by tashmcgill | Apr 16, 2016 | Bars, Opinion
Let’s begin with something simple: I am not a reviewer. I am a storyteller. Sometimes in the process of telling you a story, I can tell you how something is and what I liked or didn’t like about it. But one meal of 1200 covers a restaurant might do in a week, is an inaccurate measure. I want to tell you stories of my experience and be a trusted voice in that regard, the same way you might trust me to introduce you to a whisky, cocktail or even a place to drink.
I take my friends to places I like to drink and hang out. And sometimes they say to me, ‘Oh, I wouldn’t be here or trying this if I wasn’t here with you.’ Well, that’s enough to make me blush and enough to make any bartender cringe – because that’s their job. And they don’t need me stealing the most enjoyable part of it.
And while I like introducing people to whisky, cocktails, great food and delicious wine, not everyone can have a personal Whisky Girl introduction or expansion of their palate, unless I kick off the Tuesday Night Whisky Club again (now there is an idea!). Nor can most bars afford to keep me on hand to entertain the clientele.
But there’s nothing stopping you satisfying your curiosity or pushing yourself to learn something new all on your own or even if you’re with friends – you just need to choose a great place and guide to get you started. So that’s the story I’m going to tell you today.
I am no stranger to the American airport bar; those miserable but hypnotic places where you drink nothing but Johnnie Walker beside road warriors and tech start-up guys. It’s perfectly natural to sit and order a drink at the bar; playing back those lines we know so well. Where you going? How many flights til home? Did you close the deal? Small talk about sports, the weather and politics, if you dare. Mostly, I travel alone and so a brief exchange of words is welcome. But these are not places you learn about new spirits, cocktails or wine.
Do you ever have those moments where you look up one day and realise what is completely normal for you, isn’t considered so by everybody else? Why wouldn’t I stop at the local after a long day of work and share some stories and laughs? Just because I’m a girl? And why wouldn’t my engagement and conversation with the bartenders be just as worthwhile and enjoyable as meeting friends? Maybe I watched a little too much Cheers growing up, but I suspect the truth is more about the kind of people I like to be around.
I have a few succinct and crucial values; kindness, strength, integrity, generosity, hospitality. And if people were word-nerds like I am, I would only have to say ‘hospitality, strength, integrity’ – because kindness and generosity are building blocks of hospitality’s definition. Geekery aside, hospitality is defined as ‘the kind and generous reception and entertainment of guests, visitors, or strangers.’
I believe hospitality is to welcome guests, friends and strangers into your spaces in such a way as they feel it is their space too.
So heading to places of hospitality alone whether to have a drink or to explore something new; feels normal and safe to me because these are my values. Hospitality is what I understand. I am hospo; despite having not been behind the bar or in the kitchen for more than 15 years, give or take. How do I know this? Because these are my people. Hospo are people who understand a plate or drink alone does not hospitality make and they are the original user experience professionals. The service, conversation and chat, atmosphere, speed and the warmth of a place must all enhance and highlight everything else to ensure the experience of the person in their space is exceptional. From owners and kitchenhands to celebrity chefs; they get it.
The strangest conundrum is that so many people might feel intimidated or out of their depth entering into spaces that have you so supremely at the centre. Here’s a little secret: most bartenders (and any hospo people) that love what they do, love sharing it with you.
So whether you want to explore some whisky, cocktails or meet some new wines from people who know what they are talking about and have something to teach you – or you just need a drink at the end of a long day – here are some tips for how to whisky and visit bars whether you’re alone or with friends.
*This theory also works just fine for eating alone, but that’s another story.
Visit Tuesday to Thursday. Friday and Saturday nights, bars fill up with people are there to scull, not to savour. Bartenders have a different job to do when the bar is full. It’s still service but it’s a different kind of service. But Monday to Thursday, it’s a pleasure for great bar staff to have customers to spend time with. Sunday and Monday are regular hospo nights off. So while a great place will always have great staff, play the odds and be in the bar when the best people are in the bar.
Choose a place that has what you want. Most great bars will tell you what they are – especially if they are a wine, cocktail or premium spirits bar. Facebook is your friend. If a place doesn’t tell you their specialty, it’s not the place to go. When you visit The Jefferson, for example – it’s very clearly a whisky bar. Nice wine selection, great cocktails including the classics and some good beer – but they’re about whisky.
The more questions you ask and the more you don’t know; the better. The less assumptions you have about what you will and won’t like, the broader and more interesting your experience is likely to be. Don’t be afraid to ask about anything you see or what to know – it’s easier for everyone to start the conversation that way. The less you know (or try to pretend to know), the more you’ll learn and no-one needs you to impress them with your whisky knowledge. Bars and restaurants are places that we want to stand out, but not at the cost of fitting in. Learning is fun, just like they told you in school.
