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.
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