For Auld Lang Syne, Part Two

Back home in New York City, the winter had not been so magical, featuring dates with the likes of the Freelance Artist, who at 41 still shared a 2-bedroom in the East Village with 3 roommates because he “doesn’t like to live alone” (translation: “I’m an unemployed codependent”), and the Lumberjack. While quite sexy with his plaid flannel shirt and facial hair (I came of age during the era of grunge, what can I say?), the Lumberjack’s dating skills hadn’t evolved since the death of Kurt Cobain.

Over the winter, I’d also experienced a bizarre emotional hit and run by an ancient history boyfriend. I’ve known Tad ever since we dated for a few months in college. On the night in question, I’d dragged good sport Sandrine to a party he was having at his apartment on the Upper West Side. It started out innocently enough, with Tad and I waxing nostalgic about our past with various party guests. As the night went on, however, the nostalgia express jumped the track. I’d been chatting with Sandrine and random others when Tad suddenly joined our group, and, severely intoxicated, began ranting about the “hot Italian boyfriend” I’d started dating after our break up. As the other guests we’d been speaking with awkwardly dispersed, I confirmed with Sandrine, “You just heard that right?” Sandrine replied, always the psychologist, “Looks like someone’s been harboring some feelings for a very long time.” I should note that Tad had broken up with me and I hadn’t started dating Mario until almost a year after the Tad split. Mario had been super hot though. Tad did get that bit right.

After a short-lived early spring fling, I’d found myself nursing a bit of a broken heart by midsummer. My heart wasn’t broken because I’d been so desperately in love; it was more in the way Michael Corleone’s heart was broken by Fredo’s betrayal in The Godfather II. It had come at the hands of one of my dearest guy friends. Josh and I had been super close since meeting through work five years ago. We spoke the same language and shared a love of Eddie Izzard, pub grub and Scotch. Through the years, Josh had always lobbied for more, but I’d always been concerned about our age difference (he was five years younger than I) and potentially upsetting one of my closest friendships.

Then one night in May, Josh passionately declared his feelings on a rainy and foggy 59^th Street and sent me reeling with an amazing kiss. I could no longer deny our connection, and given the chemistry of that kiss, I didn’t want to. I’d realized that I’d been keeping this great guy at bay out of fear. Weeks of dates and drams had followed. I’d even opened and shared the Crested Ten I’d carried back from Dublin the previous summer (you know that you rate if I actually share my stash). And then at that crucial six-week mark, just as it started to get serious, Josh flipped out. I knew it was because he was afraid, but I also knew that I couldn’t continue to date someone who scares so easily. I needed that man who’d so boldly told me how he’d felt and kissed me that night on the street. I had no choice but to cut and run, ending our relationship and our friendship.

In the aftermath, I kept wondering why it happened. Why did something so seemingly great come crashing down into a million awful pieces? Had this just been a practice drill for when the real thing comes along? “This is a test of the emergency relationship system. This is only a test.” Followed by a beeping tone the equivalent of nails on a chalkboard. Had this been proof for myself that I could take a chance on love, that I could go out on a limb, that I could fall, and that I could get back up again? But I already knew the answers to these questions was yes.

Post pushing my broken heart aside and filling my fall with dating, my year now ends with this: kissing my drunken friend Ned in the back of a taxi. While it felt very nice and comfortable, I felt fairly certain that this wasn’t fate or true love, and that the next day we’d recant this backseat interlude. Dropping Ned off at his Midtown hotel, I thought about the specter of boyfriends past, present and future. Maybe the lesson of Ned and Josh was that I didn’t have to go 3,000 miles to Arctic Norway for a perfect kiss. A perfect kiss could be found with my most familiar friends and in my well-traveled paths.

As the taxi dashed toward the Upper East Side, I couldn’t help feeling that regardless of the ups and downs that the New Year would surely bring, I was racing toward another year filled with magic, surprise and possibility.

For Auld Lang Syne, Part One

It all started this weekend with a kiss in a taxi on the way home from a holiday party.