Use your words and language, don’t worry about getting it right. Don’t worry about whether you’ve got the vernacular down. And if you can’t smell the iodine or the cut grass, or know the difference between a Whisky Sour or a Manhattan, just smile and file what you’ve learned in the database for next time. There’s nothing more satisfying than introducing someone to something new and having them appreciate it.
What to expect?
So you walk into the J and find a seat (I like the second or third seat from the left at the bar, just to the right of the beer taps). Someone is going to say hi, closely followed by a variation of the phrase ‘what would you like’. You’ll say something close to the following:
- Actually, I’d like a whisky (or whatever you’re interested in) but I don’t know much about it
- I’ve tried ‘insert name here’ before but I’d like to try something else
At this point, I’ll give you a caution – try not to say ‘what do you recommend?’ unless you’ve known the bartender so long, they have a clear idea of your tastes. That’s usually an investment of hours, months, years and several thousand dollars. Help them out by at least defining a category of drink.
Then the conversation will begin. All you have to do is answer questions, in your own words and being as honest as possible about what you know and don’t know, like and don’t like. What flavours you like, what you’ve tried before, what you’re interested to explore. There is a whisky for everyone and you have to think about you and bartender as a team, figuring out the puzzle and exploring together. The team want to ask you questions and help you find something. And if you don’t like what they pull off the shelf the first, they won’t be offended because they’ll keep trying til they get it right. Because; hospo.
by tashmcgill | Apr 15, 2016 | Tasting Notes
This week’s accidental whisky themes are Speyside malts, sherry and double-casking, where whisky is aged not once, but twice in different kinds of barrels. The casks contribute enormously to the flavour profile of the whisky; as the wood expands and contracts it releases flavour, colour and aroma into the whisky. So whatever you put in the casks first, lingers and clings onto whatever you put into the cask next.
Relationships are like whisky casks. Whatever you fill that connection with first, will come back and give itself to you again and again, even if you’re filling the barrels with something new. So you should fill them with trustworthy actions, honesty, laughter, kindness and strong, true character. It will flavour everything and anything else that relationship may ever be. The first fill matters. Never forget that little piece of whisky girl wisdom.
This week, old friends have gathered around my door and we’ve drunk sweetly from what the first fill gave us – a long, lingering ability to be present in one another’s lives over years and through the passing of time. Those relationships are honest, deep, rich and full of mirth. They are good and worth celebrating, so I busted out some treats from my own whisky cabinet. And now we’re back to whisky.
The Aberlour 12 is double matured in traditional ex-bourbon barrels and sherry butts (still a cask, but bigger than a bourbon barrel). It’s a much lighter whisky than what I usually drink if I’m into sherry finishes that day. But first drink of the day, after a long Monday and in the company of an old friend. It seemed appropriate.
Oh sherry, how I love your ways. You do such a delightful job of making things round, soft and welcoming while still reminding us your mark on things is indelible.
Nose: Soft and round juicy apples, the old-fashioned kind that almost ooze a buttery goodness to them.
Palate: Sherry! There you are. Hints of cinnamon and ginger spices sitting on top of a mellow toffee. It’s pretty light in the mid-section but that’s ok, because some chocolate just floats around the edges and hangs around.
Finish: Longer than you’d expect for such a medium kind of whisky. The spice sits and lingers long on the tongue, leaving the familiar dry sweetness of sherry. It’s pretty warm and isn’t in a rush. Delightful early evening dram.
I also pulled out my Port Charlotte Valinch Rivesaltes and the Ardbeg Uigeadail.. but those are stories for another time.
Aberlour has been on my mind this week – I sat down with another old friend this week and enjoyed the no-holds-barred 100% sherry casked Aberlour A’bunadh. A’bunadh means ‘of the origin’. And you could be forgiven for thinking this whisky is the blueprint for everything else Aberlour does. It’s everything I love about a ball-buster whisky. You drink this when you mean to give yourself entirely to the experience. And I was committed because I was able to order within minutes of sitting at the bar – which rarely happens. It’s non-chill filtered, matured exclusively in Oloroso sherry casks and bottled at cask strength, so each bottle is usually hand numbered with the ABV and details. I’ve lost count of how many bottles of this whisky I’ve been through. Everything is bigger and bolder than the 12, so the nose, palate and finish are all dialled up.
Nose: The spice, fruit and toffee notes are all bigger and more defined. It’s distinctly orange, ginger, clove and buttery toffee. I get bigger hints of the wood itself, but I think my palate just knows what’s coming and gets ahead of itself.
