When I stepped into the whiskey bar, a row of men were seated at the counter. An hour later, they were replaced by a row of women. I liked the change. They also brought some great conversation with them. Overheard: “A whole year! I thought I was 29 and I was 28. Maybe this year, I will be 28 for the whole year instead of 29.” Amen to that. Unless your age is 10, 12, 15, or 18 and stamped on the side of a Scotch bottle, how much does it really matter?
My other companions at the bar were a pretty motley crew. There was George Dickel, a rye but charcoal mellowed, a process made famous by Tennessee whiskey (although this rye is from Indiana), Dead Guy Whiskey out of Oregon, and Fighting Cock bourbon from Kentucky.