Under the influence of eggnog, Christmas lights and carols, I was sharing the cab ride home with my long-time friend Ned who was visiting from California. We’d just crossed 14th Street when Ned turned to me and started stroking my hair and whispering romantic sentiments in my ear. It could’ve been all the eggnog he’d consumed or the inevitable moment in a ten-year friendship in which there’d always been a “will they/won’t they?” factor. But it was Ned’s wistful tone and words that made me think this could very well be the result of Yuletide sentimentality.

Looking out the taxi window, which was now fogging up as Ned nuzzled my neck, I had to admit that I’m often sentimental around the holidays. I choke up at that first drawn out “I…m” of White Christmas sung by Bing Crosby. By the time his voice warbles at “sleigh,” I’m usually sobbing. I’m not so sentimental when it comes to relationships though. Like Clara of Nutcracker fame, I generally banish with the throw of my slipper the hideous and insidious Mouse King ex to the past. But this night, with the year drawing to a close and Ned’s hands closing in on my drawers, I couldn’t help but think back on this year’s romantic travails, and how the ghosts of boyfriends past had come into my present, and the boy friends in my present were apparitions of boyfriends yet to come.

The past boy specter is not an unfamiliar sight to me. Periodically it makes its presence known, appearing at odd times, often when I’m really happy with another guy. It’s like it just knows. Last year had actually ended on this theme: with a flirtation with an old crush, initiated by said crush just as I’d finally met a guy I rather liked. Both had become ghosts by Christmas.

This year, however, had started on a promising new note: with the kiss of a handsome Englishman at midnight on New Year’s Eve in Tromso, Norway as fireworks lit the night all around us.

It had been unexpected. Just the night before, while freezing out in the countryside looking for the Northern Lights, I’d mused to Cassidy and Sandrine, my best friends and travel companions, that gob-smacking attraction felt about as elusive as the Lights (which did elude us that night). Then the next day, there I am waiting at a bus stop in Tromso and I turn around to find inviting hazel eyes looking back at me. In this magical place, with long, bitter winter nights and barely breaking days that easily inspire fireside snogs, this sometimes cynical city girl met a charming, soft-spoken and independent man who was good with his hands and goes on holidays alone. I guess you never know when or where romantic things will happen. It’s just a question of how far you’re willing to go. Sometimes it’s 200 miles above the Arctic Circle far.

Tromso and the Englishman had set the bar high for the New Year. I’d wondered what the year would hold back home in New York City.

Scotch Snapshot

Today. 6pm. Lillie’s, Union Square, NYC. Ducking into this Victorian-inspired establishment, which was decked out in bows, bells and bulbs for the holidays, I found reprieve from the biting cold outside in the sweet, smoky taste and warming sensation of Bowmore 12 year old single malt.

What's in a Number?

It's often said that age is just a number.

While most of us don't wear ours printed on our lapels, single malts do. Bottles of Scotch proudly proclaim their 12-, 16- and upwards of 20-year ages on their labels.

But what does that number on the label really mean? The number reflects the age of the youngest malt used to produce that particular whisky. So the 18 on that bottle of Aberlour you’re drinking guarantees that the youngest whisky used to produce that bottle matured for 18 years.

When it comes to dating, however, age doesn’t always reflect maturity. If only the maturity level of a man could be guaranteed by a number on a label neatly affixed to his chest. I don’t think it would take away from the fun of sampling at all.

Whisky vs. Whiskey

So what makes your dram a whisky or a whiskey?

Whisky is generally used for whiskies distilled in Scotland, Wales, Canada and Japan, while whiskey is commonly used for whiskeys distilled in Ireland and America.

As with the rules of grammar (sometimes vowel “y”) and The Rules (sometimes “on the first three dates we don’t have sex with a man or let him stay at our place overnight” why?) there are always exceptions. A few American spirits – that bourbon babe Maker’s Mark for one – use the whisky spelling.

