Bardstown Bottled-in-Bond
Origin Series Kentucky Straight Bourbon | 50% ABV
Score: 6/10
Good stuff.
TL;DR
The perfect ‘wheater ‘ salve after a traumatic evening
Monty Python’s ‘Whiskey’ Dinner
Among the many childhood lessons instilled in me was the importance of being polite. When at someone else’s house, you make sure you appreciate the generosity offered to you. And, of course, when at a social function, there is no need to be rude or confrontational. Be gracious and appreciative.
These life lessons have served me well through my first fifty-seven years, and I have, in turn, instilled them in my children.
However, these lessons were put to the test – actually, my patience and adherence to those lessons were put to the test – this past Monday evening.
What you are about to read may strike a judgemental tone, but I share it raw and true to my feelings of the event and if you feel like you’d have judged less and felt differently then, fair enough, you’re a better soul than me. I share these genuine feelings with you all as my fellow whisky faithfuls, warts and all. I was tired and in no way prepared for this sitcom-worthy whisky scenario.
What follows is a true tale. I’ve changed the names to protect the guilty.
We have been here in our neighbourhood for a year and we very much appreciate all efforts to build a closer-knit community. Our community provides “social opportunities,” one of which is called “New Connections Dinner”.
The thought is to put a volunteer couples’ name in a hat, and then a random assignment is made of three to four different couples to have dinner together. This way, introductions are made, you have a meal together, and it may be the start of new friendships. Sounds great.
With that, the Shaws volunteered to be among the couples placed in the proverbial hat and, a few weeks later, we were notified that our names were drawn for a group of six for dinner. A few weeks came and went with emails sent back and forth to determine a date, which house was hosting. Ultimately the dinner was scheduled for this past Monday.
The day started as any other. I woke up at 5:30am and started my 45 minute commute to work at 7:15am. I spent a relatively intense day dealing with two different divorce cases, each with emotionally taxed clients. I rushed out of work at 5:30pm for my 45 minute drive back, just returning in time to pick up my beautiful wife and make our way over to the hosts’ home for the appointed time for dinner. I was tired, but I looked forward to the occasion.
Fate had different plans, however, as I was about to walk into a whisky nightmare.
My wife and I walked up to the door and rang the doorbell. The door opened with a woman wrestling a very large rottweiler. She was doing her best to hold it on a rope which was attached to a harness; one that appeared to be struggling to maintain its structural integrity. Without doubt, the dog was winning the wrestling match, as he dragged the lady around the foyer by the front door.
I was about to formally greet her and hand her a bottle of wine, when the dog veered, lunged in our direction, and shoved his nose into my crotch. The lady ignored the dog’s actions and she simply said as she chuckled, “oh, don’t mind him . . . he’s just a big love of a puppy!”
My wife and I managed to distract the dog, and then move around the other side of a long table to avoid the whirling dervish of a canine. We introduced ourselves, and we learned the name of the woman with rope burns on her palms as Michelle.
“Please, come on in! So good to have you here.”
“Thank you,” I said. Before I could say anything else, and as I was adjusting my trousers, Michelle’s voice elevated and echoed through her house as she said, “my goodness, why are you in a suit?!” She started with an awkward chuckle and continued, “this is a social dinner not a formal event!” Her tone was trying to be funny, but there was more than a bit of annoyance layered.
“Well, I returned home from work with only enough time to pick up my wife. I didn’t have time to change.” I tried to lighten the tone, but as I relayed why I remained in suit and tie, I saw the other three people appear around the corner, wondering who had come in and why anyone would be in a suit.
The husband-host came over and introduced himself as Jackson. He was very intense yet sociable, rather like a Jack Russell terrier. We chatted for a bit, and I liked him. Though, I must admit, it wouldn’t have been the worst thing if he had a gummy or two.
He excused himself as he was preparing the main dishes for our dinner. While Michelle was still being slowly and tortuously dragged around the house by the “cute” rottweiler, Mrs. Shaw and I were introduced to Evelyn and Michael, a couple in their early seventies and very happily retired. As I was introducing myself to Evelyn, she asked me why I was still in a suit. Was I in a Monty Python sketch?
I repeated the words said to Michelle. Evelyn looked at me up and down and told me that, at least, I could take off my tie. I smiled and left it on. After a few seconds of smiling at each other, she shrugged her shoulders and asked if I had ever been to Milwaukee. Mrs. Shaw excused herself and went to see if she could be of help in the kitchen.
Michael came over and introduced himself. As we were shaking hands upon the introduction, he asked why I was still in a tie – I kid you not. Thankfully, before I could answer – my politeness being tested as sarcasm bubbled to the surface – Jackson asked us all to make our way to the kitchen to have some appetisers. As I walked to the kitchen, Jackson came up from behind me, put his arm around my shoulders and asked if I wanted a drink.
“That would be wonderful, thank you.” Jackson, with eyes large and mischievous, asked if I fancied a whiskey.
