What I know about Tequila is that, given the chance, he can hurt you.
For he has hurt me.
One night in 1991, I followed a music critic around Tempe, Ariz. Accompanied by a Epic Records publicist who may or may not have had a minor crush on me, we crawled through the bars like Long Wong's on Mill and Chuy's and others around Arizona State University. Tequila introduced me to various dudes in spandex, three-fifths of the Gin Blossoms and a band called Dead Hot Workshop we both thought was going to make it big.
In 1991, a lot of people thought Tempe was the next Seattle. For my money, the Refreshments were the best band to come out of the scene, but Dead Hot and the Pistoleros also signed major label contracts. Jimmy Eat World was a little later; the Meat Puppets a generation before. Giant Sand is from Tucson but they also figure in there somewhere. But I digress.
Anyway, that was the night Tequila tried to kill me.
I didn't expect it. Up until then, we'd been nodding acquaintances. I was a little wary; I always gave Tequila his space, for I knew he was opportunistic and that given a chance he'd knock me in the head and rifle my pockets. But he was a friend of a friend; I didn't normally spend much time in Tequila's company.
But I guess he was friends with Ms. Epic Records.
Anyway, at least I woke up ... though for a while I wished I hadn't. It took the music critic three days to find his car. The publicist moved on to Pearl Jam. I still don't want to talk about it.
But Tequila and I get along OK these days. We have friends in common. We don't speak about that night. We're back to nodding.
Sometimes things happen, and we interact. My LifeQuest class gave me a bottle of the Trader Joe's Organic Jalapeno Limeade, which was a thing about six months ago. You're not going to mix that with Crown Royal. So out comes the Casamigos Anejo. And guess what? No gunplay. Everybody happy. Tequila just sits there with this big grin like we've been friends all along. We can play it that way if you want, amigo. S'all good.
Really, we recommend the Trader Joe's Organic Jalapeno Limeade, though if you can't find that -- and there is no Trader Joe's in Arkansas -- they've got some stuff at Eggshells Kitchen Co. in the Heights that's just as good, and even better when you use the crushed red pepper they prepare in-house in place of salt.
Now, some liquor company rep wants to send me a bottle of Clase Azul Reposado, one of those high dollar (suggested retail is $89.99 per 750 mL. bottles, street price is closer to $75) spirits like my rich friends drink. I think it'll look pretty good on the bar. You're supposed to hold on to the hand-painted clay Talavera bottle and use it as a vase after you've drunk the stuff. But Karen says it doesn't go with our decor. So I say "all right, I will allow you to ship me a bottle of same" even though I'm not quite sure that Arkansas bootlegging laws allow it.
It arrives safely, without being confiscated by the authorities (even though the box is clearly labeled "dangerous expensive hard liquor"). So after a couple of weekends I say, "I'm going to have me some of that dear agave extract the good people sent us in the post to celebrate the arrival of autumn." Everybody looks at me funny because I'm normally a bourbon guy.
Picking up the urn of Clase Azul felt a little bit like picking up an Italian shotgun; you could kind of feel both the quality and the potential for disaster inherent in the product. I peeled off the plastic neck wrap and lifted the stainless steel top and took in the not unpleasant aroma of ruin and pain that I associate with my frenemy Tequila. And I poured a little bit in a glass.
Over a couple of ice cubes.
Karen looked at me like I'd just slipped into one of her cocktail dresses.
"You're going to drink it on the rocks?" she asked pointedly, with no discernible kindness.
"Yes," I said. "As you have reason to know, I am somewhat gun-shy around Mexican spirits. It has only been 26 years. I am not quite ready to ride that pony bareback. Some ice will do me fine, thank you."
I will not say the Clase Azul was revelatory. I will say it was very fine, with only a hint of the whammy bar whang and fetidness I've come to associate with the national drink of Mexico. It was as easy to sip, with a hint of sweetness, as it was to slam. Though it seemed a shame to drown it with the Trader Joe's, I did so because I didn't want it to get me again.
So far it hasn't.
I'm sure that there are some hardcore fans who might reject this flavor profile for precisely the reason I like it. I feel quite safe with this reposado.
...
