A Visit to The Library

Play "Don't Let the Stars
Keep Us Tangled Up"
by Cortney Tidwell

About a week ago, I received an invite to Whisky Week at the Brandy Library in Tribeca, perhaps the most-mentioned bar in town that specializes in "brown spirits." (They have more than 200 different kinds of Scotch alone.)

The first thought was, "Great! Now I have an excuse to visit DeNiro's part of town." But on more careful consideration of the week's offerings, I dashed of a quick email to make a reservation for the Balvenie tasting.

Those who like Scotch will probably call me a wuss. Scotch, for years, was thought of as a man's drink, the kind of thing that would sear your eyes and put hair on your chest.

But maybe eight or nine years ago, Scotch got a marketing revival, and that's about when I started my own exploring. Thanks to the nice guys over at Wally's, I got to try a lot of different brands. Most of them tasted like dirt.

But there was one standout: the Balvenie DoubleWood. Here was drink of wood and vanilla, one that reminded me of log cabin fires in winter, one with no trace of peat: perfect for the colder months. Until recently, it was the only Scotch I'd ever bought a bottle of. (The Macallan 12 year Sherry Oak has since joined the list.)

So in the evening I took the train, dashed into the Brandy Library woefully late, spiraled my way downstairs and walked straight into a men's club. Here, for the first time, was a restaurant/lounge where the straight men outnumbered women of all stripes and gay men.

Most of them were in expensive-looking suits. A few of them were accompanied by women in expensive-looking dresses who draped themselves on their arms or over their shoulders or by their sides like cardigans and throw blankets.

Undaunted, I whipped out my best accessory for the situation: a smile and a hello to the man behind the bar.

Three bottles were on offer for the evening: the 12-year-old DoubleWood, the 15-year-old Single Barrel, and the 21-year-old PortWood — each distinctive, and each very good in its own way.

Unlike many of the men, I took no notes. Since taking a class in wine tasting a long time ago, I've come to realize that the sense of taste is very individual, as are people's reasons for enjoying what they eat and drink.

The point was driven home by the stocky spirits sommelier, Ethan Kelley, who said he grew up in New Jersey and used to be a kindergarten teacher. After about an hour of free pours and hors d'oeuvres (including some truly divine lamb shanks), Ethan began the real business of tasting.

Taste, he said, was personal, a judgment and comparison based on individual history — where you grew up, what you put in your mouth, what you breathed and felt and all the memories associated with those things. No two people will ever taste the same thing the same way, so tasting notes, in his opinion, are merely one person's opinion, no more important or valid than your own.

I decided I like Ethan.

And here's what I learned: sampling spirits is different from sampling wine. Don't stick your nose into the glass or your eyes will water and you might sneeze. Instead, hold the glass so it's below your chin, open your mouth and inhale slowly through your nose. Swirl if you want to, but most spirits have enough alcohol that the smell will rise on its own.

Try it and see if that doesn't improve your experience.

I also discovered the DoubleWood is still a wonderful combination of wood and vanilla. A short pour and a good book or magazine will still be one of my favorite ways to close out a long day.

The 15-year Single Barrel has the DoubleWood's vanilla, but a different wood taste (since it's only aged in, duh, a single barrel) and more bite because of the higher alcohol content. Add a few drops of water to cut down the alcohol if it burns. No one will say anything, Joe Lewis notwithstanding.

The 21-year-old Portwood might be my next purchase when the Macallan's is done: here, the Doublewood's smoky, woody character stays, but the drink feels heavier and tastes more like honey and nutmeg. In fact, many people in the room mentioned the word "pumpkin pie." (So much for the "individual" theory, huh?)

After the tasting was over, we were handed gift bags — mostly it was literature, but tucked at the bottom in white tissue paper was a pair of stout little snifters.

Scotch, anyone?