Tasting Notes: The Balvenie DoubleWood

The scene: On Monday night, I sat down with my friend Cassidy for a taste of The Balvenie DoubleWood, a 12 year old Speyside single malt. As it was downright warm for an October eve, Cass opened the porch door to the balmy dusk in which bright yellow leaves swirled before wafting to the ground, landing with a crinkle.

The background: The Balvenie Distillery is an old school operation (it’s actually the only Scotch distillery still growing its own barley) that takes its name from the nearby Balvenie Castle. Now in ruins, the castle is historically linked to the likes of Mary Queen of Scots, the ultimate romantic heroine, and Robert the Bruce, the sexiest King of Scots, especially sexy because in my fantasies, as in Braveheart, he’s played by Angus Macfadyen.

The “DoubleWood” after The Balvenie name describes the single malt’s maturation process in two separate wood casks: first a whisky oak cask then a sherry oak cask, with each lending various characteristics. The whisky cask mellows the brew, providing gentle, warming layers of spice, while the sherry cask adds complexity, along with a fruity depth.

The experience: With its classic cream label and rich amber hue, the bottle opened with a promising pop of its cork stopper and the pour offered a reassuring glug glug glug. Raising our glasses to our lips, we were first hit with the scent of honey and vanilla followed quickly by sweet fruit and Sherry notes as we brought our glasses in for a sip. At first taste, The Balvenie DoubleWood is smooth and nutty with a hint of Sherry. An instant later, the flavor swells and surges over the tongue and across the mouth like a rogue wave, intensifying into a luxurious cinnamon spiciness. With a finish that is long, lingering and warming, The Balvenie is much more staying, satisfying and inviting than the embrace, kiss, et cetera of most men Cass and I have encountered.

The conclusions: The Balvenie is a soothing, gentle indulgence from packaging to finish. Even inspiring some philosophizing and waxing poetic, The Balvenie is best shared with close friends on mild fall evenings. Cass and I both went to bed that night with visions of kilted men dancing in our heads.

Fall is in the Arran

There’s nothing like the bright blue skies, turning leaves and crisp breezes of autumn in New York. With conditions outside ideal for Scotch-drinking, I find myself eagerly tucking into single malts in cozy, warm and welcoming watering holes all over the city.

One favored venue is St. Andrew’s Restaurant & Bar, a little pocket of all-things-Scottish in the Theater District. Occupying two-stories, St. Andrew’s still maintains an intimate feel that seems worlds away from the brightly lit, Disneyland-like, camera-toting tourist Mecca that is Times Square, which is just at the end of the block. With its dim lighting, heavy-on-the-wood decor and plaid banquettes, St. Andrew’s takes a relaxed, unassuming approach to Scotch. Its kilted bartenders serve an impressive selection of single malts, along with an extensive list of beers and ales, to a convivial bar crowd. Then there are the tasty eats, from the St. Andrew’s burger to the homemade haggis with neeps and tatties (it’s the only place in Manhattan that serves the traditional Scottish dish).

The ample drams, savory bites and informal yet spirited atmosphere makes St. Andrew’s an excellent spot for a first meeting with a potential suitor. And, girls, just in case your date ends up being a drag, the male-heavy clientele serves up enough business-casual eye candy to go with your Scotch of choice.

While I hadn’t discovered it because of a date or my Scotch passion – I’d first gone for a happy hour Belhaven with coworkers long before I became a whisky hound – St. Andrew’s had become my go-to digs for first date drinks. Over the years, it had seen some of the less than stellar first (and last, in many cases) meetings. There’d been Boring Queens Guy, who it turned out still lived at home with his parents and who wouldn’t even taste my Aberlour; Cute Sports Writer, who won points by ordering a Belhaven and then swiftly lost them with his just-sucked-a-lemon-wedge face after taking the tiniest sip of my Benriach; and Gay Back-Up Dancer, who kept up with me on my Arran intake, who’d met Madonna at Danceteria before she became famous, and who’s been so named because, as Alexei, my gay boyfriend, astutely noted, “There were no straight men at Danceteria in 1982 queen!”