I had been expecting the usual suggestion of wine, beer, or water. I paused – as if I needed to re-run that last sentence in my head to be sure he said what I thought he said. “Absolutely!” I responded. “What whiskies do you like?”
For the split second between that question and his response, I had visions of single malts, bourbons, and ryes dancing in my head. Here, in the whisky desert, how could I have been so lucky? Ah, but that split second came and went. Jackson quite happily said, “my favorite is Crown Royal.”
I stammered a bit, but kept it polite.
Jackson was clearly excited to have a whisky drinker in the house with him and he was keen to show off his collection. He opened a cabinet and showed me four shelves of different Crown Royal bottles and expressions. Who knew they had so many? No other brand that I could see. He led me around the corner to his trophy case in the den that had his prized bottles. These, he said with pride, would never be opened. We then went back to the cabinet off the kitchen and he turned to me and asked – again with that child-like excitement – “which flavour do you want?”
Which flavour? That phrase would never have been on my bingo card to have been uttered when asking about someone’s whisky preference. But, here we are in the whisky desert.
I channeled the long-learned lessons of being polite, and smiled and said in response, “I’ll have whatever you recommend!”
Jackson was elated. He told me that his favorite flavour has come to be the blackberry version (expression?). He said that it was particularly good if it was smoked. Wha…?
Oh yes, Jackson excitedly hopped over to a shelf near the cabinet and pulled out a home smoking kit. He suggested pecan wood chips - over oak, maple, or cedar - and I just went with it.
Jackson dutifully and carefully used the apparatus to smoke the chips over the liquor and let that sit, sealed tightly, for exactly sixty seconds. He then pulled off the apparatus and handed me the smoke-filled tumbler. I made my way through the pecan wood smoke and took a sip from the very healthy pour of sickeningly sweet, chemically-derived blackberry whiskey.
I couldn’t remember anything worse crossing my lips. But…I had to be polite. And I was.
I sipped that large pour over the course of the evening and actually drained it before dinner ended. Jackson was so pleased and I didn’t want to burst his bubble of excitement. I smiled at him and uttered phrases such as, “oh, this is so interesting” and “I would never have imagined having such a dram” when he would ask how I was getting along with the drink in hand. Mrs. Shaw kept looking over at me intermittently and could barely hold her laughter; she could tell all I wanted to do was to vomit. But, I kept a smile on my face.
Dinner was served, and it was actually quite nice. To my right sat Jackson, and despite the choice of beverage, he was engaging and interesting. To my other side, Evelyn would intermittently ask me questions about being a divorce lawyer and asking a myriad of legal questions “for a friend”. All the while, the wolf-horse-dog would walk under the dining room table, shoving his nose in crotches, and when he was not doing that he was happy knocking over chairs and items left on counters and coffee tables.
At the end of dinner, Jackson asked if anyone wanted a nightcap. I had managed to drain the tumbler in front of me without hurling – a quiet victory – and I respectfully declined. Michael, however, asked if Jackson had any bourbon. “Of course” was the reply. I nearly fell out of my chair wondering why I had suffered with the saccharine -laden, child’s cough syrup with pecan smoke… And I recalled that I simply asked what Jackson’s recommendation would be. Damn! Note to self… Next time don’t ask that!
A measure of Woodford’s Reserve was passed to Michael. Never have I been so jealous of someone having a bourbon. Anyway, Mrs. Shaw began talking with Michael and somehow she asked him about his preference for bourbon. Michael ultimately and proudly said that he was born in Kentucky, and that his bourbon affinity comes from his heritage and the fact that Kentucky is the only state that makes bourbon.
I gently interrupted and suggested that bourbon, so long as it was distilled and aged in the United States, could be made in any of the fifty states. Michael instantly turned sour and with a straight face said flatly, “you are wrong.”
Bruh…
At this point, my patience and ability to stay polite had worn thin. I’d had a very long day, ingested the most foul drink this side of swamp water, I was tiring of the “cute puppy” enormous wolf-dog violating me. I was also tired of listening to the intermittent crashes as he would make short work of furniture in the house, followed by excuses from Michelle telling everyone “oh, he’s such a cute puppy, just a little energetic” and I was more than a bit put off by the fact that I could have had a regular bourbon.
I gathered myself and smiled. “Not so, my friend. I have had bourbons from Iowa, Wyoming, Florida, New York…”
“New York?!” Michael interrupted. “Not a chance. Bourbon only comes from Kentucky.”
I bit my tongue, and as I was biting my tongue I heard Michael mutter under his breath to Michelle, “don’t think he knows what he’s talking about.” I was done.
As I was about to unload a salvo of acerbic, blue vocabulary and commentary . . . I looked across the table at my darling wife. Her eyes gave the clear message – let it go, and let’s go home.
She was right. I eased my stiffened spine and stifled the biting comments. I took a deep breath and remarked how wonderful dinner was, how we enjoyed the evening, but we had to get back - another early morning for the unfortunate couple who were not yet retired. Lots of laughter by the two retired couples.
