Keen's - Round One

We arrived for the Haters Ball around 5:30, having parked on 38th street, and then walked down Sixth Avenue past the aptly named Hater Building. When we entered the bar at Keen's, Danny was sitting down at the end, already enjoying the first pour of the evening. That was a Caol Ila 15, some private bottling that I can't remember much about. Danny needs to fill us in on the details, but the point was, the evening was underway.

G-Man and I asked for a listing, which always requires about fifteen minutes just to skim through. Keen's arranges its listings by region - Highlands, Speysides, Islay malts, other Islands, and so forth, which is really useful because how could one possibly make a choice from 275 selections? At least this way, we could figure, OK, let's start with a nice Highland before dinner. And after a few minutes we settled on Edradour 10. Edradour is a tiny highland distillery, which is now making the heavily peated Ballechin malts, aged in wine casks. We knew about Ballechin because it appears on the after-dinner flight (Round Three), but had never before tasted the 10. I know we liked it, although I can no longer describe it with any specificity other than to say it's better than Jackson's review (79), closer to the rating given by Jim Murray's Whisky Bible (86). Murray describes it as charmingly heathery, but I have absolutely no idea what that means. Here's what I do recall: after the bartender poured our drink, he looked at the almost empty bottle, and decided that there was not another pour left. So instead, he just addedthe rest to our pour, giving us an especially generous glass of Edradour for under $10. Mind you we were in Manhattan, where cranberry and seltzer often runs close to ten dollars. So a huge pour of a nice highland malt for under ten? Are you kidding me?

Next up, we tasted Jura 16. I suggested Jura, because I'd tasted the ten a couple weeks earlier at my friend Tony's house, and while unremarkable in many ways, Jura has a secret flavor lurking deep inside. It reminds me in that way of Bunnahabhain, although those two malts don't taste at all alike. What I mean is that each one seems to have a secret ingredient, some spice from Yemen or Morocco that gives the whisky a unique flavor. I can't ever figure these secret flavors out; for example, I'm no good at discerning the lavendar or gooseberry flavors in red wines. All I know is that Jura is distinctive; and the 16 is not at all a bad whisky, even if it was not in the league with the other malts we tasted.

By this time on Saturday, John and Rico had arrived, and that meant only one thing -- Rosebank. Keen's once had two different Rosebanks on the list, but as time has passed, less and less Rosebank remains available, even at an establishment like Keen's. So now they're down to a single offering -- I'm pretty sure its a bottling by Whisky Galore, a 13 year old. Rosebank has a special attraction for everyone in my family, and as always, we loved it. But we were able to love it just a little bit more, because for the second time that night, the bartender gave us the last pour from the bottle, and for the second time that night, it was a very generous pour. So there we were at the bar in Keen's drinking a huge glass of Rosebank, for under $15. A couple blocks away, I'm sure that some kid in his 20s paid more than that for a vodka and tonic, just because he ordered one of those now fashionable brands. That kid should go to Keen's and stop ordering those horseshit vodka drinks.

That was it for before dinner. An Islay malt for Danny; an obscure Island malt for G-Man and me; a Highland whisky, and our favorite lowland, the incomparable Rosebank. And just to put this all in perspective, Susan ordered her french Kiss; Linda had a spectacular bloody Mary (forget what I just said about vodka drinks; this cocktail was sick), and the check was around $75. Meanwhile, as I write this, I'm nursing a glass of HP 12. Once upon a time, I used to fantasize about getting stuck on a tropical island with Kathy Ireland. That was a young man's dream. Today, if I'm going to be stuck on a desert island, I think a few cases of Highland Park, perhaps the 18, oh what the hell, how about the 30? should get washed up on shore with me. A more age appropriate fantasy.