There had indeed been many a bad one. But the Award for Best First Date at St. Andrew’s goes, hands down, to Williamsburg Photographer, with whom I spent a long, lazy Sunday afternoon sipping our way through Islay Malts, comparing, discussing and going back for more. Sadly, a few non-Scotch-drinking dates confirmed that we had little in common beyond Bruichladdich, disagreeing on the Israeli-Palestinian conflict and the Beatles-Rolling Stones debate (I fall on the Israeli and Beatles side). Not to mention he was a bit too much of a hipster for me. What can I say? I wanted to wear the skinny jeans in the relationship.

As I continue to date my way through NYC, St. Andrew’s will always be my first choice for fall first dates. I’ll continue to wonder what the waiter who bears an uncanny resemblance to James McAvoy thinks as he serves my single malts while I sit at the bar with a different dude each visit. Someday I may even ask him for his opinion on the guys – or ask him out.

St. Andrew’s Restaurant & Bar is located at 140 West 46th Street, New York, NY.

Scotch Girl Abroad: Northern Ireland, Part Two

It’s been said that tourists avoid the three B’s: Baghdad, Beirut and Belfast. Yet here Sandrine and I were driving to potentially volatile Belfast in pursuit of whiskey and flirtation. Even with “The Troubles” long passed, Belfast’s divisions are still very real – there’d actually been rioting the night before – but as it turned out, the city was calm on our arrival.

Visiting working-class west Belfast first, Sandrine and I saw the famous murals on both sides of the barricades that still separate the Irish Catholic Republican and Anglo-Protestant Loyalist neighborhoods. After signing the Peace Wall, appropriately enough on July 4th, we happened to cross paths with Sinn Fein President Gerry Adams outside their headquarters on Falls Road. With his salt-and-pepper beard, easygoing demeanor and captivating smile, Adams is, frankly, a sexy guy. Sandrine was especially smitten even though, as she put it, “he’s maybe kind of a terrorist.”

In the stridently middle-to-upper class, religiously and politically integrated Belfast city center, Sandrine and I hit all the sights from the artsy Cathedral Quarter to the leafy University Quarter and got some afternoon drinking in too, though Guinness played a bigger role than whiskey during our stops at White’s Tavern (first licensed in 1630, it’s purported to be the oldest pub in the city) and the Crown Bar (a beautifully preserved Victorian-era pub with private wooden snugs perfect for a snog). I’d fancied at drink in the bar at the Europa Hotel, which claims to be the most bombed hotel in Europe, but Sandrine convinced me that it wasn’t the best idea given the recent rioting.

Staying in the city center at Benedict’s, a hotel known for its bar/nightclub and chosen by us for that reason, Sandrine and I became famous during our stay as “The American Girls.” That’s what happens when you befriend the house band, The Untouchables, by requesting Stacey Q’s “Two of Hearts” on a lark (they didn’t play it). After the band serenaded us with “New York, New York,” a swarm of patrons descended upon us, eager to converse with the girls from New York City, the first Americans most had ever met. There was Seamus, who’s been saving up for a trip to NYC for years; Sean, who was interestingly enough drinking Budweiser; and Bernadette, a teenage girl who promised to be our BFF if we danced with her to the band’s rendition of Katy Perry’s “California Gurls.” And then there were Paddy and Donny.

While others are getting false names, Paddy is keeping his real one because he embodied all the very best stereotypes associated with Irishmen. Cute as hell, charismatic and retaining his gift of gab though completely hammered, Paddy had stumbled up to us on behalf of his pal Donny with the opening line, “I agreh!” Sensing the boy behind those smiling Irish eyes could handle it, I responded with, “Oh so you agree that Hugh Grant is sexy.” Paddy didn’t disappoint. “Oh yah, Hugh Grahnt is sehxeh. Was just tellin’ Donneh. You know who’s sehxeh? That Hugh Grahnt.”

