, I have been drinking Aberlour’s cask-strength whisky, the A’Bunadh. I tried this first at the Last Hurrah in Boston, and then at Keen’s in Manhattan, and loved it each time. At almost 60% (120 proof) it’s really too strong to drink without water. But watered down to around 40%, it’s terrific. Enormously flavorful, and very very smooth. Also, while I haven’t performed the calculations, when you consider that a bottle at 60% is the same as a bottle and a half at 40%, the price is only two-thirds of what is listed. In other words, another great buy.

So that’s an all around endorsement of Aberlour. We’ve had four of their whiskies (five if you count the single glass of 16), and have yet to be disappointed. Not only that, all four are bargains, certainly when compared to many better known labels. It’s now a staple in the cabinet.

Pints Pub

I’m not sure why I’m so fortunate, nor am I sure how this keeps happening, but I just found myself at yet another great whisky bar, trying to select malts from a listing that ran on for page after page. Here’s the latest adventure.

I was in Denver on business, and after a long day of meetings, a bunch of the lawyers adjourned to an upscale steakhouse for dinner and drinks. During dinner I discovered that one of our hosts, Miss Nancy, was one of Colorado’s foremost food and beverage mavens. She had once hosted a radio talk show about food for over ten years (How much fun was that?). Nancy ordered a wonderful Carneros Pinot Noir (the family’s favorite) to complement our dinners. It was the Renteria label, unfamiliar to me as a winery, but recognizable as Edgar’s surname. (I still can’t figure out why we got rid of Cabrera for Renteria; what was Theo thinking?) Anyway, most everyone had steaks, but I ordered the Osso Bucco, and was not at all disappointed. And for me Osso Bucco over pasta is done so magnificently at Max that I am not easily impressed.

Now Nancy is a perceptive girl, and she noticed that I had enjoyed a malt before dinner; I think it was the Balvenie Doublewood, nothing special, but certainly a nice enough whisky. And at some point in the evening, I disclosed that I was the author of this very blog, which purportedly began as a means of discussing Montaigne, and quickly degenerated into a series of musings about the virtues of good whisky. So after dinner, we drove to downtown Denver, parking where we had a view of the Courthouse in one direction, and the new art museum in the other direction. (That’s to orient all you readers so you can try to find this place next time you’re in Denver.) And there, somewhere between the Courthouse and the museum sits Pints Pub.

This is a British style pub, apparently best known for its hand-crafted British ales, served from the hand pump. But as we had been eating and drinking for a few hours before reaching Pints, I had to choose between the beer and the whisky, and for reasons that will soon become apparent, I selected the latter. The bar is ringed with hundreds of upside down bottles, in the English style. I have seen bars do this with their regular inventory, the Jameson, the Johnny Walker. But I have never before seen anywhere with over 200 malts hanging upside down. If nothing else, I’d be concerned about those little gizmos breaking, and all the precious malt whisky spilling out all over the floor. Pints has a listing of its whisky that runs on for close to twenty pages. And they take the trouble to give one a little description of the particular whiskies which is nice, considering that the inventory includes scores of odd private bottlings, stuff that’s way off the usual beaten path. At the same time, however, the reviews aren’t necessarily one hundred percent accurate. Take for instance the HP 24 I ordered for starters. The menu says, “honey, toffee, cedar, rare.” All true. However, despite 24 years in the cask, this HP lacked the robust flavor that characterizes one of my all-around favorite malts. The whisky was interesting, and modestly priced (perhaps that was a bit of a clue), but on the thin side. And really, who wants subtle when drinking whisky?

I followed up with an unusual bottling of Ardbeg -- Airigh Nam Beist, 1990. I can’t find reference to this whisky in Jackson, but Ardbeg’s website tells us that the name means, Shelter of the Beast. OK. That’s a great name, what’s that metaphor all about? Is Ardbeg the beast? Is the whisky the shelter? What exactly is going on here? Actually, who cares? This was a terrific whisky. Apparently, Ardbeg has a big inventory of its 1990 stock, which it intends to release slowly, in annual increments. This whisky, like Uiguedail, is tough to find, and not inexpensive, but certainly worth the trouble if any of my loyal readers were ever to run across it in their various travels.

I also liked that many of the malts at Pints were modestly priced. (For example, the Ardbeg, which is tough to find, and according to the web, on the pricey side by the bottle, was very reasonable priced at Pints; unfortunately, as it was my last drink of a long evening, I cannot remember what I paid.) To confirm that, check out Pints’ website, and the whisky price list, all of which is available on-line, except for the ‘specials’. There were a few whiskies listed at well over $100 a glass, which I found incongruous in light of Pints’ unassuming interior décor, and evening clientele, most of whom were jean-clad youngsters, out for an evening’s beer. Nancy claims that the place is wall-to-wall judges and lawyers during the day, so maybe folks order these rare and expensive malts after they close big deals, or settle monster plaintiff’s cases. Or maybe the proprietor just shares these rare whiskies with his friends, or his kids; after all, that’s the way I’d do it.