Palate: It’s full-bodied and creamy as it works around the mouth. That’s coming from the praline you get on the nose. The orange gets bigger. Cherries and dried fruit soaking in sherry for a Christmas cake bounce around the tongue for a long while. The oak itself starts to make itself known. The woodiness isn’t at all unpleasant, it just adds some depth to the dark chocolate.
Finish: Imagine walking through spice market in the setting sun. The bitterness of chocolate on the tongue and hints of oak hanging around.
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by tashmcgill | Apr 13, 2016 | Tasting Notes
If all whiskies have stories, which I believe to be true – then some whiskies have layers of story and memory attached. It either comes with a story or you feel compelled to make one up. For me, the Tomatin 15 Tempranillo is one of those whiskies full of story.
It starts with a long, slow dinner in the middle of winter when I was first introduced to Tempranillo wine. The conversation was sweet and easy in the manner of old friends gathered around a table. The wine was a buoyant but not overwhelming companion – fruity bursts of cherry and plum and earthy undertones of leather, tobacco and hints of clove.
Then, around 2013 I went to a Tomatin tasting and was introduced to this HIghland malt aged in Tempranillo. What the wood gives of itself to the whisky can never be underestimated – and in this instance, those Tempranillo casks have gladly given over their dry fruity flavours and the spice of clove. Whisky and wine, what’s not to love?
And it’s not easy to find, although not rare by some standards. They released 3150 bottles. I bought one in 2013 and this week I enjoyed some of what’s left of the stock at my local.
I bought the bottle for myself to celebrate a small personal victory.. A victory long since forgotten, but I remember the whisky and drinking it around the fire.
Malts like these feel so experimental, because you really don’t know what the wood or the time will give you – but in this instance… here’s my fond recollection of a little bit of magic produced in the bottle.
Nose: Cherry and plums big and present upfront before the sugar comes through .. candy, beeswax and white chocolate – that combination of sugar and vanilla. If you stretch, you’ll get some leather and oak floating around in the back.
Palate: What was promised on the nose delivers in the glass – those big fruit flavours round out into softer pears and apples. I’m reminded of apple pie because it’s so sweet still, candy, candy candy… until it starts to lift off the tongue with the tannins and dry out. The clove and white pepper starts to dance and draw out the finish.
Finish: The spice takes the long road out of town, leaving behind a soft, creamy and almost chewable ending.
This whisky is one you want to try if you love homemade apple crumble or just enjoy going on a journey. You’ll sit on it a while and be able to push it (at 52% abv, you’ll want to cut it with a few drops of water to bring it out) pretty far to get everything it’s got to show you.
Here’s hoping more of these interesting cask finishes make their way into our hands!
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by tashmcgill | Apr 9, 2016 | Poems
When does discovery end? How do you know when you have learned enough or all things? I think ‘discovering’ is a present art; could we not practice it endlessly, traversing ever deeper and higher and wider? When can you say you are known or know another enough? We are ever-changing, ever-expanding and always being re-shaped by our being known and knowing another.
19th
this then, is how it can be
in the midst of a storm on the sixth day
of the seventh week but only the 19th hour
now making a star map from definitions
this then, is how it can be to know
but not make knowing a cage
instead just knowing, a long intention
and a longing for safe and true and kind
but knowing is measured so differently
this then, is how it can be to halt abruptly at the pass
the knowing and unknowing
one counts in minutes and hours and questions and answers and singular actions
and the other measures the expanse of singularity
like the universe, one ever expanding idea of another
a deep, blue diamond erupting from an earth stone
a long unceasing listen and look
this then, is how to see one thing as another
by definition of all things and nothing
a half of a half and a whole and an inversion
an upside-down moon, to see a star and not a starry sky
this then, is to kiss your counting – minutes, hours, touches, questions
with a soft, warm, expanding idea to hold them all
your knowing which is one thousand cuts in a stone chiseling me out
and my knowing one gleaming stone that holds the deep ocean and expanding sky
this then, is how it can be
to learn to count stars and the passing of time
in hours, words, questions and answers and
the size of an idea by the weight of warm navigation
from 19 to 20.
by tashmcgill | Apr 7, 2016 | Culture & Ideas
I’m trying to make space in my life right now – space to have moments with people and in places, to have moments at home, because space demands to be filled. And I’ve learned where there is space demanding to be filled, something will come along to fill it. Space is what allows us to be open and to encounter the new in the everyday.
People. Ideas. Thoughts. Perceptions and patterns. Stories. Characters. Relationship and connection.
And this is why I always find new ideas or new perspectives while travelling. I’m open because travelling strips away the responsibility and burdens of everyday life, creating vast openness. I don’t have to decide anything but what to watch or when to sleep or where to explore in my rental car. The same principle works in retreating: an escape from the noise and clutter. A filtering and rebirth into wide open spaces.