If Paddy was amusing, his friend Donny was sweet. Lanky, doe-eyed and probably not a day over 20, Donny had been working up the courage to talk to Sandrine all night. Touched by his earnestness, and relieved that he wasn’t of the Fat Fucker variety of the night before, Sandrine was happy to spend the rest of the evening talking with him.



As Donny explained to Sandrine the patriotic significance of his shamrock tattoo, I sipped my Old Bushmills and enjoyed Paddy’s opinions on topics as diverse as our U.S. Presidents (JFK was the only good one), the Anglo-Protestants of Belfast (not at all surprising) and his work ethic (“If I showed up in the mornin’ on time an’ sober the boss would sack meh!”). 



Listening to Paddy prattle on with his charming accent, I couldn’t help feeling lots of love for this bar. We’d received such a warm welcome here. I’m sure our high-profile status thanks to the band, and the fact that we were attractive and talkative girls played a role (would anyone have been at all interested in us if we’d been two dowdy things with fanny packs, attitudes and saggy asses in khaki shorts?), but as I scanned the bar I noticed that the warmth wasn’t just directed at us. Everywhere locals who had been complete strangers up until this moment were acting like old friends. Unlike any given bar in NYC, where individuals keep to themselves and groups are closed to outsiders, Benedict’s was a massive party to which everyone was invited and everyone was a part. In spite of, or maybe because of, the long history of division and strife in their city, the people of Belfast clearly valued coming together for a pint, a dance, a laugh.

Interestingly enough, as much as the bar crowd had been mingling, flirting and dancing, people didn’t seem to be going home together. A moral choice brought on by the strict Catholic upbringing? I’d gone to Catholic school, and, well, we see how that turned out. It was probably economics. Donny and Paddy lived at home with their parents and younger siblings, without privacy enough for a pub-to-shag. We’d certainly said goodnight to the boys at the bar.

Returning to our room, Sandrine and I began to pack while discussing the men and dating rituals of Northern Ireland. Appealing as our Donny and Paddy were, they were much too young for us. Why in the course of our travels in Northern Ireland had we only encountered barely legals, an odd drunk divorcee and a Fat Fucker bachelor? It hit us like a shot of Black Bush at last call: the overwhelming majority of men our age were probably already married, home with their wives and several children, not at the pub.

With the dating scene more forgiving in NYC, I determined, tossing my strappy heels into my suitcase, that I’d take the spirit of Northern Ireland back home with me. While I’d still very much be looking for “The One,” I’d always remember the lessons of Benedict’s and Belfast: that the best times can be the ones left at the bar door, that dating needn’t always be so focused on the end goal, and that I can have fun even with an expiration date.

Scotch Girl Abroad: Northern Ireland, Part One

While I've been known to hike glaciers during my travels, I’ve always preferred to spend the better part of my time in atmospheric pubs sipping the local brew. Being from New York, a city notorious for churning out questionable male characters, I’m also always interested in taking dips in other dating pools. With both of these pursuits in mind, I traded Scotch for Irish Whiskey and tested the waters in Northern Ireland on my summer vacation.

Joining me on this mission was my friend Sandrine, with whom I have a long history of meeting intriguing men in drinking establishments in foreign cities. In the past year, Sandrine and I had enjoyed the company of an Argentine expatriate and an Icelandic fisherman in Reykjavik, and a Norwegian former model and a charming boat-building Englishman in Tromso, with my love interests following the nautical theme.

Starting out in Northern Ireland with a quick visit to Derry, Sandrine and I drove along the coast, stopping to marvel at the rugged beauty of the Giant’s Causeway before reaching our next destination: the village of Bushmills and its famous distillery. While the Old Bushmills Distillery has officially been in operation since 1608, making it the oldest licensed whiskey distillery in Ireland, the history of distilling whiskey in Bushmills dates back to 1490, and there are even historical references to “Water of Life” being produced in the area as far back as the 13th century. Because I’ve always had a taste for history, I finished our afternoon at the distillery’s bar with several drams of Bushmills’ various blends and single malts before strolling delightfully buzzed back to our home for the night, the Bushmills Inn.