So that was my cultural introduction to Denver. I think the way to do things right would be to go to Pints for a buffalo burger and a couple of the hand-crafted beers; then go watch the Rockies play; and then return to Pints afterward for a couple of their hard to find malts. Is that a good plan or what?

My Brass Rat

A few weeks ago, we attended my son John’s graduation from MIT. His second graduation, actually, but the first one we all went to. The year he had received his undergraduate degree, it was pouring rain on graduation day. When we met John near campus, after he had walked across the river, at around 7:30 am, the time for all the graduates to assemble in the Johnson athletic center, he was already drenched. We’re not going, he announced. His mom protested, and so John reconsidered, and advised that we could attend if we wanted, but no way he was going. So instead, we drove into Back Bay, had a big breakfast, and enjoyed each other’s company all morning, which was undoubtedly more pleasant than sitting through the downpour, waiting for that one moment when they announced John’s name as a graduate.

This year, by contrast, could hardly have been a prettier day. Sunny, warm, Killian Court bursting with families from all over the world. There must have been ten thousand chairs set up. Susan and I arrived shortly after nine, and found seats toward the back, in the shade of one of those huge trees close to Memorial Drive. It really didn’t matter that we weren’t close to the stage, as a couple giant video screens afforded a decent view of the festivities, and as one would expect, the sound system was perfectly clear. Not long after we had arrived, the kids began their march from the other side of Mass. Ave., winding their way through campus, then along Mem Drive, then, pretty much on schedule, right down the middle of Killian Court toward their seats in the front. Susan managed to pick out John as the procession came down Mem Drive, mainly because the architecture grads were at the front of the student procession. It took close to an hour for everyone to enter, and find their seats.

The ceremony was unremarkable, the speeches less than memorable, but for me, one moment stood out, and gave me one of those rare emotional epiphanies that come only a few times during our lives. A young woman spoke on behalf of the senior class, and at some point she talked about her brass rat, the MIT class ring. She explained how graduates turned their rats around, so they no longer dumped on the student, but on the rest of the world. Perhaps her description was more tasteful, I can’t recall exactly. But at that moment I thought of John, and how he was then wearing my brass rat, Class of 1971. I had purchased the ring not because I wanted it, but because my mother insisted. I think she pictured me someday wearing it among a gathering of auspicious alums, perhaps a private reception for MIT grads the day before I’d be sworn into the Supreme Court. In truth, the ring sat in Susan’s jewelry box for almost thirty years, never once worn, until the time came for John to receive his Bachelor’s Degree, Class of 2000. I passed the ring on to him, and it became his brass rat; and he actually wore it on occasion.

So this June, as we sat outside on a summer day in Cambridge, I thought of my son wearing my class ring. The ceremony, the spectacle of graduation, the mob of kids and families, all backdrop to that moment. And then not long thereafter, we heard John’s name called out, as he walked on stage to receive his diploma, his Masters Degree. And I realized that there had been a reason for me to purchase the rat, even if that reason didn’t become apparent for another 36 years.

Keen's

My first reaction to Keen's Chophouse was astonishment. The bottles of single malt scotch whisky were stacked six deep, along the entire length of the bar. We sat down, asked the bartender for a listing of malts, and were presented with a menu, three full pages, two columns on each page, close to 300 different malts, more than we had ever imagined finding in a single location. Where to begin?

But no sooner had we began studying Keen's astonishing list, than we ran across the one malt that never fails to please our family – Rosebank. Keen's had not just one, but two different bottlings of Rosebank on the menu. And as it turned out, the bottling we ordered was just about empty; the bartender could not coax a full pour out of the bottle. So we waited, while he located the bar manager, who in turn, searched deep under the streets of Manhattan to locate the next full bottle of Rosebank 13, bottled by Signatory. In the meantime, we began sipping a glass of Aberlour A’Bunadh, which had also been the opening pour at the Last Hurrah, and which tasted even better after a long day wandering around New York. The time it took for Keen’s staff to locate and serve the Rosebank gave G-man and me the chance to acclimate ourselves to the vast array of choices which we had before us. Not to mention that the Aberlour sufficiently relaxed the two of us, and enabled us to move from awe to appreciation, better to enjoy the rest of the evening.