I'm on somewhat better footing with rye, the first American spirit, distilled by Scots-Irish settlers who brought their broody gloom and stills with them when they immigrated. Most of them wound up in what is now Pennsylvania and Maryland, on land that was better suited to growing rye than the barley they'd raised back home. So the drink they distilled was somewhat different, although they quickly developed a taste for it.
Through the 19th century and up through the Great War, rye was America's dominant spirit. But American whiskeys -- whether rye or bourbon -- nearly disappeared during Prohibition, replaced by smuggled-in Scotch and Canadian-blended whiskey, bathtub gin and moonshine. After repeal, Canadian distillers had the advantage. American whiskeys required at least a few years of aging, but the Canadian product was available right away. By the time Americans got back in the game, a generation's taste had been corrupted and blanded.
Bourbon recovered more quickly than rye, in part because its taste is more distinctive, with a bit of sweetness and its characteristic burn, like a tangle of fire in the gullet. Meanwhile, people began to think of and refer to Canadian and other mild-blended whiskeys as "rye" -- even though they contained less rye than U.S. nomenclature rules mandate -- further confusing the issue.
The distilleries of the Northeast eventually lost market share to the Kentucky bourbon houses, and Tennessee's Jack Daniel's replaced rye as the tough-guy shot of choice. By the 1950s rye was a relic, and in 1984, when Michter's Distillery in Schaefferstown, Pa., was shuttered, the making of rye in America was all done in Kentucky -- by companies whose main business was making bourbon. A decade or so ago the only rye you could reliably find around these parts was a yellow-labeled Jim Beam budget brand called Old Overholt.
Now rye's everywhere, and good for it.
Part of this is simply marketing. A lot of very high-end ryes started appearing some years ago in what seemed an orchestrated attempt to create a new high-end niche. Hundred-dollar-a-bottle varieties of rye aren't exactly common now, but they can be found, while almost every distiller has a premium brand. My rye education took me from Old Overholt and 6-year-old Sazerac Rye ($40) to Wild Turkey 101 Rye ($42) and Bulleit 95 Rye ($27) and finally to Knob Creek rye ($40) and locally produced Rock Town Arkansas Rye Whiskey (about $40), which can holds its own with any American whiskey.
Now Jack Daniels -- maker of the famous bourbon that none dare call a bourbon -- has entered the market, with a popularly priced (about $26; they released an upmarket single barrel version in February) rye.
It's a lot like the flagship quaff, in that it's imminently drinkable, charcoal-filtered with hints of caramel and pepper, with a subdued fruity glow. It's a softer rye than some, with a grain bill consisting of 70 percent rye, which is relatively high.
For a whiskey to be called "rye," its grain bill must consist of more than 50 percent rye. A lot -- if not most of them -- hover just over this number. Rock Town is now 52 percent rye -- with 38 percent corn and 12 percent barley. Before 2016, Rock Town was a whopping 82 percent rye. Bulleit 95 is, as the name suggests, made from 95 percent rye.
In general, the more rye on the bill, the drier and spicier the whiskey presents. The more corn, the sweeter. So bourbons generally taste sweeter than ryes, which taste spicier.
Personally, I like the bourbony ryes and the spicier ryes, although if I'm going to mix a "classic" rye-based cocktail like Manhattans, Sazerac or Old Fashioned I'd prefer to go spicier. The Jack Daniels is a good compromise, it's an easy sipping whiskey that will still stand up as a rye in a mixed drink.
And it probably won't try to kill you.
My Special Manhattan Recipe As I Actually Prepare Them
Get out the plastic cocktail shaker from the '50s with the recipes printed on the side. (Do not use the stainless-steel cocktail shaker or the cocktail shaker shaped like a penguin. They have other specialized uses.)
Toss in some ice.
Pour in a couple of long shots of rye. No, a little more than that.
Pour in a little bit of sweet vermouth.
Open the jar of cherries that's soaking in cognac in the refrigerator and pour a little of that juice in too, but not the cherries themselves (although that's an aftermarket option).
Add a little sugar.
Pour in a little more rye until the shaker's full.
Strain and pour into cocktail glass if anyone is looking.
Alternately, pour over ice into rocks glasses.
Recap the shaker and shake vigorously for precisely three minutes and 34 seconds.
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Style on 10/15/2017