With nightlife options in town rather limited, Sandrine and I hit the bar at the Inn. In the oldest part of the Inn, originally built as a coach house and stable in the early 1600’s, the Gas Bar, with its low ceilings, many fireplaces and cozy nooks, was packed with Inn guests and locals alike. As we listened to a growing band of local musicians playing traditional tunes, Sandrine and I sipped Black Bush on ice and lamented the lack of fit chaps.

Of course, technically, there were plenty of men in the room. One such man, let’s call him Woody Harrelson for his striking resemblance to the actor, staggered over to our table toward the end of the night. Hailing from Derry, Woody was 45, divorced, the father of three and the grandfather of one, all of whom lived with him. Between the live music in close quarters, the Guinness-induced slurring on top of a thick accent, and the fact that I had to keep leaning away from the personal space invasion, I couldn’t tell you much more about Woody than that.

As Woody was quite inebriated and didn’t live in town, I asked him how he was getting home. He replied, “You see that fat fucker over there?” I turned to look, and I did. The Fat Fucker saw this eye contact as an opportunity to join his friend at our table, where he quickly set about inquiring after Sandrine’s relationship status. When a very honest Sandrine said that she was indeed single, the Fat Fucker, age 50, jobless and quite disheveled, said, “Well, I’m a bachelor you know?” Needless to say, Sandrine managed to resist his charms.

When we got back to our room, Sandrine and I couldn’t help but ask the question we often ask ourselves after a night out: why? In an area famous for its distillery and golf courses, I’d expected to find at least a few suitable men present for a weekend of whiskey drinking and golfing. I consoled myself with Sandrine’s observation that “at least Woody was cute.”

Our time in Bushmills hadn’t disappointed in terms of whiskey, though it did leave much to be desired with regards to men. Leaving the countryside behind, Sandrine and I made our way to Belfast sure that we’d fare better in the big city.

What happened in Belfast? Find out in a fortnight in Part Two of Scotch Girl Abroad: Northern Ireland.

Single Men vs. Single Malts

What better way to enjoy a beautiful summer evening than with a cruise on the Hudson River? That’s exactly how I spent last Thursday night.

Following the sound of bagpipes to Pier 59 at Chelsea Piers, my friend Cassidy and I boarded a yacht for Whisky on the Hudson, an event sponsored by the Whisky Guild. Boasting more than 200 whiskies and single malt Scotches for the tasting, I was certain the event would draw a male-to-female ratio in our favor. I wasn’t entirely wrong.

While we were the only attractive women unaccompanied by men, our possible love interests left much to be desired. Three sets of potential suitors presented themselves: the ancient thrice-divorced businessmen, the Jersey Shore casting rejects, and, the best prospects, a jovial but rather vanilla pair of urologists. Which leads me to a common problem facing a woman in search of a Scotch Man: naturally unassuming, Scotch Man’s not usually the type of guy who approaches women across a crowded room. Leaving that to DJ Pauly D and the Situation, Scotch Man is much more likely to get into lengthy discussions about the distilling process with the representative from Laphroaig.

So Cass and I took solace from the unfortunate man scene in drink. Starting with the partitioned off Ardbeg booth, Cass and I sampled all six of Ardbeg’s offerings. It wasn’t my first time. I’d lost my Ardbeg virginity (he’d actually used that phrase) to Dr. Bill Lumsden, Head of Distilling and Whisky Creation for Glenmorangie, during a tasting at the Brandy Library last summer. He’d warned in his thick Scottish accent that Ardbeg drinkers were a scary lot, but I’d always relished a good scare. Given that Cass is a bit of a thrill-seeker (she’s been known to hang off cliffs with nothing between her and the Atlantic but unstable earth to get a good photo), I knew she’d fancy Ardbeg. And she did. Rollercoaster was her favorite. Uigeadail continues to be mine.