As the first round began to disappear from our glasses (and I should point out that the staff served rather healthy drinks, around two ounces by my estimate, which made the prices for these malts exceedingly fair, considering both the quality of whisky, and the location – midtown Manhattan) our respective wives arrived on the scene. Linda ordered a Bloody Mary, well prepared by the professional staff, and Susan sampled the malts with Chuck and me, sensing perhaps that it was to be a long and varied evening of whisky drinking.

For Round Two, G-Man ordered a Talisker 18, which he had never before sampled, and which was rather moderately priced (around $16. Keen’s also served the Talisker 25, which I’m sure I’ve never seen before behind any bar, but which was a bit pricey for us.) I usually wait until after dinner before drinking Talisker or the Islay malts, but broke that rule for a malt I had never before drunk, Bunnahabhain 18. And anyway, Jackson says Bunnahabhain is the most delicate of the Islay scotches. Both of these round two malts were wonderful. Talisker big and bold, but smooth as silk, and Bunnhabhain smoother and more flavorful than the 12 I’ve previously tasted. By now, Chuck and I were in single malt heaven. And we weren’t alone, seeing that we had Miss Keen for company, wearing not much of anything at all. In fact, the whole time was so delightful that even our wives didn’t complain about that young gal’s presence.

Round two was drawing to a close, and it was soon to be time for dinner, but we had to study the listing a few minutes more, to get an idea of what to order after the meal. Having accomplished that task, we found our way to a booth in the back of the restaurant. Keen’s is located on 36th Street, between 5th and 6th Avenues, in the heart of Manhattan. The restaurant is laid out as three parallel rooms, all running south from the 36th street entrance. The bar sits on the extreme western end, closest to 6th Avenue, a small room, with perhaps a dozen stools at the bar, and a single counter with stools on the other wall. We saw some patrons order sandwiches, generous portions of pretty good looking pub food. Leaving the bar, we walked through a small dining room with a little bar at the rear, no bar service, perhaps left over from earlier days when the restaurant was configured differently. This room was mainly taken up with two rows of small tables, service for two. Not quite intimate, however, as one would sit very close to one’s neighbor.

Then, on the east side was the dining room, much deeper than either of the other rooms, with booths along the side and back. Dark paneling, lots of old framed announcements on the walls, and all the ceilings lined with hundreds, maybe thousands of old clay pipes. I guess once upon a time, you left your pipe at Keen’s and retrieved it for a smoke after the meal. Whatever. Today it’s just a part of the décor, although they have a glass case displaying the clay pipes of many of Keen's most prominent former customers.

I could spend all night writing about this meal, but let me just mention that we ordered the biggest porterhouse steak I had ever seen anywhere. It had to be four inches thick. An enormous slab of strip steak cut into generous slices, and a big juicy filet, well over a pound in its own right. Not only that, but we had first treated ourselves to a seafood medley, with lump crab-meat, half a lobster tail, shrimp, mussels, clams, oysters, the works. Everything cooked to perfection. Keen's is about as traditional a steakhouse as you can imagine – nothing fashionable, nouveau, or pretentious anywhere. I can’t speak for any of the other cuisine, but this steak and seafood combination was the perfect complement to an evening of exceptional malt whiskies.

So then for our third round, we ordered Springbank 15, and Ardbeg Uigeadail. Neither of these whiskies is easy to come by. Springbank is a Campbeltown malt, and I have often seen the ten, but never the 15. It was very flavorful, big and complex, although a bit rough around the edges. The Uigeadail, however, was really the treat of the entire night. Ardbeg, of course, is the peatiest of all the Islay scotches, even stronger tasting than the Lagavulin which we all cherish. But the Uigeadail, which is a cask strength vatting of Ardbeg, perhaps because of its additional time in the casks, is far more flavorful. It’s not just peat, it’s malted whisky and peat, exploding in your mouth. G-Man used that term at dinner – explosive – and when we read Jackson later, we were pleased to see that he used the very same term – explosive. This malt has so much flavor, it practically knocks you out. In fact, I would recommend than anyone tasting it for the first time be sure to be seated in a safe place.

While we enjoyed round three, the gals shared a gigantic hot fudge sundae, which I suppose, in its own right, was the correct conclusion to the evening at Keen's. Either that or the Uigeadail. G has an article listing Manhattan’s best scotch bars, but I can’t imagine any of them topping Keen's. And for sheer selection, it’s hard to believe that anyplace has the variety of malts that are featured in this steakhouse.

So there you have it – in one trip to the big apple, we went to the world’s largest cigar store, and sampled from what might be the country’s biggest scotch inventory. So right now, it’s neck and neck between Boston and New York, and we’re not just talking about the AL East; we’re talking malt whisky as well.