It is universal; the artist will tell you without space, creativity cannot happen. And by creativity, I don’t mean the abstract state or the manner of being – I mean the gritty, raw practice of making. Making of words and songs, poems, ideas, new intentions, new ways of thinking and seeing the world. All of that is the product of making.
When I travel, the space clears for me. I am one of those clichéd writers that can produce great work on a plane or a train. I think and then I write, and thinking happens well in those metal tubes. I dictate story lines and sing melody lines into my phone, saving every drop of making that is in me. I have a habit of falling in love with fascinating ideas (and occasionally people) right before I travel anywhere. There’s something about leaving a place that makes me want to hold on to it, even if my return is imminent. A fragment of home that I can carry with me. What I’ve learned is that every journey leaves a mark on me this way, it carries its own theme and everything I see or touch or taste while I am travelling carries that mark on it.
So space happens in the movement, in the between, in the transitions between train stations on the way, on highways or in airport lounges. It is peace, to a busy mind. I retreat inward and while my smiles remain gracious, my words become few. The interior dialogue between alter-egos dominates all and ideas pour forth. Space happens on the long, twisting back roads of a foreign land and in days spent in silence because you do not have the language of the place.
Space, because the clutter of what you are used to seeing is stripped away. Your mind can wander freely and your eyes see things – new.
For example, there is a man in a well-cut suit drinking coffee at the cheap café in the center court of the transit lounge. He has status privileges but he hasn’t taken advantage of them. I can tell why. He has the look of a man who is thinking of home, his eyes fastened on the handbag store across the hall. He is thinking about how his wife, whose blue eyes look particularly weary and love-worn lately, might like the one in peach. It’s a practical but fashionable design and it would go with the dress she was wearing the last time he was home; which might have been last week or maybe last month. Maybe it was the second to last time he was home.
Either way, I wish I could tell him, yes – she would love the handbag but he should just send her a letter. A letter to tell her he is sitting in an airport on his way home and he is not thinking about how the meeting went or whether he thinks Rob will close the deal. No, he is simply thinking of her and whether he has done enough to keep her love this month, because he worries so that his absence is too much and too often. He fears becoming one of those men whose love fades away before his eyes because of inattention. He could simply write that and send it to her. Sign it ‘much love from Changi Airport, Singapore.’ And he could do it from the next airport too.
‘Dear Grace, I am thinking of you and that orange dress you were wearing. I like how you wear that dress and I am coming home soon. Please be there, because you are home to me. I am doing my best and I think you are doing yours; let’s carry on.’
There’s a story in that and some truth about how we relate to one another, how we long for one another. How we try and how we fear failure even in the midst of circumstances that should provide us with security and hope.
Or the young man in well-worn denim and faded t-shirt but brand new shoes. Shoes so pristine they must still be giving him blisters. He looks nervously at his travel wallet for the third time, lifting his phone to the horizon a couple of times and checking his watch. He is all coiled energy, anticipation and anxiety. His eyes are unable to stay in one place too long because his thoughts are stretched between here and there, wherever he’s headed to. His carry-on looks uncomfortably full and he has not one, but two hoodies wrapped around his waist. Ah, I see it now. He is travelling from home for the first time and doesn’t intend to return home anytime soon. He’s not just travelling, he’s planning on landing somewhere for a while. These shoes were one last splurge before he has to face the challenge of finding a job or making new friends and becoming accustomed to life away. Sure as the sun rising, he’s wondering if it’s too soon to let his parents know he’s made it this far.
The man sitting in the café, thinking about his wife.
The young man moving to a new country, alone for the first time.
The girl travelling to her sister’s wedding, feeling alone.
The child gazing out the airport window, beginning the first inkling of a dream to be a pilot.
The woman who hosts travellers every day, but has never left her island home.
Without distraction, the mind falls to thought more intentionally than you realise. If you pay attention, it is a wonderful way to discover what matters to you. First your happy thoughts will come to you, followed by your fears and then whatever is making you hopeful. Once you have worked through all of those things, then you might discover what sadness you are carrying. Go even further and you will find yourself at the deep, deep happiness, where you are completely yourself.
I discover myself, at the end of the silent-not silence and the travelling spaces; still myself. A storyteller. A poetry-lover, wanderer and mystical romantic. A hopeful idealist, pragmatic optimist. I am home; in my skin and my places. I have space now; I have made space for the new and whatever stories that will give me to tell. You live with yourself at the end of the day, no matter where you are. So be brave enough to be yourself – complex, simple, passionate, chilled out … Whoever you are, be unapologetically yourself. Be yourself as a friend, yourself as a lover. Be a fighter for that which you care about. Be a giver of whatever you have. Be you. Please. The world is better that way.
I have travelled all the way to here – home where I began, to begin again. Life is after all, beginning after beginning overlapping and colliding with each other.