We gracefully exited with, again, many thanks. Though, to be honest, I ought not call it “graceful” as we still had to navigate our way past the bucking horse-pooch. As soon as we reached the car, Mrs. Shaw began laughing uncontrollably. “Oh, the look on your face when you first sipped that blackberry drink!” I started laughing too, explaining how I now know what is served when you reach the eighth circle of Dante’s Inferno.
All I knew was that when I returned home, I needed to have a really good pour of bourbon and imagine what could have been. And so I did. I went to the bourbon cupboard and reached for the bottle I am reviewing here. A new-to-me bottle that has impressed this erstwhile bourbon skeptic.
Review
Bardstown Bourbon Company 6yo, Straight Kentucky Bourbon, Origin Series - Bottled-in-Bond, Mashbill of 68% corn, 20% wheat, 12% malted barley, unchill-filtered, natural colour, distilled Spring 2018, 50% ABV
US$50 paid, (£36) fairly wide availability
Bardstown Bourbon Company is a relatively new operation. It was founded in 2016, and to keep an income flow as they distilled their own wares, they sourced and sold whiskey under their label while their own distillate was quietly aging in oak. The Origin Series, released approximately two years ago, marked the first time that bottles sold under their label were 100% their own, in-house distilled spirit. The Origin Series comprises three expressions: the Bottled-in-Bond Wheated bourbon I am reviewing here, alongside a straight bourbon, and a finished 95:5 rye.
While I had heard good things about Bardstown in the past, I had not purchased any of their offerings previously. Why did I pick up this bottle? It had the trifecta: first, I was glad to know that the liquid in the bottle is actually bourbon from their own distillery. Second, I appreciate a bottled-in-bond designation with what that brings to the table. And, third, I do find that I enjoy a bourbon mash bill with wheat and malted barley.
So, when I returned from the whiskey dinner nightmare, I wanted a comfortable and easy sipper; a bourbon akin to comfort food.
Score: 6/10
Good stuff.
TL;DR
The perfect ‘wheater ‘ salve after a traumatic evening
Nose
Peach pie out of the oven and cooling on the counter. A mug of cocoa. Leather gloves and rich oak. Assam black tea. Maple oatmeal. Hints of citrus. The malted barley is present, and it provides a malty tone that overlays it all.
Palate
Honey Nut Cheerios. Dark honey. Oak. Orange zest and dried apricots. A hint of strawberry gelato. Wafts of malt as well as that Assam black tea note. Toffee. This whiskey has a very nice mouth feel. Not oily and heavy, but it is mouth-coating and lovely. Mid-palate, baking spices and chocolate come forward. The spices build and all of these lovely flavours marry oh, so well.
The Kentucky hug is a thing, and it warms my chest with a not-insubstantial length to the finish. The flavours are lovely and this bourbon is like the worn, somewhat-frayed-but-comfy old pair of jeans that I put on before heading to the back porch to kick back and relax.
The Dregs
I am finding that I often enjoy a wheated mash bill when I choose to reach for a bourbon – especially one that has a combination of wheat and malted barley. Both elements provide a dram with rounded edges. I also often find that wheat and malted barley in a mash bill brings a creaminess not usually found in rye-based corn and rye mash bills.
All components to this whiskey work well together. The mash bill carrying a third of its grain being wheat and malted barley provides a wonderful malty, bready, and fruity taste experience. The 50% ABV provides a weight that helps yield that lovely mouth feel. The six years of aging with this bourbon hits a sweet spot. It all works together to produce a whiskey that is a sit-back-and-enjoy sipper.
No doubt there are some whiskies that I have encountered that would keep me enrapt for hours as I analysed what was in my glass, parsing out this from that. I enjoy analyzing a whiskey, but truth be told, I prefer to pour a dram to enjoy the flavour experience. Maybe I am a simpleton and should be looking to analyse more deeply and more often, but I am quite happy to simply enjoy and assess the flavours in a glass. And, when I can find a bottle that has layers of flavours that make me sit back and enjoy, that clears the bar for me. This bottle clears the bar, and then some.
Quite admittedly, I had a bit of a time assigning a score. This was very close to a 7/10, but I just couldn’t make that leap. It is not far off from the Old Forester 1910 in my book to be a flavourful sipper, but the 1910 is a bit bolder and richer. However, at $50 for this bottle it brings a bit of value (versus the 1910 which is usually $60-$70 USD in my market). As with this past Monday, depending on the mood, the Bardstown will be the one I reach for when I want to sit back with a bourbon. This Bardstown, to me, is that set of comfortable shoes, jeans, or sweatshirt that you reach for when you want to decompress and relax.
It was a salve, and it enabled me to let the frustrations of the dinner wash off my back, and I was able to laugh some more with my wife about the events. And, (with peace and love for those who love blackberry Crown Royal), while I know the best whiskey is the kind of whiskey you like and the way you like to drink it… Please, for the love of God dear Dramfacers, be wary if someone is going to pour you a whiskey and they ask, “what flavour do you want”?
Score: 6/10
Tried this? Share your thoughts in the comments below. OS
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