Moving on to the non-Scotch whisky offerings, Cass and I flirted with the adorable, and way too young, representative from Connemara Peated Irish Single Malt, before coming upon a very good small batch whiskey from Colorado of all places. With a toffee scent and a smooth finish, Stranahan’s is the first (legal) Colorado-born whiskey. If Ardbeg is wide-shouldered, hairy-chested and walks with a stride, then Stranahan’s, with his boyish trot, is humble and uses the good manners his mama taught him. That the distillery’s cowboy hat-wearing founder was on hand only added to my enjoyment.

Toward the end of the evening, Cass and I took a stroll out on the deck. As we drifted past Lady Liberty, the ultimate single girl, still holding her own in the harbor, I couldn’t help but relate. With my open-door policy on men, I’ve often felt like the Lady Liberty of dating. Looking at her standing there, all defiant, strong and loaded with moxie, I felt inspired. Though the realm of dating may have given me its tired, poor and huddled masses of refuse, I wasn’t ready to go isolationist.

In the great Scotch vs. Man debate, Scotch had again taken the day. Once more, I was left to wonder if I would ever meet a man who could truly beat a single malt.

Your First Date with Single Malt

So you want to get into Scotch but you’re not quite sure where to start?

If you’ve never tasted Scotch before and are a drinker of the Cosmopolitan variety, I’d first try Scotch in the context of a mixed drink. But I wouldn’t, I repeat, wouldn’t use a single malt, as I feel it’s a travesty to dilute good single malts with mixers. Instead, I’d opt for a blend, like Dewar’s or Johnnie Walker, with soda or water, starting out heavy on the mixer before weaning it out. If you aren’t quite Scotch and soda ready, you can always start with another type of whisky, like bourbon or rye. Both are extremely mixable and even suited to sweeter mixers. Case in point: Jack and Coke.

Now, if you already have a taste for whisky and have downed a few Maker’s Manhattans in your day, then you’re ready to move into the single malt market. Tomintoul is a good place to start. Distilled in the Speyside region of Scotland, a region in which a whopping fifty percent of single malt Scotch whisky is produced, Tomintoul is what I like to call a gateway Scotch. As marijuana may lead to harder drugs, Tomintoul may lead to heartier Scotches. It’s touted as “the gentle dram” and, baby, is it ever. With citrus, toffee and raisin on the nose, Tomintoul is crisp, clean and creamy at first taste. As it spreads across the tongue it brings a bit of heat and some mild spice before mellowing to a sweet finish. Start with the 10-year by drinking it neat with a tumbler of water on the side. Adding a drop or two of water to your Scotch is perfectly acceptable, and it will make the Scotch milder and sweeter.

Remember: Scotch drinking, much like life, is a marathon not a sprint. Relax, take your time and enjoy. After all, it’s about pleasure, not bravado. One doesn’t go from wine spritzer drinker to single malt connoisseur overnight. And if the wine in question is White Zinfandel, well, then quite possibly never.

Heat Wave, Cool Spot

While I love sizzling summers in Manhattan, I do sometimes feel the need to exit its hot, hot, hot in favor of its cool. One preferred refuge of chill is the Brandy Library.

The Brandy Library is a Scotchophile’s wet and peaty dream located conveniently in Tribeca. Appropriately named, Brandy Library’s spirits line the shelves along its walls like books in the stacks, a leather-clad tome of a menu lists its collection of over 900 bottles (11 pages of the menu are devoted to single malt Scotches alone) and a staff of “librarians” is on hand to advise and pour. With an art deco-inspired design and a lighting and color-scheme of honey and nougat, the Brandy Library harkens back to a bygone day when drinking was a decidedly adult sport. That it’s usually brimming with graying men in crisp business attire makes it all the more attractive to a gal like me.

