“Really? You drink Scotch?”
I’ve often surprised people when they discover that not only do I enjoy Scotch, but I prefer it neat. It doesn’t have the soft sweetness of bourbon. It’s more austere and sometimes smokey. The truth is that I gained an appreciation for Scotch in my early twenties, aided by a sense of adventure.
I spent a week traveling on my own around the UK, during which I stayed with family friends in St. Andrews, Scotland. My hostess took me to Edradour, a small distillery near Pitlochry in Perthshire. If you imagine what a whiskey distillery in Scotland should look like, this is it. Edradour’s quaint buildings, sturdy and functional, are nestled beside a small river. There is a sense of purpose and of pride.
It was enchanting, and I’ve never forgotten the deep, earthy smell of malting barley. I tasted a dram and was pleased to discover that I liked the stuff. I also became an instant purist, having heard so recently that ice burns the delicate flavors of a good whiskey. How could I undercut all the effort and the bit of magic that went into the drink I’d just learned to sip and savor?
Over a homemade dinner of Scottish salmon that night, my hosts brought out various types of Scotch to sample. Fine food and fine whiskey, perfectly matched. That day was my ideal introduction to a drink that some find intimidating. Traveling had given me a willingness to explore, and it didn’t seem so farfetched to like Scotch. It also didn’t hurt that I started with the good stuff.