Pappy Van Winkle or Sappy Scam Stinkle?

I'm in London at the St Martin's Lane Hotel. The hotel and accompanying bar is the type of trendy place that literally has the whole velvet rope thing, keeping the poor and uncool at bay while the beautiful people of London's hip scene dance and Crystal the night away. I have to admit that it's a fun place to stay, and even though I am a guest here, it's quite obvious that I'm a casual observer and not a member of the "in crowd." But that's not what this posting is about and it's not what I'm about.

What I am about is friendship. Long enduring friendships that are meant to last a lifetime. I keep in contact with my old buddy Eddie Nowick who's father and mine went to high school together. My friend Bert and I speak to each other at least a couple of times a week, poking fun at each other, almost brutally, but with enough love to not take offense. If you recall the disgusting childish conversations you had with your buddies when you were in junior high school you'll understand what I mean. Although we've accumulated much in our lives, it's nothing compared to the accumulated and dispensed height, bald, fat, short, fart, poop and pee pee jokes.

I've been blessed once again with an incredible neighborhood that mocks the notion that only old friends endure. Mark and Michelle, Tim and Margaret, Dave & Christine are more than anyone could ask. And when I thought the neighborhood wouldn't or couldn't get better, along came Matt and Jess and of course Jen and Geoff. But this isn't what this post is about.

What this post is about is whisky and a mystery, at least it's a mystery to some. You see our neighborhood seems to go through trends. First it was beer. I recall a certain someone walking down the street with a stainless steel bucket filled with Coronas so cold that the condensation from the bucket would drip as he "tip toed" down the street. Drinking beer, making beer, and trotting through the falling snow to catch some of the 99 cent Guinesses at the Barley Pub, we enjoyed the brew and enjoyed each other. Then it was Martinis; Gin, Vodka, cappuccino flavored, it didn't matter. For months we had half filled jars of olives filled with pimentos, almonds, horseradish and anything else that would allow us to experiment with different flavors. You have to understand that it's less about the alcohol and more about the excuse, and I mean any excuse to hang out together. It's the neighborhood you see in old movies. Classic, and the classics never die.

Over the past number of years it has been bourbon. One family is "Sieked" about Knob Creek, another "Debellowed" about the merits of Wild Turkey, while another always seemed to be "Holting" a Jim Beam (Sorry about the lame attempt at humor, I realize it's not "punny.") This trend seems to have lasted, but I'm sure Scotch is not far away.

One day I was driving back from the airport and stopped at Kappy's on Route 1. I looked at the bourbon selection and noted a particularly interesting bottle with an old dude with a cigar that looked like what I suppose I'll end up looking like later, or sooner in life. It was more expensive than I would offer and I politely passed, but I was intrigued and had non buyers remorse. A few months later I found myself in Singapore at a cigar bar that featured this rare amber libation, and I tasted and I experienced it with a fine Cuban cigar.

Upon returning home, I told my buddies about Pappy's and I was told that the distillery apparently stopped producing it and that it had become rare, expensive and coveted. Being the easy sale I am, and always loving a challenge, I jumped online the next day found a website, and called the distillery. Fortunately, or unfortunately, they still make the bourbon, but only in very small batches. After calling a few places the distillery recommended and visiting a few more, I decided to go to the source of all bourbon. For those of you who do not know, it's Kentucky. This is where, and only where bourbon is produced. Did I call another distributor, liquor store or bar? No. I called my favorite, non swearing, non R rated movie viewing, and non drinking Christian friend Byron. Another most excellent friend, he enthusiastically did the leg, found our friend and asked his beautiful wife to do the purchasing, towel and bubble wrapping of not one, but two bottles of the amber treasure.

The anticipation grew on the street, which was made worse by the "Pappy Van Winkle Song" sung in high falsetto at every given moment. I'm embarrassed to say that even the kids got the goofy jingle stuck in their heads. With much debate and discussion, one wonders if we have over thought and over heightened our expectations. Will it be the best bourbon? Will we be let down? I got a glimmer this evening as the trendy place I'm staying at offers the very whisky you're reading about. I have to tell you that I was stunned to see it and taste it. It was unbelievable. Does that mean good, bad, average? I'm not saying.

In the coming weeks or months, the boys and hopefully girls and members of the "Friends of Florence Street will gather, eat, drink, and taste. Only then will the mystery of this posting's title be revealed. So stay tuned kids; Same Pappy time, same Pappy channel. Cheers!