I’d first visited the Brandy Library last summer on a date with Jazz Guy, who was forty, divorced and looking for a partner in swing. Though his looks, opinions and choice in date venues all jived with me, I was alarmed by his drinking style. As I sipped and savored our tasting flights, Jazz Guy swigged the samplings down as if a series of Cuervo shots at Senor Frog’s Cancun. While I believe that life should be gulped not sipped, I don’t believe the same for flights of Speyside single malts at 40 bucks a pop.

As we continued to chat, I began to notice that his approach to dating mirrored his manner of drinking. Far too intense too early – he declared his undying love for me about forty minutes into the date – he didn’t understand the saunter of a Scotch man. Like bad jazz, he was too insistent. I couldn’t help feeling that he wanted to devour me like he did the tasting flight. It became clear that he had a tendency of immersing himself in things – chess had been his latest passion – obsessively, for spurts of time, before shifting gears abruptly. How was that pace sustainable for a real relationship?

A future jam session with Jazz Guy was not to be, but all was not lost. I’d found a new favorite hot spot. My future drinking at the Brandy Library was assured.

The Brandy Library is located at 25 North Moore Street, New York, NY.

The Scotch Girl’s Manifesto

I was never one for Mudslides, Appletinis or Sex on the Beach (not the drink anyway). If it’s sugary, colorful or served with a fruit garnish it’s not my style. Instead give me the sweet smell of smoke, the tang of peat on the tongue and the color of caramel in candlelight. Give me a foggy night, a leather armchair and a fireplace. For who needs the syrupy pang of an Amaretto Sour when there is such a drink that carries in one sniff, one sip, one swallow a dose of the highlands?

I was always drawn to strong flavors, smells and sensations. As a child, I favored of the taste of escargot, the scent of Grandpa’s pipe and the feeling of goose bumps on my neck compliments of Freddy Krueger over Fluffernutter, flowers and fairy tales. I cherished rainy afternoons spent at my aforementioned Grandpa’s local watering hole. As he balanced the bar’s books, I balanced atop tall leather barstools, munched on salty snacks and chatted up old men. I was born for Scotch.

Even in my early drinking years, a time I fondly remember as high school, I didn’t run with the pack palate. While others chugged Bartels & James and declared themselves drunk, I wallowed in the warm buzz of Bordeaux and quoted Thoreau at keg parties, ever the lit chick.

I find myself now, a woman of thirty-six with brains, boobs and love of booze to boot, looking for the light of my life, the fire of my loins. Like thousands of other single girls in New York City, I’m looking for love: real love, passionate, inconvenient, can’t live without each other love. As if that weren’t hard enough a task to warrant an HBO series, I’m adding one more requirement to the mix. Into the glass that is my love life, I’m pouring Scotch.

This love I’m seeking - Scotch Man - isn’t a snob. Far from it. He’s smart, of course, but not obnoxiously so. He has a decent job, sure, he needs to be able to afford to drink the stuff after all, but he isn’t a workaholic. The mass of men may lead lives of quiet desperation, but he’s not one of them. A man who enjoys a dram of Talisker knows a little something about sucking the marrow out of life (oh, and he “gets” this reference). He’s not about success, money or status for it’s own sake. He doesn’t drink Scotch to impress. He does it for the pure love of it. He (and I) would trade all the sharp duds, smooth rides and swanky pads in the world for a lifetime savoring single malts. He’s confident, but not cocky. He’s got sex appeal, but he’s not pretty. He’s funny, more like a Jon Stewart than a Jim Carey.

I’ve been single for two years now. And I’ve been dating. Oh how I’ve been dating. I’ve had many a week when I was out for drinks, dinner and…with a new guy every night. While these two years have left me tired, bored and with a long list of men with poor taste in hooch - from Yankee Guy’s Bud Lite to Effeminate Geoff’s Champagne Cocktail to Business Mogul’s Rum and Diet Coke - my dating en mass of late has finally confirmed the immutable fact of which my taste buds were always aware: I’m seeking quality, not quantity, of experience. And that’s what Scotch is all about. I don’t need one hundred mediocre blokes. I just need one good man.

But what’s a woman to do in such a wasteland of taste? Keep drinking.